#me when i love accents and voice work and dialects but i refuse to work on my own

[sallysetoncore]

so i just caught up on doctor who with elsie (which is to say that they’ve already seen all the episodes, but i’m the one who was behind and had to catch up) and the good news is that now they can send me any meme, fanwork, whatever about it and i’ll Get It. bad news is that i think i’m going to spend the next two weeks just wandering around the apartment and mumbling to myself in various english (and similar/adjacent) dialects until i can pinpoint the characters’ voices.

[theriverpointace]

i have this h2g2 headcanon that i'm really rather fond of. im gonna talk about it.

okay so first of all, ford has to be able to speak english. which means that he learned how to speak english. and no, i refuse to believe that betelgeusian Just So Happens to work exactly like english, wow what a weird and useful coincidence! because (a) that's just lazy worldbuilding, and (b) we have at least one word in betelgeusian that translates into english: ford's name, ix. "ix" isn't a given name, it's a betelgeusian word given to ford as a nickname because he couldn't say his own name—and, presumably, neither could anybody around him.

i say that ford has to be able to speak english because he lived for fifteen years on a planet full of people without babel fish in their ears. if he came down and started babbling in betegeusian, he would have had a very different experience here. so he either learned english before hitching a ride to earth (highly unlikely, imo, considering how little a role earth plays in the galaxy—i doubt any earth language is too well-known in the wider galaxy), or he had to learn english when he first arrived. this latter is also backed up, to me, by the fact that ford was a bit careless in his original research. i just feel like he would have done the same thing as when he chose a name: get it almost right, but just a little bit off.

i do think ford picks up languages really quickly. in most parts of the galaxy, it doesn't matter if he can speak a language or not, since babel fish are pretty readily available, and everybody has one. however, because babel fish are so readily available, there's no need for a universal language that everybody speaks. the babel fish only work for your ears, not your eyes, so somebody as well-traveled as ford would, by necessity, pick up some basics in a lot of different languages. these basics probably include primarily what you'll find on menus and in travel ports, if i had to guess. (maybe there's some kind of companion to the guide, a hitchhiker's dictionary. maybe that's part of the guide? idk.)

but aside from the necessity of being able to read at least bits and pieces of many languages when one hitchhikes, i think ford does it to make up for not knowing his dad's praxibetel. so what, he never learned the dialect his father loved. so what, he couldn't ever learn to say his own name. so what, he killed his own father/uncle by doing so. so what?? he's gonna learn every other language in the galaxy, just to prove that he can. he's running around the galaxy, convinced that if he can write an article about a planet and know its dialects well enough to read and write them, then what happened to him won't ever happen to anybody else.

and that leads me to my next conclusion: that ford speaks accented english. obviously, everybody does, but i rather like the idea that the way he talks on earth—and possibly, everywhere else—always strikes everybody around him as different. everything else about him does—why shouldn't his voice? so yeah my ford doesn't have a british accent.

but of course, once they're off earth, up in space, once arthur has a babel fish, there's no need for ford to speak english anymore, so he returns to his native betelgeusian ... which leads to a rather surprised arthur going, "ford, what the hell happened to your accent?!"

because since ford isn't speaking a language arthur already knows, the babel fish has to translate his speech now! and i suppose i don't think the babel fish translates accents. like, i guess i don't totally understand how the babel fish works (am i meant to?) but ... i don't know. i think the fish eats up sound waves and what it excretes is something the user can understand based on what's already in their mind. that is to say, arthur, who grew up british and with british accents, hears anything the babel fish as to translate in a british accent. so when ford stops speaking accented but understandable english, and starts speaking a language arthur doesn't know, the babel fish translates with a british accent because that's just what's in arthur's mind.

tl;dr ford picks up languages really easily because he's got something to prove to his dead dad, he speaks english, and it confuses the hell out of arthur when he stops speaking english because the babel fish doesn't translate accents. this is one of my favorite headcanons about ford.

[slutouttanowhere]

WIP of the week

Drew’s little princess

Pairing: Drew McIntyre x black!oc

Warning: phone sex, Drew talks you threw it, uses of the phrase “daddy” and lots of other pet names. Soft dom vibes

Special tag: @cardierreh15 (not a wrestling fan but loves Drew)

A/n: I literally finished this, this morning on my way to work, none of it was edited it, and it’s a wip. My friends encouraged me to finish so here we are, this is a nameless oc sorry for that. This will most likely conclude my wip of the week, I posted another one yesterday day go check that out it should be added to my master list by the time you see this one. I chose this picture of Drew because he really is just so sweet and adorable. This was really more so inspired by a Quinn audio that I was listening to, if you haven’t heard of Quinn (not sponsored) it’s an audio erotica app, I fucking live it worth every penny.

I’m standing in the hotel bathroom all fresh, clean, and ready for bed. Despite getting the snot beaten out of me hard enough to make me sleepy, I’m wide awake. A sensation stirring inside me, at my very core between my thighs. My mind flashed back to earlier that night when Drew had me pinned to the wall, his fingers teasing me, and how he refused to finish the job.

“Dick head.” I scoffed, and rolled my eyes. I try to put it in the back of my mind, and get some sort of sleep. I crawl into bed, to my credit I had tried each sleeping position at least once, but to no avail did it work. I laid on my back, one hand resting on my forehead, the other placed on my stomach. My fingers twitched at the thought of Drew, and I fought against it because I made some stupid unnecessary promise to myself that I’d wait for the real thing knowing damn well we’d might have a rocky re-start. I put the sex between Drew and I to a halt because “I wanted to be a mature adult, and have a healthy fresh relationship,” well look where that’s leaded you, you dumb hoe. My hand slowly slid down my body stopping at my navel to caress the exposed skin of the heart shape cut out in my sleep dress. The soft touch was decent enough to work me up, but not quite enough, and I was becoming impatient.

I spread my thighs slightly, just enough to fit my hand between, and I instantly come in contact with my own wetness. Not too much, but just a few drops from my excitement, I sigh out loud knowing that if I were to do this alone I’d have to work harder for it. My eyelids were already drooping, half of me wanted to just rest so badly, and the other half wanted to be fucked through this goddamn bed. Right when I pushed my fingers between my labia is when my phone rung.

“Ugh, you gotta me fucking—

I turn over to look at my phone on the night stand when I nearly choke on my spit. Drew is calling me. Stupidly I answer the phone, I swallow thickly, afraid that he’d somehow seen what I was doing.

“Hello princess.” His accent never ceases to excite me, granted he’s worked on his dialect over time so it doesn’t sound so much like gibberish. He’s mixed his English, and Scottish accent well. I’m convinced it’s only something he could pull off, I sigh in an attempt to cool my temperature, and slow down my thudding heart.

“Still with that nickname?” Not that I was opposed to it, it was something that started off as a stupid joke meant to get on my nerves for the time being. But as we got closer it took a life of its own, not to mention the way Drew says it in particular.

“If the shoe fits. ” He quips, I snort, and now I’m starting to wonder why in the hell he called me. Before I could speak, he cut in with a soft slow start, “And it does fit you, no matter how tough you think you are, I know the truth.” I could hear the smirk on his lips in his tone, that pitiful spark of sexual tension I had earlier was being stoked. His voice caressed around my ear as if he was right next to me. He knew how to trap me, even after all this time apart, he knew what kinds of games I liked to play.

I hummed in response, I was barely able to speak, at least not coherently. “Yea? What truth is that Andrew?” I asked, my voice unintentionally shrinking.

“That you’re not so aloof to your effect on people, especially the men in your life. They’re all wrapped around your pinkie” He claimed, a bit of frustration mixed with lustfulness in his tone.

“Yea?”

“Yea.”

“And what about you? Are you coming to my every beck and call?” It was a genuine question, I didn’t care about what anyone else wanted from me, his attention mattered the most to me.

His end went silent, if it weren’t for his heavy sigh, I would have thought he hung up. There was some shuffling before he answered, “Feels like it, but I’m not complaining. Who am I if not a loyal servant.”

His confession sparked me back to life, suddenly no longer feeling tired, and the excited bumping of my heart dared to jump out of my chest. “Just say you worship me then.” It was a joke mostly, I wasn’t sure if he was picking up on my mood from over the phone.

“Are you lying down right now? On your back?” He suddenly asked, my head tilted, but I answered anyway.

“Yes.” I confirmed, my hand rested lazily on my lower stomach.

“So you were thinking about me then?” He didn’t need confirmation for that, it was just a habit I fell into, and that’s what stupidly told him about.

My body answered for me, the ache between my thighs stirred, and my back was already arching up off the bed. He took my silence as the confirmation he needed, a deep chuckle could be heard from his end. I’m glad he found this funny.

“Where are your hands?” He asked, my fingers twitched, and began to make circles on my skin. Goosebumps rose on my skin, and sent a shiver down my spine.

“On my lower stomach.”

“Listen to me very closely sweetheart, I want you to be a good girl and do as I say. Can you do that for me?” He asked gingerly, and I had no choice but to obey, how could I be a brat when he’s being so sweet?

“Yes.”

“Take your fingers, the middle and ring finger. Put them up to those pretty little lips of your, and suck on them for me.” He instructed in a soft voice, I stared up into the dark, and just as the tips of my fingers touched my lips he spoke again. “Close your eyes angel.” I could hear the grin on his lips, he knew me too well, and I loved that for me.

I let my eyelids flutter close, now being totally enclosed in darkness, my middle fingers in my mouth as I was told, and Drew’s deep voice caressing me. “That’s my good girl, I love it when you listen. That’s how you get rewarded isn’t it?” He chuckled deeply at the sound of my airy sigh, I imagined these were his fingers, and that his hands were caressing my breast. Despite what others may think, Drew was truly a gentle giant. He’s a teddy bear, and I reveled in the fact that he’s all mine.

“Now, I want you to spread those thick, luscious thighs of your sweetheart, as wide as they can go.” He instructed quietly, his voice sounded euphonious, he could talk the pants off anyone. My hand rested on my inner thigh, it didn’t feel nearly as good as Drew’s large, warm hands. The feeling of the way he grabbed me made me weak in the knees; he had a way of making me feel strong and beautiful, while simultaneously making me feel small and dainty.

I could hear shuffling on his side of the phone before he settled, “you still with me angel?” He asked, I didn’t trust my own voice, but I mustered a response.

“Mmh, I’m here.” I mumbled,

“Good, I know you’re not wearing any fucking panties are you?” He didn’t wait for my response, because of course he was right in his assumptions. “I don’t want you to waste any time, I want to put you to sleep tonight.” My heart melted at the gesture, I always had trouble sleeping, but not since Drew and I got together. If he wasn’t fucking me to sleep, he’s singing to me, talking to me, or watching tv till I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore.

“Take your wet fingers and trace over that pretty pussy lips of yours.” He paused as my fingers slid over my luscious labia, the coldness of my fingers in contrast to the warm soft skin caused a slight throbbing that was hard to ignore. A chill ran over my body causing goosebumps, and hardening my nipples. The friction from the cotton dress made a sharp pain shoot across my skin, and right down to my core.

“Ah.” I moaned out, a tickle sensation arouse between my thighs, and all I wanted my Drew here with his hand wrapped around my throat telling me how pretty I was.

“I know baby, I know, but don’t touch your clit just yet. Slide one finger in, use the middle fingers just as I would have. Go slow, take your time, you’re gonna finish I promise.” I loved how I wasn’t expected to talk, he allowed me to enjoy the moment, but that’s all I could manage in this state regardless. I pushed my middle finger into my core, slowly at first, instantly I’m coated in my own slippery sap. This was Drew’s doing, “fuck you turn me on so much Daddy.” I whimpered, I pumped my finger slowly arousing myself even more, and when the throbbing started I lifted on leg back as far as it could go.

“Keep going sweetheart, I want both fingers as deep as you can go.” He encouraged me to continue, I paused for a second to put connect my phone to my AirPods so he’d be in both my ears. It took me a second to get back in rhythm, but soon I found my groove again.

My lips fell open, my eyes fluttering close as waves of pleasure ripples through me. Though it still wasn’t enough, the nagging throbbing from my brown glistening bud wouldn’t stop. “Ugh…fuck I need it, mmm.” I pouted, tears of frustration lined my eyes causing them to sting.

“I know, go ahead and take those fingers, and put them back in your mouth and taste yourself. Tell me how good it is.” He grunted out, the sound of his voice surrounding me, I laid there with my eyes hooded, half sleepy, half aroused. Honestly my favorite combination. “Damn, Im good.” I giggled sucking every last bit off my fingers, and letting them go with a pop of my lips.

“Why in the hell do you think I’m so feral about you.” He paused to instruct me further, “pull those gorgeous breast out princess. Just let them fall out naturally, don’t try and hold them together or anything. That’s it baby, I can see how comfortable you are, the way you’re laying with one leg back, spread wide for me as much as possible.” He inhaled deeply, “such a good girl for daddy, isn’t that right?” He cooed, a draft of cold air caressed my nipples, they tightened sharply.

“Ohh, Daddy please, can I come please.” I begged, he always had me feeling so sensual, yet animalistic. The way he talks to me, the way he touches me, it made me want to rip out of my clothes and let him have his way with me where we stood.

“You’re so sweet, I’d give you anything you asked, do it baby rub that pretty pink bud of yours. Fuck if I was there I’d suck on it, and wouldn’t let go tell you were a fucking mess in my hands.” He kept talking while I drew circles around, and around, slowly building myself to an explosive climax. I relaxed my body into the soft hotel cotton sheets, I didn’t wanna cheat myself by going too fast. I was trying to off my own greediness. “And oh my god how I love the feel of you in my hands princess, it’s all ever think about. That soft, warm cinnamon skin, god how do you always smell so good. I mean the fragrance mixed with your natural scent, and fuck that body.” I didn’t care if he was reading me the goddamn car manual, his voice was so mother fucking sexy I almost came right there.

“I know you don’t like talking about your body, but I swear every time I see your arse I just want to fucking take a bite out of it.” He groaned, I wasn’t sure if he remembered that I was here from the way he was rambling, but his high praises made me feel gooey. “Then those strong, yet squishy thighs…mmm makes me want to take my tongue, and run it over every inch of you.” He voice came out huskily.

“I’m so close.” I whispered trying not to disrupt my own flow by talking.

“Don’t stop princess, don’t you fucking stop, let me hear it baby. Let me hear how much of a good little slut you arm for me.” Still in the softest, yet gruff voice, Drew talked me into a climax more intense than I could have imagined. I knew for a fact it wouldn’t have been this good without him, my body convulsed, and that back of my head buried into the pillow as I arched my back as deep as I could. My thighs clamped close around my hand, my breaths deep, and shaky. I wasn’t sure how loud I was, but I couldn’t be bothered with something like embarrassment right now. All I could hear was Drew soothing me, I knew if he were here, he would have turned me over on my stomach, and rubbed my back till I passed out like a freakin baby.

The second my body relaxed I was falling asleep, and I didn’t even try to fight it. My tension had finally been released thanks to him, and he didn’t even have to touch me. “Get some rest princess, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Was the last thing I heard before the phone hung up, and I drifted off to sleep.

[mar3ggiata]

professional help, c4. The waltz of the Snowflakes.

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs.

song to listen to when reading this: Harden my heart, Quarterflash.

abstract: he can get fucked, and his captain too. it's Jude if you haven't noticed. I have nothing more to add really, he's an ass and I'm not getting paid enough to deal with this shit, see ya. also, forgive me for the swearing it's a real problem I know!!

Well. That didn't exactly go to plan. Simon Whatever, what the fuck is your problem? She called a friend while driving home. 'Salvo, io gli volevo mettere le mani addosso, stu scemu…’ She was going over the speed limit, holding her phone with one hand. ‘Una merda Salvo, mi hanno mandato via come una cretina, son andata, ho parlato, mi ha detto non si puoi fare guagliù, chi cazz si pe me dicr chell c’agg fa oh!’

Now, to all my readers, I will translate. Jude speaks dialect when she's mad, bare with her. Her voice usually drooped an octave when she spoke it to accommodate the guttural and rough sounds of her language. Swear words that would make your racist grandad cry. She was calling Salvatore, she met him in 2021, he was currently deployed in South Korea. She told him she wanted to hit him, she said, they sent me away without hearing me out, they said what you're suggesting can't be done. 'Scusa, cosa hai proposto tu?' She loved Salvo, he was so understanding, he could read her mind. It was refreshing, when she found out he was from the same country as her. Speaking a bit of Italian with him was a break from all the English, the accents and the words she didn't know how to pronounce. 'Cosa ho detto, ho proposto che lo seguissero, anche grazie al cazzo vorrei dire… ( I refuse to translate all the swearing, Jude.) Questi vogliono aspettare e non fare nulla, però mi fanno perdere tempo con ste cazz'e riunioni!' (This means, 'I told them to follow him, obviously. They don't want to do anything, they want to wait and see, and yet they make me go out of my way for these fucking meetings.')

Salvo tried to reassure her that it wasn't really her problem, to which she replied, Arash was her patient. He asked her about the captain, she commented he stood there, watched her argue with his guard dog Lieutenant without saying a word. Coward, she called him. Who's the Lieutenant, he then asked. She told him, maybe she messed up the name a bit, but he seemed to recognise him. 'No, veramente?' He asked. 'Il Fantasma'. That made sense, you know, the mask an all. He told her he was quite famous for his mask and his story, which he didn't fully know. Lots of trauma I think, you could work with him. She parked her car in front of the dance school and got her bag. 'Non me ne fott, possono fare quello che vogliono, non sono io che ci rimetto. Lui nu strunz, fammi dire…' She explained she didn't care anymore and that they could do whatever they wanted. He was a dick, that's what she added, probably referring to the famous Lieutenant.

The girls could sense she wasn't having the best day and didn't want to mess with her. They stood quiet and avoided their usual chatting. They did warm up, barre and some center, she sent them off early. 'Miss Alba, we're gonna start rehearsals soon? For the Nutcracker.' It was Luna that spoke. She almost forgot. 'Yes girls next time.' Shit.

The Waltz of the Snowflakes. That's what she was gonna have to teach them. The owner of the school was crazy, the piece was way too difficult for her class. She didn't have time or strength to explain the piece was not meant for girls that young, she would have to simplify it. She put on a video on her laptop, trying to remember the best she could the original piece. She stripped of her leg warmers and her black shrug. Her mind kept wandering off the meeting with Price, not letting her concentrate. She was mad. Not because she didn’t get her way, they were the ones dying in the Middle East, not her. But because it was fucking humiliating. As a woman as well, you know. Maybe she made a mistake, going in there looking all pretty. But again, why would she sacrifice herself just to earn some basic respect? After she failed her pirouettes for the third time, she decided it was time to go home. She would talk to Arash and, if needed, follow him on her own.

notes: Since this is a shorter chapter (I've been incredibly busy with uni and work), here are some details about Jude:

height: 5’2’’ - eye colour: green - hair colour: blonde

traits: mole on her cheek, slightly crooked nose. mole on her right butt cheek, scar on her knee. at least 30 smaller moles all over her body. small boobie queen.

if she was a colour: dark blue

if she was an animal: killer whale

if she was a place: a forest

if she was a food: spicy pho - motto: for the plot

favourite position in bed: on top/doggy

favourite part of her body: eyebrows, hips

what she looks for in boys: loyalty, someone stable, good manners, honesty.

tattoos: big flower on her back, her grandmas house on ribcage with ivy on it, lavander flower between breasts, dagger on right arm, wine glass and whisky sour ingredients. nike (goddess of victory) statue on left arm, goth looking stars and white ferrari doodle. oui, non written on both knees. heaven written on ankle made with stick and poke needle.

loves to talk about: time, space, her dog, humanity, world wars, greek mythology, vegan recipes, life after death.

do not talk about: her family, weight, fire, not being the best in school and at work.

she would like to: try hotpot, paint pottery, start a podcast, go on more hikes, visit thailand, get another dog, attend a wedding.

she will never: have kids, get married, go to australia, go skiing again after she fell, have plastic surgery, drink beer.

if you’d like to know more stuff about her let me know!!

notes: Salvatore, Salvo for short, is a common southern Italy male name. Salvatore means 'the saviour', Salvo means 'safe'. Full translation of the speech: 'Salvo, I wanted to hit him, this fucker. It went to shit Salvo, they sent me away like I was stupid, I went there I told them what I thought, he said we can't do that, who the hell are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?' 'Sorry, what did you say to them?' 'I told them to follow him, obviously. They don't want to do anything, they want to wait and see, and yet they make me go out of my way for these fucking meetings.'

'No, veramente? Il Fantasma' means 'no, seriously? The Ghost.'

notes: if you want to hear what the dialect sounds like you can hear it in the tv series 'Gomorra' on YouTube.

taglist:

@ummmmmwat @ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006 @my-therapist-hates-me

[balillee]

my unpopular dsmp opinions, some of which genuinely should be popular

c!dream has crossed the moral event horizon and is irredeemable. once you cross that threshold, you're no longer a 'morally grey' character.

pre-recorded, heavily produced lore killed the lore. it was cool, sure, but you completely misunderstand the magic that the smp had when people watched it initially. the story is improv and that's how we like it. we can tell the cc's have lost interest in it, you can admit that to us, we'll understand, just stop lying to me.

c!dream's pov isn't necessary to understand his character or his motivations. if you've watched literally any c!primeboys stream he's basically spelled it out for you.

i don't understand how fans can dislike l'manberg or have claimed to be against it since the beginning. i honestly don't get it. what's so bad about wanting your own spot where you make your own rules and skirt accountability that has been used to technically oppress you before - and, before someone who never saw the earlier streams tries to disagree with this, the og l'manberg crew were imprisoned for shit that everyone else on the server was practically encouraged to do. also, what do you have against fun and happiness?

i think some of you forget that 'hybrids' aren't a thing, discounting c!ranboo. there's no piglin hybrids, c!techno is just a pig. there's no avian hybrids, c!phil is just a man with wings. there's no creeper hybrids, c!sam is just a creeper who's indecently exposed from the hips down. canonically there's no hybrids, and therefore no hybrid discrimination. people ran with that concept too much.

the loss and the fanon rewriting of the early lore up until pogtopia has ruined fandom perception of c!dream and the og l'manberg boys. c!tommy is more morally white than you think he is, and c!dream has always been a villain - he massacres and he kills and he destroys and he schemes and he always has broken his own rules. no wonder the boys wanted their own space after how they were treated.

i think ranboo oftentimes forgets his own lore. he brings stuff up that c!ranboo may have done, such as exploding the community house to frame c!tommy, holding onto Cat, and it goes absolutely nowhere. we've gotten all of these developments in his story but they have never been expanded on, and we're nowhere closer to figuring out his relationship to c!dream and what his other side is and honestly i see no hope that we'll be any closer to knowing even by the end of the year.

your characters don't all have to be morally grey for the story itself to be morally grey. this is fiction - some people can be nothing but evil and others can be nothing but good. being purely good or evil doesn't mean that you're one dimensional, either.

c!dream apologists have ruined c!dream for me. he's not a good person. how about you let me enjoy a villain for who he actually is, rather for than your percieved woobified ragdoll you pass off as c!dream.

the story was better when there was a central writer. it was brilliant back when wilbur wrote it to be that the environment drives the characters and the story, and it was really good in early s2 up until techno's execution day when it was more character driven. since then, the amount of autonomy people have over their characters without any central 'director', as it were, has been a detriment to the story overall. there needs to still be one overarching figure or director or writer.

not everyone is a main character. just because they have a pov, doesn't mean they're a main character. some characters have such little impact on the overall plot and describing everyone as a main character oversaturates the story and makes some characters seem more important than they are.

the egg lore had so much potential up until it didn't. all that built up threat that we were expecting and we still don't even know what the egg wants really other than just controlling people. does it hatch?

genuinely, if there's no major plot developments by the end of the year (and let's be honest, it's a very big possibility at this point), a few of the more prominent members of the server should do a podcast style stream talking about where the story would have gone, because at least then we would have gotten somewhat closer to a conclusion.

c!techno is a villain and an asshole and a bad person. he stops caring for people once their interests don't align with his or if they look at him funny. he makes meta-jokes about his own tyrannical and oppressive nature. stop taking that away from him. he's a bad person. cc!techno does a fabulous job portraying that in a comedic manner and the balancing of him being a deeply flawed person with deeply flawed morals and ideas with his comedically-portrayed stubbornness and lack of willingness to hear out opposing viewpoints is incredible. i want to like characters who are arseholes for the sake of being arseholes, and who refuse to take into account the hurt they've caused either out of self-righteousness or because they don't care, so let me. he's the anti-peacemaker, LET ME HIM ENJOY HIM FOR THAT!!!!

i think tommy and wilbur's way of doing lore is my favourite. relies heavily on improv, voice acting, sprite acting and facial expressions. really shows off the acting props and they pull off the emotional moments well for the insanity of the creative medium.

i'm not a fan of fan-music. i find songs about media i'm into difficult to listen to. coincidentally i'm also not a fan of shit like slam poetry or live music/musicals/pantomimes.

the death of l'manberg killed people's motivation to go on the server casually. i've talked about it more in depth before, but destroying what was a central, driving environment for the story killed momentum and motivation. imagine in an episode of she-ra, the princess alliance just nuke the freight zone and all of the members of the horde just have to deal with it. that would be shit.

until season 3 has some momentum, i'm counting the end of the smp as january 20th. that had a conclusion. season 3 has... whores, technoblade and tommyinnit. that's about it.

i wasn't a fan of the development of c!tubbo joining las nevadas. i preferred snowchester and the walled city conflict. give c!tubbo some backbone and some badassery. also tubbo where's the fucking nuke bro if you're shelving that plotline just tell us on like an alt stream what the plan was i beg

add like 2 or 3 new people to the server so that michael mcchill has someone to talk to and so that there's something always happening on the server. it gives the og's more motivation to return if things are happening in and out of canon and it'll help with momentum, and who knows? maybe they can write their own story/stories.

i really think that c!sam is an underrated character. he's multilayered, extremely interesting, and the dichotomy of his loyalty to his job and how far down the rabbithole that's taken him versus the genuine love he has for his friends that drives him to do what he does out of wanting to do right by them is brilliant. i don't talk about c!sam enough.

STOP HAVING FUCKING VILLAIN ARCS!!! I'M FUCKIN SICK OF IT!!!! i want to see more characters who see everyone else being absolute selfish, abhorrent cunts and go 'if nobody else is going to be a good person, i fucking will'. GIVE ME SOME MORAL WHITENESS!!! IT'S INTERESTING AND MORALLY GOOD CHARACTERS ARE FUN!!!

let tommyinnit build cobblestone towers. everyone bullied him too much for how ugly they were and the one he built outside of the prison looked genuinely really nice. it gives the boy something to do.

i'm a fan of the revive book and the canon lives system. don't ask me why, but i think it might just be the morbidity of it. it adds to c!dream's god complex persona, and i think the fragility of death itself is a really fun concept. not enough fan cc's have made connections with that and c!mumza, and it could make for cool fanfic.

ranboo your house is fucking ugly. it's an eyesore

c!niki, and to some extent now c!jack and c!fundy, are boring me and ruining my mood. i think c!jack is the closest to being an actually interesting sympathetic villain, mainly because nobody else seems to realise that c!niki is a villain. not a good one imo, but she's a villain. c!jack just has the problem of starting a new project over and over and over and over again and because of the slow in momentum for the primary cast, there hasn't been a lot of recent development for him.

not really a dream smp opinion, but if philza went full geordie accent, i would love it. i want him to, in canon, say shit like 'me n ye' instead of 'me and you' and use geordie dialect. i want him to be physically unintelligible because it's funny.

i don't really know what's up with c!foolish but i think he's a dumbass. he had a while to think about c!q's proposal and then changed his mind about joining the guy to admitted to letting him die just because. moron

i wish there was more c!eret lore. i wish he was an actual king with an actual kingdom and actual subjects and royal advisors. c!eret is far too fucking cool to be the king of nothing and nobody. fatten up the kingdom and the castle with people who work with c!eret, and don't just make it tyrannical and dictator-y to prove the point of the server's 'anarchists'. make it a healthy working environment, please - if you want moral greyness, have 'anarchists' who claim to care about the welfare of the server oppose a kingdom of happy people under a fair and just ruler because their ideologies clash.

the server needs more characters who oppose anarchy in more peaceful ways, or passively wish for systems to be a part of. i think a chaos vs order conflict ending only in mutual understanding where everyone understands that they should just leave each other alone would slot nicely into the story that's been created so far.

you need to have watched all of the previous arcs to understand the story. i've seen people argue that they don't need to know about earlier lore to understand the prison, but that's the equivalent of only watching the final season of pretty little liars and expecting to understand the context of what's going on.

some characters aren't that morally grey. some characters, take c!tommy for example, are definitely on the whiter side for the morality scale, he's just an asshole. he's abrasive and rude and a dickhead but he also doesn't agree with terrorism, he's patriotic, he strives for a better world, he's apologetic, but he's also a fucking BITCH.

you can add onto this if you want, but not if you're a c!dream apologist. nobody likes your opinions

[chewriting]

This entirely spawned from Cassie saying that Kit will have powers we have yet to see in TSC. And thus, the brain worm wiggled into my skull and has held me hostage ever since. I claim no responsibility for this for I am but a vessel for this parasite to work through. But this is my 'prediction' of what Kit's powers will be in The Wicked Powers, though it's more for fun than any actual predictions. I don't expect any of this to be remotely true.

The fae have always had a particular way with words, and Kit has always had a silver tongue. 

It wasn’t a trait he was born with but something he honed from years of practice. Each successful lie and twisted truth made his dad’s eyes shine in that rare, particular way. Kit kept it up in hopes of seeing him proud more and more. 

In the market, new visitors were susceptible to the young kids who begged for change or food. It was a lucrative gig. The rule was to get there first before they realized the con and pushed the heads that only came up to their thighs away as the veterans did. Kit, like most of the youth who participated, didn’t actually need the things they asked for. But Kit wanted them, and he knew how to get them. Those that said no, shoved Kit aside, or just ignored him, were the subjects of his pickpocketing practice. Early on, Kit learned that no wasn’t a wall, but a door he had to pick through. 

But not many people said no to Kit. He was slight Kit for his age, which made people all the more sympathetic, with big blue eyes a little too big for his face. Early, just batting his eyelashes and jutting out his bottom lip was enough to get a few dollars or a tight hand leading him to a sweets stall. 

Kit picked up on the pattern quickly. People responded better to those who looked and sounded like them. Those visiting Los Angeles from Mexico were more likely to help the little Hispanic kids running through vendors, and Downworlders would slide an extra portion to someone of their species. Kit couldn’t change his appearance, not without the magic that his dad still refused to teach him, but he had other ways. 

Kit was an actor before age ten. A mimic. He overheard heard the sharp tone differences in dialects, how accents mellowed out a voice. With a few practice lines, Kit could replicate exactly how someone said a word. He’d run up to an adult, pleading in a carefully crafted accent to match theirs, and that flash of recognition almost always secured a treat. 

Maybe Kit’s dad wanted him to use his skill for more profitable means, but Kit just wanted chocolate-covered popcorn. 

Eventually, Kit got too old for begging. He didn’t have the same eternal youth that vampires and fae possessed. His looks worked for other things now, but he needed a new plan for swindling someone out of a few bucks. Luckily, his way with words grew with him.

He’d lie and get away with it. Sometimes Kit pushed it; stole blatantly or bumped someone too hard while reaching. Each time, when someone got in his space, face red from yelling, he’d calmly say he had no idea what they were talking about. Sometimes the effect was immediate and they’d apologize for their outburst and leave him be. Sometimes it took more coaxing. More assurances that he was totally innocent and in their efforts the true thief slipped away. Almost always, they believed him. But leaving, Kit had to assure himself that the film sliding over their eyes while they agreed was just a trick of the light. The steady shine from the lanterns stretching across stalls reflected in the natural sheen. Nothing suspicious. 

He didn’t question it. Just assumed he was a good liar and most people were just gullible. 

But Kit got older. His dad died, spent time in the Los Angeles Institute, loved and lost, and ended up in England. He learned he was the last descendent of a powerful lineage of fae blood. Things clicked into place. 

As he focused on newly recognized powers, his childhood tricks grew in power. 

At home, Kit heard a lot of Mandarin. It was whispered between Jem and Tessa over breakfast or behind closed doors. Jem would sit down with Mina and show her delicate and complicated language, slowly enunciating each word for her to babble back to him. Tessa was mama, and Jem was always bàba. Kit was a little embarrassed to feel like he was being left out. Of course, they spoke English around the house, but a small part of Kit felt like maybe they were doing that just for him. So he started to learn on his own. He knew there was a Speak in Tongues rune if he just wanted to know what they were saying. But Kit wanted to know the language. He wanted to be included. For too long he had been barred away from the majority. 

Through online sources and slightly threatening reminders on his phone, Kit slowly learned Mandarin. He knew going in that it was a difficult language to learn, especially as a native English speaker. But he didn’t find the tonal shifts to be as hard as everyone claimed them to be. He’d listen to the robotic voice carefully programmed to sound like a human that just grated on Kit’s nerves, work it around in his mouth, and spit it out just right. While everyone was messing up when to emphasize a syllable, Kit was consistently receiving praise for his pronunciation with bright confetti. All the late nights trying to decipher tightly packed lines were all worth it when he got to tell Jem he was learning Mandarin, in Mandarin, and saw his eyes light up. 

 His ‘gift’ didn’t help with memorization though. And Kit would still bumble mid-sentence trying to remember what the word for ‘eat’ was. Like a toddler with the diction of an adult. 

Kit became very good at impressions. Almost too good. His friends from school would beg him to quote movies and television, staring slack-jawed in awe when they were near perfect, and eventually moving on to imitations of other classmates and teachers. Kit had no idea if they suspected a magical reason or if they just thought he had a talent. When they’d ask how he got so good, Kit would just shrug and say he had a lot of free time growing up.

It helped with blending in in Devon too. After a week of keeping his mouth shut when they went to town and religiously watching the news, Kit had the accent down. By the time he was enrolled in school, no one suspected a thing. He explained that he was just homeschooled up until this point, but with his new baby sister, it was better to just give mom a break and go to public school. It was partly true.

He told Haley the truth because he told her almost everything. There was an ease talking to her that he really only felt with Ty that he didn’t like to think about. Because Haley’s friendship didn’t exist so he could hold it up to Ty’s and see where the differences lay. She was good in her own unique way. She also gracefully stayed silent when people asked Kit about growing up, ensuring his privacy. 

On top of the improving mimicry, Kit could lie like never before. Which felt like increasing a slider that he previously believed had reached its maximum.

He told himself he’d be honest with Jem and Tessa, to an extent. He may not expose his entire life story to them and there were things he’d keep close to his heart from Los Angeles and Devon alike. But he found himself lying when he came home later than he said after losing track of the time with his friends and Jem was still up asking where he had been.

“We were studying and I passed out on my textbook. I was in such a frenzy to get back that I didn’t even think to text you. I’m sorry.” It came out in a rush and Kit didn’t even think about it, not like he used to do back in the Market. But he saw that familiar mist pass over Jem’s eyes, causing the warm brown to pale. Jem believed him, asked him to do his best to remember next time, and bid him a good night. There were no fading lanterns or flickering stars to blame the brief gleam on. Just the bright overhead Jem kept on so he’d be awake to see Kit get home safe. The churning of guilt kept Kit up all night, unable to close his eyes without seeing the effect he had with just his words. Never had Kit regretted lying before, and yet the shame sat on his shoulder until the morning. He wasn’t taught to apologize but he pulled Jem aside as soon as he could. 

There was a brief flash of annoyance, but Kit’s visible guilty body language caused it to slide from Jem’s face. He rested his hand on Kit’s shoulder and assured him that he was forgiven as it wasn’t on purpose. It still left a thick, unpleasant feeling in his throat but he let Jem lead him into the kitchen to explain it all to Tessa too. 

Kit never wanted it to happen again, at least not unintentionally. He didn’t want to give Tessa and Jem a reason to not trust anything he says. So he practiced. It was a difficult power to master as he couldn't tell when it really worked unless he was staring directly at someone, which was suspicious. But he tried telling white lies to people, passing strangers he’ll probably not see again. Sometimes their eyes shone and they’d agree, sometimes they’d just shrug and accept. Toeing his way blindingly through an aspect of himself that he should know, he should have always known, he finally figured things out. 

He can’t lie bluntly about obvious things. Evident by the one time he told someone about the awful storm outside and they looked at him like he was on drugs with the clear, blue sky behind him. It is a slow and intentional process, feeding someone lies until they believe them. Little things are easier. Kit can lie about the date, about not having the exact change, or needing a little extra time on an assignment. Other times it’s like erosion. Repetition to finally get the glitter of success. Kit’s words are thick and warm like honey, light as smoke; utterly compelling. It isn’t mind control thankfully, Kit doesn’t know if his conscience would be able to handle power like that. Or even scarier, if he’d easily slip into the role of true control. He can’t make anyone do something they don’t want to. But he can shift someone’s perceptions. Change the reality. 

Kit doesn't know exactly what he’ll do as he slowly got better and better, but something in the back of his mind that sounds a little too much like his dad tells him that anything he can use to be above the rest needs to be held tightly.

[creepyleech]

You know what I want?

For Crusade!Era Joe x Nicky to just magically show up in 2020. But this is, like, the Yusuf and Nicolo who had just started travelling together a couple of years ago, because they had nowhere to go.

Anyway so cue them watching with all levels of shock as their modern counterparts turn out to be a fucking couple?? Like??

And THEN we get scenes like the following:

-Yusuf calling Nicky all names under the sun, and saying Joe is disgusting for laying with that filthy invader. Sprinkle that with insults towards Nicolo, with little details of things Joe remember Nicky used to do. Cue Joe shoving Yusuf against a wall at some point, “You are a child. Nicky is a better man that you could ever dream to be. And if you insult him in my presence again, I’ll dump your body in bottom of the Thames.”

-Yusuf realizing that Nicky can understand him and speaks Arabic fluently, when he’s in the middle of muttering curses under his breath and Nicky casually replies to him.

-Nicolo, who had spent the past year filled with guilt re: the crusades, goes to Joe and they have a heart to heart and Nicolo cries and begs for forgiveness. Joe just holds him and says he understands. That he forgave him a long time ago. Nicky, who had come to fetch Joe for dinner, looks at them with a mixture of sadness and relief; he remembers going through that.

-Nicolo going to Nicky and talking about all his catholic guilt. Nicky telling him “I can’t tell you what to believe. But I believe in nothing but the love I feel for my family, and the love I have for Joe.”

-Yusuf telling Joe he has a weird accent. Joe saying “I’m speaking your language to you out of courtesy.” And then he just immediately switches to the Arabic/Ligurian dialect that he and Nicky use for each other, and refuses to switch back for the rest of the night. This leaves Nicolo and Yusuf to talk to each other, instead.

-Nicky cooks one of Joe’s favourite foods, which is Yusuf’s favourite. Yusuf admits, only to himself and in his head, that that is the best he’s ever had. He eats seconds and thirds. Joe eyes him with a smug smile and he just walks away in a huff.

-Joe and Nicky are in bed, talking. Joe tells him that he can’t stand Yusuf. “He’s so righteous. He thinks he knows everything. I remember that rage, I remember how cruel I was to you for so many years. Long after you stopped being cruel to me. Long after you tried your best to offer olive branch after olive branch. I just- I hate him. I hate that I hurt you so much, for so long.” And they cry and hold each other and thank the universe for who they are now. Nicky asks him to have some empathy for the man he used to be. Yusuf had lost his brothers, his family, everything he’d ever known, because of men like Nicolo. Nicolo had chosen to take up the cross and go and invade a foreign land. Yusuf’s hate was justified, and it would eventually come to an end. They cannot undo the past.

-Yusuf feels- resentment? Anger? Jealousy? Because he seems to be the odd man out. Because Joe is so kind to Nicolo, and Nicolo acts like he’s trying so hard to please Joe in return. Nicolo did that sometimes, with him. Tried to offer a truce. But Yusuf had no interest in taking Frank scum as a friend. He doesn’t know why it bothers him to see them like that. He doesn’t know why it bothers him that Nicky doesn’t try to engage him. He wishes he would, so he could yell back. Nicolo’s Arabic rivals that of a child. It’s hard to argue and yell at someone who can’t understand you. Nicky would understand him, though. He could tell Nicky in fine detail, exactly why he hates him so much.

-Nicky is cooking again, and Yusuf quietly sits and watches. Nicky doesn’t comment on it, but asks him to pass the salt, if you could.

-They read in the same room, all four of them. Joe and Nicky have no shame in lying piled on top of each other. Yusuf engages in some nice hate watching, and Nicolo is just overall uncomfortable. They leave the couple alone and share a few words in the kitchen, bonding over the strangeness of it all.

-Sparring turns into a blood bath. It’s just a lesson in sword fighting at first. With Yusuf and Nicolo genuinely interested in learning from men of such skill. And then it turns into Joe going way too hard on Yusuf after he (maybe) accidentally hurts Nicolo. After a snide comment or two (bc Yusuf has a death wish aparently) Joe loses his patience and attacks him. Nicky is the one that gets in between the two and gets hurt defending Yusuf, which Joe feels terrible about. But afterwards, it’s Yusuf who comes to Nicky and offers a begrudging apology.

-Don’t ask me how, but Yusuf or Nicolo or both get a glimpse of Joe and Nicky either having sex or starting to. If it’s on purpose or not, only I and god will ever know.

-After the sparring chaos, Yusuf and Nicky have a quiet truce where they cook together. One day, Yusuf speaks up. “I hate you,” he says and then he doesn’t stop. He gets it all out. All his feelings and his anger and how dare you come to my people and slaughter them like animals and then ask me to sit by your side, eating dinner as if we’re brothers. And once he’s done, Nicky says “You’re right.” And Yusuf deflates. Nicky tells him that the crusades were wrong, and that Yusuf is allowed his anger, and that Nicolo already knows he was wrong. It changes nothing, and yet it changes everything.

-Yusuf starts seeing Nicolo through the colours of Nicky’s words. He sees the guilt and the pain and the reluctance. He also sees the resignation. Nicolo expects nothing from Yusuf but harsh words; not only that but deep inside he feels they are deserved. And they are! But Yusuf didn’t think he knew that. But he does. He does. And maybe-

-It’s easier, somehow, to not be so cruel all the time. But it feels like betrayal in way. A betrayal to his people and his brothers. That he’d forget what the enemy’s done. That he’d see the enemy as anything other than the monsters who took what was not theirs. But it’s easier. It’s easier to ask Nicky what that spice is called. And to correct Nicolo when he pronounces a word wrong. And to get him a glass of water when he’s gotten one for himself.

-Joe doesn’t forgive him. Forgive him-? Joe doesn’t like him, is the thing. But one day, Yusuf goes to him and they sit outside, and they drink wine, and Yusuf asks him how he could look his mother in her eyes, knowing that he was walking the earth arm in arm with one of the men who killed her sons. And Joe remembers thinking that. Joe thinks of Booker and betrayal and lying in bed with one’s enemies. What Joe says is, “You cannot change what’s happened. You cannot die. Nicolo cannot die. You are bound to him, and he to you.” He pauses and looks directly at Yusuf. “Are you the same man you were yesterday? Have you never made mistakes? No one feels the guilt of the crusades as deeply as Nicolo does. You do not have to forgive him. But you need to let him show you that he can change. That he already has.”

-That night, Joe calls Booker. It’s the first time they’ve spoken in a decade.

-Months go by, and Yusuf asks Nicky to teach him some Ligurian words. Nicky doesn’t comment on the significance of it. He sits down, grabs a book, and reads to him.

-It’s about s year since they had landed in the 21st century, and Yusuf comes to Joe with a request. And that’s how Joe sits between the two of them, playing interpreter. It’s the first real conversation that Nicolo and Yusuf have ever had. Their voices raise and at one point Yusuf gets up in anger, but he comes back and sits down and tries again.

-Nicolo’s Arabic becomes passable. He speaks to Joe extensively every day. Yusuf has to admit, it’s impressive. Yusuf knows all but a couple dozen phrases in Ligurian, but every time he speaks them, Nicolo stares at him with something quiet, intense.

-They don’t mind the affections between Joe and Nicky anymore. It’s become common place. If tension grows between Nicolo and Yusuf, neither speak of it. When Yusuf and Joe are alone, Joe is unbearably smug about it. He never says it, but Yusuf can read the expression on his own face.

-Joe and Nicky leave for a mission. They’ll be gone a week. Nicolo and Yusuf now have the words to speak to each other and, without an audience, they do so freely. They argue a lot. Nicolo cries and Yusuf cries and they drink themselves into peace again. But like magnets, they find each other much as their counterparts have. It’s messy and confusing, but it just- fits.

-It’s almost as if Joe and Nicky had to be there to say goodbye. Because they come back, and they notice the shorter space between Yusuf and Nicolo. Nicky’s mouth twitches in one of his small smiles, but Joe just huffs a laugh and says something in his dialect that Yusuf cannot understand. And if they wait for Joe and Nicky to retire before they allow themselves to sit close to one another again, no one needs to know. And if they bring their cots together in the night, no one needs to know. But that’s how they rise again, back to their home. And it’s bright out and it’s quiet, and there’s no tv and no electric lights and no radio. And Yusuf and Nicolo know that the hard work starts now, but they’re gonna be ok.

Ok fuck I accidental turned this into a compete fic outline and now IM ACTUALLY CONSIDERING WRITING IT fuck it was just suppose to be a head canon. Fuuuuuck.

[magicalgirlsandcerulean]

Ep. 10's blog post

This blog post, with Hori's second entrance, is dated 15th June 2021. Spoilers below, as always!

Notes before we begin:

For those of you who didn't check out ep. 9's blog post, see tweet 2 on that for more info about one of the characters of the day.

Due to the unintended delay on this post, I've tried to translate more completely than usual and that caused the release of this post to be postponed by another day...Sorry. Even still, consult the actual post for proper placement of emojis, coloured text etc.

This time, just for efficiency's sake, I skipped a lot of the honorifics because Hori refers to Takara, Tina and Tsumahara as -san. I've only left it in for "Balle-san" (a one-off) and when other people refer to Hori as "Hori-san" (as opposed to when Hori calls himself "Hori" with no honorific).

Also, an advance note that you'll probably want to cry when Hori pulls out the crying kaomoji. (I wanted to cry at two points when he did, at least.)

CR translations were used where I could chase them up.

Post title: バリバリのバリの禁忌其の拾！

The Very Vigorous Taboo No. Ten! [T/N: バリバリのバリ (baribari no bari) has some obvious repetition in Japanese, so I had to try convey that in English as well, even though small!Takara is more "working hard" than "vigorous". The final "bari" is a Hakata dialect thing - we already know Hori is from Fukuoka, so that fits. I had to translate the title because this phrase appears later on.]

皆様、お世話になっております。

Everyone, thank you for taking care of me. Fairy蘭丸〜あなたの心お助けします〜で雅楽代 寶 を演じております、堀 曜宏と申します。

I am called Akihiro Hori, who voices Takara Utashiro in Fairy Ranmaru ~We Will Help Your Heart~. 又の名をジャガ���モ堀堀です、本日は何卒よろしくお願いします。

Also known as "Potato Digging Hori", please kindly take care of me today. [T/N: "Potato digging" = jagaimo hori, so "potato digging Hori" = jagaimo hori Hori. It also makes reference to the ep. where the kids dug up potatoes.] 禁忌其の拾『快楽』熱かったですね！！！

Episode 10, "Hedonism", was passionate, wasn't it?!!! 今回は寶さんの二回目のお当番回ということで、本編を見返しながら楽しめるような感想を主観ですが、勢いと共に書かせて頂きたいと思います。

This time was Takara's second focus episode. Although we see [elements] that recur from the original story [ep. 5], the impressions we are able to enjoy are subjective and so I will write with fervour. 開幕は女王チームとの密談からSTART!!

We START by opening the curtain on the queen team's private talk!! [T/N: "Queen team" = Queen + Houjou (+ sloth).] シリウスについて女王からせっつかれている寶さん。

The Queen is pestering Takara about Sirius. 座長…誰の台詞が麩菓子じゃい！！！！

Leader...whose lines are fugashi!!!! [T/N: Fugashi are a type of Japanese sweet. There are sweet potato fugashi, so I assume this is either a typo or a pun on a similar word. If it's a pun, the word is likely to be おかしい (strange, suspicious, unbecoming).] [T/N 2: The line below suggests "leader" (zachou) = Ranmaru, so this sentence would be referring to Sakata.] でも生配信で話している時の堀からは想像できないと思いますが…実は普段の堀は、どうやら寶さんの女王様に対する話し方くらいのらりくらりでみんなと通話しているらしく、このシーンをみんなで見てる時、ざちょ「堀さんだ」草「堀さんだねぇ」なんて言われながらみんなに笑われておりました。

However, while the stream was happening, I couldn't imagine this, but...to tell the truth, the way I usually speak to everyone is like Takara's non-committal way of speaking to the Queen, so when everyone saw this scene, the leader [Sakata] went, "That's Hori-san," and Kusano went, "That's Hori-san, isn't it?" without saying anything and so everyone laughed. 電話が切れた後の豊穣さんと女王の会話から、寶さんのお父上が夭聖界にとって如何に大事な存在だったかがわかります。

After the call was cut, we learn how important Takara's father is in the fairy world from Houjou and the Queen's conversation. そんな豊穣さんからの厚い信頼に応えるように、どこかのお姉さんへお誘いをかける寶さん…

While proving worthy of Houjou's kind confidence, Takara is asking a girl out somewhere... お相手の名前、ayakoさんって面白い名前だなぁと思ってたら、堀気づいちゃいました。[T/N: The source text, as you can see when you pause the ep. at the right time, is meant to say "[at sign]yako", but the at sign was tripping the "mention a user" function in Tumblr, so I had to swap it out with a lowercase A where it appears in this post.]

His partner's name is "ayako", which I thought was an amusing name. これ、あやこって読むんですね！！！（アハ体験）

This is read "Ayako", isn't it?!!! (a-ha moment) そしてはい、きました、 バリバリのバリのショタカラさん！！！！（人間体）

Also, we got to see him, the very vigorous sho-Takara!!!! (human form) [T/N: Literally "we got to see him" was "[he] came", LOL.] [T/N 2: Sho-Takara = shota (prepubescent boy) + Takara.] あまりの可愛さにコメントも騒然としましたね。

There was an uproar in the comments that he's excessively cute. 回想シーンでは以前も登場した、弁護士さんと寶さんの関係も明らかになりました。

The relationship between the lawyer, who's appeared before this flashback scene, and Takara is also made clear. 弁護士さんも元夭聖、しかも寶さんのお父上とただならぬ関係だったみたいです。

The lawyer was also from the fairy world and had a strong relationship with Takara's father. 幼い寶さんは弁護士さんからどんな風に人間界の生き方を仕込まれたんでしょうか…

What sort of way of living in the human world did the very young Takara learn from the lawyer...? 半裸シーツで肌に傷をおった姿のショタカラさんが、窓の外を見上げながら「いつかきっと… 」と呟く様子にその壮絶さを感じます。

The half-naked and wounded sho-Takara, looking out the window and whispering, "Someday, surely..." [gives off a] heroic feeling. [T/N: I couldn't use the CR quote for this because that's translated more in context, as just "someday".] 寶さんのエセ関西弁は、この弁護士さんに仕込まれた影響だったんですね。

Takara's fake Kansai accent is acquired from the lawyer's. そして現代に戻ったと思ったら、 飛んで火にいる子猫ちゅわん！

Also, when we think we've returned to the present, a kitten jumps into the flame! [T/N: This translation builds off the CR version of the line, "Like a kitten to the flame!"] 今回の依頼人、ティナさんの登場です！！

This time's client, Tina, appears!! 「ちょっと何言ってるかわからないんだけど！」

"Oh, please! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" 寶さんこの時のっけから飛ばしまくっていたので、堀はこの台詞がツボに入って笑いを堪えるのが大変でした。

Takara, at that time, couldn't help but send her flying from the beginning and it was difficult for me because I was trying not to laugh - there was "tsubo" in my lines. あいも変わらずスマートに名刺を渡すも、「世界で一番惚れてる男のところに連れてって！」とピシャリ。

Even after [Takara was] as smooth as ever and [handed] over the business card, she refused with "Take me to the man I love most!" [T/N: The word for "smooth" here is literally "smart", but "smart" doesn't seem to have the right connotations.] …どうやら今回の依頼人も、一筋縄ではいかないみたいです。

...apparently, this time's client seems very straightforward. 『快楽』ﾁﾘﾘﾘﾝ

"Hedonism" *ring ring ring* 寶さんはティナさんをお子さんのお迎えに連れて行き、そのまま2人を仕事場へと送り届けます。

Takara brought Tina to her child and, without a pause, brought those two to [Tina's] workplace. 仕事場ではみんなでティナさんのお子さんをあやしていたり、同僚の方のティナさんのダンスへの信頼に、思わずいい職場だなぁと感心する堀でしたが。。。

At the workplace, everyone comforted Tina's child and Tina's colleagues had confidence in her dance, so I admired, without thinking, how good of a workplace it was... そこに現れる父親、妻原さんですよ！！！！！（ﾌﾝﾇｰ‼︎）

Then the husband, Tsumahara, appeared!!!!! (Barbarian!!) [T/N: There is no confirmed reading of this name, so it might be "Tsumabara".] 前回のうるう回の久二さんも相当でしたが…勝るとも劣らない圧倒的なそれ…っ！！

He's equivalent to last time's (Uruu's episode's) Kyuji...but [Kyuji] overwhelmingly compares favourably to that guy...!! お子さんの顔も見ずにお金をせびるのみならず、ティナさんの一張羅のコートまで…！！

Not only does he demand money without seeing his child's face, but he also goes as far as taking Tina's one good coat...!! ちょっと申し訳なさそうにして受け取るのがまた、なんかもう…っ！！

The fact he looks a little apologetic as he receives it is just...!! だのにティナさんは、頑張って稼がなきゃって…″家族″のためにって(′つω；｀)

Despite this, Tina must try her hardest to make money...for her "family". (′つω；｀) その言葉は、お子さんに対してだけじゃなくて…うわぁああああ！！！

Those word aren't just for her family...uwaaaaa!!! 次のカットで妻原さんは貰ったそのお金をギャンブルに突っ込んでました（遠い目）

In the next cut, Tsumahara pushes the money he received into gambling. (distant eyes) この時の寶さんのモテポイント、 「姉さん、そろそろ出番でっせ」は何も見なかったように落ち着いて投げてあげて、 それでも見られたくない所を見られちゃった、というニュアンスが返ってきたら 「こういうことする俺、格好ええやろ？」と冗談まじりに茶化しながら優しさを渡す。

This is the time Takara is popular. He says, "Dearie? I think you're on." He calms down and gives up as if he never saw anything, but even still, after he returned [from seeing her exchange with Tsumahara] with a nuance of "he saw what he did not want to see", he would joke gently, "Aren't I cool for doing this sort of thing?" and poke fun at himself. この機微がモテる大人のテクニックなんですよ…！！

This subtlety is a technique popular with adults...!! 見てくださってる男性の皆さんにも是非取り入れていただきたい…なぁみんな！！？

Any men watching should certainly take in this [advice]...yeah, everyone?!! 堀は後十年は修行させてください(′・ω・｀)

Please train me [in the art of love] for another 10 years. (′・ω・｀) はい、一方BAR Fは今日もカレーです。

Yes, at the same time, there's curry at Bar F today too. 前回のラストが熱い…！展開だっただけに、皆さんあれからどうなったのか、眠れない夜を過ごされていたと思います。

The conclusion last time was intense...! I'm sure everyone had a sleepless night wondering what happened after that development. 何気なく水をうるうくんに渡す焔くん 、 何気なく焔くんを気遣ううるうくん、 照れながらも返事をする焔くん、 嬉しそうな蘭丸樹果バックン。

Homura, who's casually giving water to Uruu,

Uruu, who worries about Homura,

Homura, who blushes while responding,

Ranmaru, Juka and Bakkun, who seem happy. てぇてぇが過ぎてぇ堀は平身低頭（てぇとう）ですありがてぇ…ありがてぇてぇ！！！！

They're excessively precious and I was prostrating myself, thanking them...thanks, precious!!!! [T/N: Hori slurs several of his words in this sentence, typically てぇてぇ = toutoi (precious/noble), 平身低頭 = heishin teitou (prostrating oneself) and ありがてぇ = arigatou (thank you). He then combines てぇてぇ and ありがてぇ, hence "precious".] それから所変わってお出掛け中の寶さん、 いつも通りキスのおねだりを茶化しながら交わしていきます。

Then, in the meantime, Takara was out, as always, begging for kisses and teasing a woman. 聞こえないくらいの声で憂うように、「わいが欲しいのは、なんやろなぁ」とポツリ。

In a voice that can barely be heard, he mumbles, "I don't know what I want..." この台詞は後の展開にも効いてくる凄く大事な台詞なんですが…。

This line is very important in terms of later developments... コメントで「（カレーには）ナンやろなぁ…」って書いた人怒らないから正直に言いなさい（ﾋﾟｷﾋﾟｷ）

In the comments, there was a person who wrote, "I don't know what (curry) I want..." - please say who you are, I won't be mad *veins snap* Aパートおしまい！

That's the end of the A part! ブログでもCM入ります！情報いっぱいだよ！

This is a blog, but I'll still insert ads! There's a lot of info! ・山野ホールでライブします！（9/18だよ！）

- The live show at Noyama Hall! (On the 18th of September!) ・特典盛り沢山のBD、DVD発売します！（第1巻は６/16発売！）

- The BD/DVD is being sold, with lots of bonuses! (1st BD/DVD sold on the 16th of June!) ・キャラソンアルバムHEAVENS DOOR発売します！（同じく6/16、遂に艶歌が全部聞けるよ！）

- The character song album HEAVEN'S DOOR is being sold! (On the same day [as the BD/DVD], the 16th of June, so you can finally hear the whole enka!) てつえーさん「Nice Pole Dance…ﾀﾞﾝｽﾀﾞﾝｽ」（ええ声エコー）

Tetsuei [Sumiya]: "Nice pole dance...(dance dance)" (nice voice echo) Bパートいきます！！

To the B part!! 開幕ティナさんのキラキラポールダンスからスタート！！

The curtain opens on Tina, who starts with a sparkling pole dance!! お子さんを膝に乗せて馴染んでいる寶さん。

The child, who's on the lap of and [now] accustomed to Takara. お子さんのママ～！の声、可愛いですねぇ(´,,･Д･,,`)

The child's cry of "Mama~!" was cute, wasn't it? (´,,･Д･,,`) やはり彼のためにも、家族の為にも頑張るというティナさん。

Of course, Tina will try hard for his sake, for the family's sake. 自身の生い立ちから、家族という存在をいかに大事にしているかが伺えます。

From his own background, we can see how much he values the existence of his family. 5話の寶回の時の依頼人の恵夢さんもやはり家族のために身を粉にして働いていましたし、今回のティナさんも…。

From episode 5's Takara episode, the client, Emu, also worked assiduously for her family, so this time's Tina also... 寶さんにも金鋼族の復興のため、寶さんのため、痩せ細った体で自分の食べるものすら譲ってくれたお母さんという存在がいたからこそ、家族のために自分を犠牲にして頑張る方に複雑な思いを抱いてしまうのでは無いでしょうか。

In order for Takara to revive the Metallum Clan, for Takara's sake, Takara's mother even gave over her own food and it is precisely because of that that she became a victim of trying hard for the sake of her family and that's why Takara has such complicated emotions, is it not? しかも今回はその″家族″が不義を行っているなんて…。

Moreover, this time, this time's "family" is unjust... そしてそして！！！！！

Also, also!!!!! お待たせしました！銭湯ノルマ達成ですありがとうございます！！

Thanks for waiting! Thanks for fulfilling the bath quota!! この時流れてきた「みんなストローは持ったかァ！！」ってコメント、爆笑しました。

At this time, the comment that came about was "Everyone's holding straws!!" and so there was uproarious laughter. [T/N: It's not clear if there's just one person laughing or many, hence the intentional vagueness.] ですが今回の銭湯の中身はすっごくシリウス…じゃなかったシリアス。

However, this time's bath [scene] is amazingly serious...not (Sirius). [T/N: Hori inserts Sirius's name at the end of the sentence as a pun on "serious", so if it seemed like the translation said "serious, not serious", I did my job.] みんなの顔を眺めながら、豊穣さんと交わした特命の話を回想していきます。

After we gaze at everyone's faces, we go to a flashback scene where [Takara is] given his directive from Houjou. その中には女王に内密の話まで…そんな重たいものを背負いながら、寶さんはみんなに毎日カレーを作っていたんですね。

In that it's to the point it's kept a secret from the Queen...Takara makes curry for everyone everyday while burdened with those heavy things, huh? でも、これまで毎日みんなでカレーを食べて、銭湯に入って、愛著を集めて、日々を過ごして。

However, until now, every day everyone's eaten their curry, gone to the bath, gathered attachment and spent their days [together].

家族として一緒に過ごしてきたみんなの顔を見回した時の寶さんの顔は、優しさに満ち溢れた顔でした。

As family, when spending time together and looking around at everyone's faces, Takara's face is full of affection. この時の「楽しい時間は長く続きまへんな」という台詞。

At this time, there is the line: "The fun times never last, do they?" 寶さんのみならず、堀自身もF蘭の最終回の近さを意識しておりましたので、言葉にした時に込み上げるものがありました。

Not only Takara, but I personally realised F-Ran's final episode is near and so, while I'm bad at putting this into words, [emotions] welled up inside me. そして明らかになる妻原さんの別の家族の存在。

Then, it becomes clear Tsumahara has a different family. ティナさんと妻原さんの会話が始まります。

Tina starts a conversation with Tsumahara. もうここの妻原さんのクズっぷりが真骨頂！！！

Already, the Tsumahara from this [point in] time's true worth is basically scum!!! ティナさんがあまりにもあまりにも可哀想で…

Tina is really, really unfortunate... 「お前も俺を見捨てるんだな！！」

"So, you're abandoning me too!!" あんた、別のところでも同じようなことしとったんか…？

Aren't you the same, even though it's from a different perspective...? 絶望のあまり、倒されたゴミ袋の上で笑うしかなくなってしまうティナさん。

Without much remorse, Tina has no choice as she's left collapsed on the rubbish bags and Tsumahara laughs. そこに夭聖は現れるんです…！！

Then, the fairies appear...!! 「美人さん、お持ち帰りしてええか？」

"Lovely lady, might I walk you home?" ほんと���全人類言ってみたい台詞トップ5にランクインする台詞です…！！

Really, that's going to rank in the top 5 lines that all of humanity wants to be said to them...!! チャイルドシートを携えたいつもの車でティナさんの話を聞く寶さん。

Takara listens to the story of Tina, who's always carrying a child seat around with her. 「わかってた、利用されてるだけって」

"I knew...some part of me knew he was just using me." 「なのに、あいつがポケットに手を入れた時にさ、指輪かなって思ったんだよね」

"But when he reached into his pocket, I honestly thought it might be a ring." 「笑顔で溢れるあったかい家庭、作りたかったの」

"I wanted to create a happy family, full of smiles..." この台詞が悲痛過ぎて…。

These lines are too sorrowful... 堀は最初、思わず拳を握りしめて返す台詞をかけてしまいました。

I, at first, clenched my fists without thinking at these lines. ですがこの時、製作陣から、何より真摯に優しさを向けてあげて。

However, this time, I felt sincerely affectionate for this cobbled-together group. 頑張っている人は報われるんだよ。ってティナに伝えて欲しい、というディレクションを頂いて。

I received the direction that I should convey to Tina, "Hard work will be rewarded!" このシーンの台詞は寶さん自身の言葉で、その思いが乗らなきゃダメなんだと何度もトライさせていただきました。

This scene's dialogue is in Takara's own words and I had to try repeatedly to convey his thoughts on it. 「あなたの心、頂けますか？」 から大自然の流れでジャ…変身の時間だぁーーー！！！！！

After "Could I take your heart?", the scene changes and...it's transformation time---!!!!! 思わずナイスバルク！と声をかけたくなる惚れ惚れする筋肉。

Without thinking, I was charmed by [Takara's] muscles and wanted to call out, "Nice bulk!" 画面いっぱいに広がる肉体美と拳、地面をぶっ壊しながらあげる名乗り。

The physical beauty of his body and fists filled the screen, he broke the ground and called out his name. 格好よさが臨界点突破して美しいに昇華しとるんですよ！！！！！！！

His coolness has broken through the critical point and sublimated itself into beauty!!!!!!! 妻原さんはティナさんとあんな会話をした後だというのに、 魂が昂りながら「夢も愛もどうでもいい」なんて曰いながらギャンブルに興じていらっしゃいますねぇ…。

Tsumahara, even after he had that conversation with Tina, happily spends his days gambling, arousing his spirit as he says, "What do dreams and love matter?" バレさん、技を借りるぜ…！！

Balle-san, I'll borrow a technique of yours...!! ふざけんにょ！！！！！

Stop screwing around!!!!! [T/N: reference to Balle-san's ep. 9 post] そして始まる艶歌、五話もそうでしたが、歌詞が今回の話とのリンクして、絵の美しさも合間って没入してしまいます。

Then the enka begins - it was in ep. 5 as well but the lyrics are linked to this episode and I was immersed in the beauty of the visuals for a moment. 早くフルで聴いてほしい！！！皆様、是非HEAVENS DOORを！「愛の勘定」も勿論ですが、みんなの艶歌をフルで聴けばストーリーとのリンクが増して、よりグッと来るはずです！！！

I want you to hurry and listen to the full version!!!! Everyone, please listen to HEAVEN'S DOOR! There's "Payment of Love" of course, but if you listen to everyone's full enka, you'll [be able to make] links with the story and it will hit you in the feels!!! 艶歌が終わり、ドアが開けば今回のヘブンズ空間はまるで屏風の中に入ったかのような和風の世界。

After the enka ends, the door opens to this time's Heaven's Room, which is a Japanese-style world quite like that on a folding screen. そこに雷神と雷神を模したかのような敵が現れます。

Then, enemies that look like the well-known thunder god and a thunder god's imitation appear. [T/N: referring to Raijin] 毎回のことですが、ヘブンズ空間も本当に趣向を凝らしてあって…ど緊張のバトルシーンのはずなのに、思わず堀の魂も昂ってしまいます…！！！

It happens every time, but these Heaven's Rooms are really ingenious...there should've been a hugely nerve-wracking battle scene, but without thinking, my spirit was unintentionally aroused...!!! なんと今回の鍵穴にはティナさんとお子さんの2人が！

What? This time Tina and her child are both behind the keyhole! なぜわかったノルマに愛らしい声が混ざる日が来るとは。

I never thought I'd see the day where a charming voice would be mixed in with the "What? I got it!" quota. そしてもう一方の鍵穴からは妻原さんの極悪な声が…

Also, in the other keyhole is Tsumahara's heinous voice... 「人はなあ！快楽には勝てねぇんだよ！」 「酒！タバコ！セッッッ！！薬物！！特にギャンブルはなぁ！！」

"A person can't conquer their hedonistic tendencies! The pleasures of drinking! Smoking! Sex! Drugs! And gambling especially!!" [T/N: Hori censors the word "sex" by "stuttering" over the final syllable but CR doesn't, so I've sided with the latter.] 座長が現場で ハッキリ言ったぁーーー！！！ってツッコんでたのを覚えていますw

"The leader put it clearly at the time--!!!" I remember joking. ですが、言葉のパワーはもうネタの領域を超えた、狂気の世界のそれです。

However, that is a mad world where the power of words is beyond the realm of stories. その言葉に促されるように敵から酒の玉攻撃が、 そしてもう一方の敵からはヤニの煙の攻撃が。

With those urging words, the enemies send bubbles of alcohol and then from the other side comes a tobacco smoke attack. この時のうめき声のディレクションは、堀くん今○○kgの重りが乗ってるよ！！ と言われながら、体にそれに合わせた負荷をかけるように声を出していました。次の日筋肉痛になりました。

At this time, when the direction, "Groan and pretend you have a __ kg weight on you!!" was given, as I shouted, it was like a corresponding load was being added. The next day my muscles hurt. なんとか持ち堪えた寶さんですが、 「なら、これならどうかしら…」 その言葉と共に現れる寶さんのお母さんの幻想。

Takara's able to hold out somehow, but then an illusion of Takara's mother appears with the words, "Well, what will you do?" 前回もうるうくんのお母さんと焔くんのお父さんが現れましたが、まさか今回は寶さんのお母さんが…。

Last time, Uruu's mother and Homura's father appeared, so surely this time Takara's mother... しかもこんな形で痩せ細っていないお母さんの姿を見ることになるなんて…！

Furthermore, to see his not-so-skinny mother in this form...! あの優しかった声で、こちらに攻撃をかけてきます。

This is the attack that's given with that gentle voice. 押し倒されて首をしめられる寶さん。

Takara is being held down and strangled [by his mother's illusion]. この時の台詞の色気も相まって、まるで2人が繋がっているような…

Coupled with the sexiness of the dialogue at this point, it's as if the two are connected... 更に畳み掛けるようにチェリーの入ったグラスから液体を口に含み、そのマッマ寶さんの口に流し込みます。

Furthermore, as if pressing for answers, Takara's mother uses her mouth to pour liquid into Takara's mouth, from a glass with a cherry in it. 苦しさのあまり悶絶絶叫する寶さん、これは先の妻原さんの「酒、タバコ、セッッッッ、そして薬物」それらの快楽を暗喩しているのでしょうか。

Is Takara, who's about to scream and faint in agony, [being subjected to] metaphors for hedonism Tsumahara was mentioning earlier? そしてシリウスの登場です。

Also, Sirius appears. す○ざんまいのポーズって言うのやめーや！！！

Stop doing the Su___zanmai pose!!! [T/N: referring to the dude who stands with his hands outstretched from Sushizanmai] しかし今回の句には堀は思わず確かに…と頷いてしまいました。

However, this time I couldn't help but nod and say, "Indeed..." 人は何故ほんの刹那の快楽のために沢山のものを犠牲にしてしまうのか…

Why do we sacrifice so much for a fleeting moment of pleasure? むしろ刹那だからこそ、それを追い求めてしまうのかもしれませんね（哲学）

Rather, it's because it's momentary that we chase it and seek it out? (philosophising) 苦しみながらも、「俺が欲しいものはこんなんじゃない」と懸命に耐える寶。

Even in agony, Takara eagerly bears it [and says], "This isn't what I want." しかしそれも、「あなたが欲しいのは、母親からの豊満な愛情でしょう？」と、肥大化した幻想に押しつぶされる寶さん。

However, in addition to that, the illusion becomes fat [with the words], "What you want is the full-bodied love of your mother!" ニコニコのタグにもありましたが、確かに快楽要素全部乗せプレスは重い、重すぎます。

As the tag on Nico Nico said, it is true that all the hedonistic elements being pressed are heavy, far too heavy, イきかける寶さんですがなんとか力を振り絞り、幻想を押しのけます。

Takara is about to have the life choked out of him, but he comes to his senses and pushes the illusion away. しかしそれが最後の力だったのか、体が動かず追撃をかわせそうにありません…！

However, that was the last of his strength and so he's not able to move...! これで終わりか…と思ったその瞬間ですよ！！！！！

This was the moment...I thought it was the end!!!!! 最高に勇ましい掛け声と共に焔が敵の攻撃から寶を守ります！！

With a shout, Homura, who's the best and heroic, comes and protects Takara from attack!! そのまま蘭丸とうるうが雷神と風神を倒し、樹果が 「オン・アユス・ヴァルタ！」の掛け声とともにペロキャンを振って寶さんを回復してくれます。

Similarly, Ranmaru and Uruu bring down the thunder gods and, with his tongue stuck out and his lollipop, Juka yells, "On ayus valta!" to heal Takara. ここ、さいっっっっっこうに熱かったです！！！！！

This was the most intensssssssssssssse [moment]!!!!! 寶のピンチに駆けつけるファミリー達、初めての全員集合、初めての共闘！！！

This is the first time they've [run to Takara's aid and] fought as a family when Takara was in a pinch!!! 台本を読ませてもらった時は、遂にきたか…！くらいの興奮だったんですが、 現場でこのシーンを録った時、こーすけの「はぁあああああ！！」って勇ましい声が聞こえてきた瞬間、鳥肌がブワァーって！体がカァーッて！熱くなったことを強く覚えています。

When reading the script, I was exhilarated to the point of going, "Finally, they came!" and now that this scene is recorded, I strongly remember the moment Kohsuke [Tanabe] valiantly can be heard going, "Haaaaaaaaaaa!!" I got goosebumps from the passion. 蘭丸とうるうの声も頼もしくて、樹果のたからぁ～！って呼び声に癒されて。

Trustworthy Ranmaru and Uruu, and Juka healing Takara by calling out his name. こんなに頼もしい仲間達が揃って、負けるわけがないですよ！！！！

With trustworthy friends like these, you won't lose!!!! この後の飛び上がるシーンも、月を殴りつけるシーンも、高まったボルテージを思いっきりぶつけさせて頂きました！

After this is the flying scene, the moon-breaking scene and I was able to use my heightened [emotions] to the fullest! [T/N: Hori calls his heightened emotions "voltage".] そしてGO TO HEAVEN!!!!!

Then, GO TO HEAVEN!!!!! 「またすっからかんかよぉ～！」なんて言いながら、トドメを刺された時の勢いで手持ちをオールインしてしまう妻原さん。

Tsumahara, for some reason, said, "I'm broke again?!" as he's finished off while playing everything he has with an all-in due to his leftover momentum. [T/N: the all-in in poker] ティナさんの「寶さん、あなたと結ばれたかった…」

Tina: "Takara...I wish we could've been together." 依頼人からこんなに純粋に好意を向けられるなんて…寶さんも罪な人ね。

The client has this kind of pure affection [for him]...Takara's also a wrongdoer, isn't he? ですがそれは叶わない、ティナさんもわかっているからこその過去形なのでしょうか…。

However, that can't be granted, since Tina understanding him is now past tense, isn't it...? こんなにも切ないワンシーンなのに、もう1人の堀が「あなたと結バレッタ裕…」って囁いてきてもうダメです（現在朝4時）

In this one heartrending scene, too, another Hori whispers to me, "You and Yutaka Balletta ..." but it's already no good (currently 4 in the morning)

全てが片付き、夭聖体のみんなが寶さんに声をかけてきます。

Everything's wrapped up so everyone calls out to Takara. なんだよお前ら、ちくしょー、まじで、お前ら…(′つω；｀)

What the hell, everyone, damn, really, you guys... (′つω；｀) しかもうるうくん、「僕たちは、ファミリーなのだから」それってさ、焔くんのことも、みんなのことも引っくるめて″ファミリー″なんだよね…？

Yet, Uruu goes, "We're family, in case you've forgotten." That means Homura and everyone are 'family', huh...? 万感の思いを込めて「サンキュ」と一言だけ返す寶さん。

Takara returns that with a single word full of emotions: "Thank you." 寶さん、あなたの欲しかったものって、きっと…

Takara, what you really want is certainly... そして後方家族面の蘭丸、その視線の先には様子を見ていたチルカが…。

Then, from behind Ranmaru, Chilka, who was watching him out of the corner of his eye... かつて愛していると言っていた蘭丸に対して、「Go to Hell!!地獄に落としてやる！」と言い残してその場を去ります。

As opposed to [when] he said he loved Ranmaru in the past, he leaves as he [yells], "Go to hell!!" …何故和訳してくれたんだ…。そこに不穏な空気が残ります。

Why did this Japanese translation come up? This left a disquieting atmosphere. [T/N: Hori translates "Go to hell!" (ENG) as "Fall into hell!" (JPN).] 豊穣さんの「いいファミリーになりましたな」

Houjou: "They've become a fine family indeed." この一言、嬉しかったなぁ。

I was happy with this one brief comment.

第一話の時、「君たちは今からファミリーだ」 なんて言われて戸惑っていた5人ですが、今では声を大にしてファミリー蘭丸って叫べます。

In episode 1, he says, "From now on, you are family," leaving the 5 of them bewildered, but now they can yell about how they're "family Ranmaru". いや、ファミリー蘭丸ではないけどね！？山本さんのプリティミス（伏線）だけどね！？笑

No, not "family Ranmaru"?! Is this a pretty mistake from Yamamoto (foreshadowing)?! (LOL) [T/N: This is referring to Bakkun's VA Kazutomi Yamamoto. Also, yes, it does say "pretty mistake", but it's likely to be "printing mistake".] そんな中改めて十訓を厳守させよと戒める女王。

In that [part], the Queen once again demands rigid adherence of the 10 Laws. あのような過ちとは…過去の因縁はまだ根が深そうです。

A mistake like that... it seems that past fates are still deep-rooted. そしてここからが怒涛の展開ですよ皆さん。

Then, everyone, the surge in developments [happens] from here. なんとあのシルク・ドゥ・マーズから合格通知が届いたティナさん！

Tina's somehow received a notification of acceptance into Cirque de Mars! 相当頑張ってきた努力が遂に実って、ニューヨークから熱いラブコールをかけられています。

The hard work she put in has finally pulled off and she's receiving passionate calls from New York. 喜んでいたのも束の間、そこに現れたのはなんと妻原さん！！？

It was a short moment that she could be happy, and then, who would arrive but Tsumahara?!! あんたって人は、懲りずにまだティナさんに…と持ったらなんと勝ちすぎちまったから命を狙われている！？

He's still trying to teach Tina a lesson, but...he won too much and they're gonna kill him?!

それもしかして、GO TO HEAVENされた時のオールインで…！？

On top of that, what about the all-in from the GO TO HEAVEN...?! すっからかんかよォー！！じゃなかったのかよォー！！

He's not broke anymore?!! 費用も全て持つから連れて行ってくれ、なんて、うーん、ティナさんとしては助かるけど…。

He'll come along, pay for everything and, yeah, sorta help Tina out...? まぁ、イケメンだからいっか……よくないわい！！！！

Well, he's handsome...but no!!!! [T/N: reference to ep. 5] 改心して今度こそ家族になるのか、それともニューヨークでまた悶着を起こすのかはわかりませんが、なんにせよティナさんとお子さんの先行きが明るくて良かったです。

I don't know if the family has reformed properly or if they're going to New York to quarrel again, but Tina and her child's future is bright. その様子を微笑ましく見ていた寶さんの元に、一本の電話が。

After seeing the smiling child's face, he receives a call. シリウスの事を伝えていた弁護士さんから、大変なことがわかったぞ、と。

The lawyer uncovered some [information] about Sirius and it's something unbelievable. 女王の過去や！と言いながら見せた一枚の写真には…、 あ、あ、あ、あ、あアイドルユニットぉ！！？

"...the Queen's past!" he says as we're shown a photo of an...i-i-i-i-i-idol unit?!! かつて一大ブームを巻き起こした、ウィンタートライアングル。

Winter Tri-angels, who created a sensational big boom in the past. シリウス！？ベテルギウス！！？プロキオン…？

Sirius?! Betelgeuse?!! Procyon...? シリウスとベテルギウスは恐らく…でも姿が…！？

Sirius and Betelgeuse are probably...but that form is...?! そして女王の過去というのは、この写真とどう関係してくるのでしょうか…。

Also, what does the Queen's past have to do with this picture...? 女王の過去や、チルカと蘭丸の確執、夭聖界のことや、寶さんの言っていたもう一山、更にここに来てまた新しい謎が…！！！

The Queen's past, Chilka and Ranmaru's antagonism, the fairy world, all the stuff Takara said - on top of that, another mystery...!!! 本編もいよいよクライマックスに向けて、盛り上がりが止まるところを知りません。

At last, we're approaching the climax of the main story and I don't know if [the tension] will stop rising.

いよいよあと二話ですが、最後までみんなで大騒ぎしていきましょう！

Finally, there's two episodes to go, so let's get really excited until the end! Fairy蘭丸～あなたの心お助けします～ 次回『憎悪』もお見逃しなく！！というわけで、禁忌其の拾『快楽』堀の感想ここまでとなります。

Don't miss the next episode of Fairy Ranmaru ~We Will Help Your Heart~, "Hatred"!! That's it for my impressions on Taboo No. 10, "Hedonism". ここまで長い文章に付き合って頂き、ありがとうございました！！

Thanks for keeping me company [as I write] these long sentences!! 余談なんですが、大体メインキャストは一緒に録るんですが、この回の収録は実は堀が1人ブースに籠って先に録られた皆様の声を聴きながら台詞を当てておりました。

As a side note, usually the main cast would record together, but this time, I was alone in the booth, listening to the voices of those who recorded before as I added my lines. 収録が終わってからブースのドアを開けて、 誰もいないだろうなぁ、と思ってフッと休憩スペースを見たら、 なんと5 to HEAVENのみんなが残ってくれてて、映像が流れるディスプレイをずっと見守ってくれてて、 こっちを向いて堀さんお疲れ！とか、メッチャ汗だくじゃん！とか笑いながら言ってくれて。

When I finished recording and opened the booth, I looked at the rest area, thinking no one was there. Surprisingly, everyone from 5 to HEAVEN was there, watching over a video display. They turned to me and said things like, "Good work, Hori-san!" and "You're so sweaty!" so I laughed while I talked. その瞬間、堀の頭の中に寶さんのサンキュ。のシーンがリフレインして、 なんかしどろもどろになるくらい嬉しかったです。きっとあの瞬間は忘れられないです。

In that moment, the scene where Takara says, "Thank you," played again in my head and although I was [in a state of] confusion, I was happy. I will surely not forget that moment. はい、余談終わり！笑

Yes, I'm done with my side note! (LOL) 話が進むにつれて、SNSで#F蘭丸であげてくださってる実況や感想、ファンアートや、写真など、盛り上がっているのを実感しております。

To continue the conversation, use #F蘭丸 on your real-time impressions, fanart, photos etc., which will give a real feeling to your excitement. そしてそれを見ている時、堀はスマホを握りしめるくらい嬉しくなります。

Also, when I see those, I become so happy, I grasp my phone tightly. いつもF蘭を応援して下さり本当にありがとうございます。皆さんの声が僕らの力になります！

As always, really, thank you for supporting F-Ran. Everyone's voices will be my strength! 引き続きFairy蘭丸を応援の程、何卒よろしくお願いいたします！！！

Please kindly take care of me as you continue to support Fairy Ranmaru!!! このブログ書くの頑張ったからな！

I tried my best with this blog [post]! 読んでくれてメチャクチャ嬉しかったからな！

Thanks a lot for reading! 雅楽代 た～から！役の堀曜宏でした！

This has been Akihiro Hori! who plays the role of Ta~kara Utashiro! スネークバァーイ！🐍

Snake-bye!🐍 [T/N: "Snakebite Hori" joke.] ワイの魅力、皆にも伝わったかな～？

Takara: Did I convey my appeal to everyone~?

Update: Fixed the note regarding "Yamamoto". Thanks, @blankie-greenie-anon.

Update 2: Missed a sentence, improved a sentence and fixed some pronouns and other minor things.

Update 3: Improved a sentence.

[fancifulwhump]

i'm LIVING for your jaskier fics omg!! would you be at all interested in writing a prompt where Jaskier is riding Roach because he's not feeling well, but Geralt doesn't realize how bad the fever really is until he falls off? (if that's not interesting or too specific, I can try again! no pressure to write this!)

anonymous asked:  would LOVE to see a sick Jaskier with a cold while they’re traveling, and how Geralt would treat him being feverish and sniffly/how Jaskier would complain lol

AN:   absolutely! so sorry this took a hot second, but here you guys go  ---  hope you enjoy!  ;)

The language of Jaskier is above all a loud one... but just as subtle as any beast’s dialect, filled with intricacies and rhythms that Geralt cannot help taking note of the more he listens. It’s really not the same thing, of course. Non-speaking monsters really can’t use their words; they have no way to express how they feel, except by eating you. Jaskier hasn’t tried to do that. Yet. (Sometimes the way he eyes Geralt in the bath leaves him feeling the day’s not far off.) 

To the contrary — if anything, Jaskier is too verbal. He doesn’t know how to shut up.

Getting used to this took longer than Geralt would have liked. It also demanded considerably more patience than he realized he had. Somehow, staking out a monster’s lair for days in complete silence is bearable... but Sitting through one of Jaskier’s endless rambles is asking too much. Even Witchers can only endure so much.

“Do you ever shut up?” Geralt demanded one day, cutting off the motor-mouthed fool in the middle of another tangent.

Jaskier blinked at him, as though seriously considering the question, then shrugged. “Not a talent of mine, really.”

Miraculously, he did, for a moment. Despite all his instincts screaming to the contrary, Geralt nearly allowed himself to believe his outburst had worked... until Jaskier steppes on a twig, just a bit too loudly, then said, “I was asked the very same thing in bed not too long ago, actually, by this glorious milkmaid — granted, her accent was too thick to make out a word, so she might have been asking me to pass her my ruddy lute, who knows. But she was very enthusiastic —“

And that started him up all over again. Damn the gods.

In spite of it all, Geralt would be lying if he claimed to hate Jaskier’s blathering too much. Sometimes it’s... unique, not being constantly surrounded by silence. He wouldn’t call it nice, not be a long shot, but... it isn’t altogether unpleasant. Jaskier can make for entertaining company in his better moods, and he does keep things interesting. A routine pack of wargs can turn into a colorful job, so long as Jaskier is along to elaborate on it later. Geralt doubts he cuts such a striking figure “swinging his sword to the leaping beast’s belly”, as Jaskier’s latest gig claims, but...

Sometimes, it is nice not to be surrounded by silence. Even if that means putting up with Jaskier’s mouth more than he would like.

Case in point:

“Geralt.” A whine, then a cough, then a passionate sniffle. “Can we slow down? Please? I’ve asked thrice already —“

Four times. Geralt’s been counting. 

Gritting his teeth, he urges Roach a bit faster, conscious of the sound of struggling bard trailing a bit behind him. Jaskier makes no effort to be discreet when he moves, so Geralt can hear everything in perfect detail. The crunch of twigs beneath his heavy feet; the strain of his breaths, a bit more labored than they should be, a bit more congested; the way his chest rattles when he launches into another coughing fit. Even with a nasty cold, Jaskier’s loud.

“Just because I can’t catch it,” says Geralt once the latest fit has passed, “doesn't mean you need to cough on me.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I’ll be sure to aim my dying gasps towards the wilderness next time.” Backtalk is a talent Jaskier can’t help himself honing, even sick as a dog. His brows, foreword with childish petulance, draw even tighter together as he wraps both arms around himself, hunching in. A shiver courses through him; Geralt distinctly hears the rattle of chattering teeth. The second Jaskier catches his eyes lingering, however, he plays up his misery for the perceived audience, pouting and wiping at his face. Geralt rolls his eyes, looking away.

Geralt understands the patterns of many beasts, but Jaskier’s language was one of the easiest to learn. The Law of Jaskier: as long as he’s talking, he’s fine. 

And he hasn’t stopped talking since early this morning. No, not talking — complaining. Gods help him, Jaskier hasn’t stopped complaining.

He still stubbornly follows Geralt out on the road, however; in spite of his red nose and phelmgy cough, Jaskier refuses to be left behind. It wouldn’t be the first time he chose to linger in a particular village which Geralt went on ahead, but Jaskier insisted the last one one didn’t appeal to him — “Everyone looks half-starved there. No wonder, the food tastes like shit. At midnight I half-expect them all to gather into a mob, hunt down the nearest visiting bard, and fry him on a spit. I have just enough meat on my bones, Geralt, but I wouldn’t be tasty —“

That rant devolved into a coughing fit that left Jaskier doubled over on the side of the road for five minutes, gasping and heaving. Geralt actually had to stop and wait for him. By the time Jaskier recovered, raising himself shakily up from his knees on the dirt road, he looked a mess. His face was bright red, tears lingering at the corners of his eyes; his chest still heaved. That was the moment any sensible person would have turned back… but Jaskier simply steeled himself and carried on.

Fool of a bard, Geralt thinks now, listening to Jaskier’s heavy footsteps behind them. He’s lagging, slowing them both down. His scent has picked up something unfamiliar, an edge of sour sweetness that can only be a fever. At least he’s walking on his own… but he’s not walking fast, is the thing, and they have to walk fast if they want to reach the next town before nightfall. As it is, the prospect looks doubtful; Jaskier has slowed them enough already.

“As soon as we find a bed, I’m collapsing in it —“ Jaskier pauses to sniff again, and clear a hoarse throat. “Then not getting out for a year. A year, Geralt. You’ll have to — drag me by my feet or something.”

“Something,” Geralt agrees, his mind flashing to images of swords and steel. Oh, he’d get the damned bard out of bed.

The trail gets rougher as they make their way further into the mountains. Even Geralt stumbles in places, and he’s built for this sort of travel. He’s wearing the boots for it.  Jaskier is distinctly neither of these things. As Geralt’s must focus more of his attention on their way forward, he almost misses what’s going on behind him — the harshness of his companion’s breaths growing more and more labored, the way Jaskier’s coughs pick up force and frequency, the times he must stop — physically stop — to sneeze or hack his lungs out. Geralt tries to ignore it. He really does. But the fact that he almost manages, for about fifteen minutes, is what alerts him to a much more alarming fact.

Jaskier has stopped complaining.

As soon as Geralt realizes this, he jerks to a halt on the trail. Roach follows his lead… but Jaskier, his head down, doesn’t notice. Instead, he walks straight into Roach’s backside, nearly toppling off his feet. 

“Agh — damn it, Geralt.” Even his indignation sounds listless. “Give a man warning next time, will you?”

“How,” asks Geralt, through gritted teeth, “do you feel?”

Jaskier blinks, appearing to weigh the likelihood that his companion is genuinely concerned or just annoyed. Whatever he decides, he isn’t wrong. Instead of offering an answer, he makes an inarticulate ‘hmm-mmm’, shrugging his shoulders. Geralt’s hard gaze bores into him. Jaskier shrinks under it. After a moment, the pressure grows too much; he breaks. “My head is pounding, to be honest. Feels… dizzy. I don’t know. It’s cold out here.”

“You have a fever,” Geralt observes. 

Jaskier raises his eyebrows, then laughs softly, like he’s not surprised. “Right, yep, that makes sense. Figures you know me better than I do…”

He breaks off into another fit of coughing, which leaves his entire body quaking. Geralt has to actually grab his shoulder to steady him, just in case Jaskier should tumble over. As soon as he’s regained some kind of composure, though, Jaskier pulls away.

“I’ll be fine.” This time, there isn’t a trace of whine in his voice; he isn’t scraping the barrel for pity, but being deadly serious. “Not too long to the next village anyways, is it? I can make it.”

Geralt eyes him for a long moment, weighing the likelihood of getting there in a reasonable amount of time with Jaskier lagging behind. It’s not good. They’ve been making poor time as it is, because he’s had to slow his pace for the damned bard, but Geralt would prefer not to camp along the road overnight. (Because he doesn’t feel like sleeping on hard ground; not because Jaskier in his current state needs a warm bath and bed. Absolutely not.)

He sighs through his teeth. “Get on the horse.”

“What?”

Either Jaskier’s fever is high enough that he can no longer comprehend the common tongue, or he really is an idiot. “The horse,” Geralt emphasizes, patting Roach’s hindquarters in preemptive apology. “If you ride her, we may make it to the nearest village before nightfall.”

This is the one and only time Geralt has ever offered his precious horse; Jaskier knows this, as well as he knows this chance will never come around again. Maybe he’s just an opportunist. Maybe the promise of a roof over his head is that tempting. Either way, Jaskier doesn’t weigh his options for long before doing the sensible thing and getting on the damn horse.

Roach whinnies, making her displeasure at the entire situation clear. Jaskier isn’t helping matters, a dead weight on her back. The horse stamps her hooves, shuffling in dismay, but a look from Geralt chastises her. For the moment, getting the bard out of the woods will have to be more important than her dignity.

No, Geralt doesn’t like it either. One look at Jaskier’s face, though — the hollow-eyed pallor, and the distance, as though he’s drifted out to sea already — reminds him why it is necessary.

This time around, they are able to set a much faster pace. Roach keeps up, just as Geralt knew she would, even carrying the burden that is Jaskier. The sick man doesn’t help his case; rather than ride, Jaskier has both arms braces against Roach’s neck, clearly focused on just keeping his balance. There’s a precarious list to his posture which Geralt keeps an eye on, but he doesn’t actually fall; every time it seems like he might, he rights himself, and a new dawn of clarity rises over his face. It lasts only a moment, of course, before fading away… but it’s something.

It isn’t long before the woods begin to thin out. Geralt tracks their location by the trees, and by the hues of purple and gold beginning to blend together on the horizon. They haven’t far to go, and enough time to do it. Unless they run into any roaming monsters on the way…

He takes his eyes off Jaskier, and there’s the mistake. He forgets. When Jaskier was complaining, at least he was present; by airing his grievances he ensured that he could not be ignored. This quiet Jaskier is a foreign one, and Geralt isn’t used to him. So, he makes a mistake. He looks away, and doesn’t look back… until a gruesome thud echoes from behind him.

Geralt stops dead in his tracks. Roach lets out a distressed whinny. Jaskier says nothing at all.

“Fuck!” Geralt hisses, rushing back to the bard’s crumpled body. Face-down in the dirt, Jaskier makes no attempt to pull himself up. When Geralt hauls him upright with both hands on his shoulders, Jaskier groans, head lolling against his own chest. 

Mud stains his cheeks, and a bruise is sure to form where he hit the ground hard. Even when Geralt seizes his face, though — and damn it, he’s on fire, worse than Geralt thought — Jaskier proves incapable of focusing. An incoherent murmur passes through parted lips. It does exactly nothing to alleviate Geralt’s minor panic.

“Jaskier! Wake up!” Is he even asleep? Geralt can’t tell. “Say something!”

He means it, and the realization comes as an icy shock — never did he imagine he’d ever miss the bard’s incessant prattling. Yet in the sudden absence of Jaskier’s voice, silence rings louder than ever, and it’s smothering Geralt to death. He should have seen this, should have known, should have realized, damn it —

“Jaskier,” he hisses, hauling his companion to his feet. The full weight of Jaskier’s limp body melts against his own. When Jaskier’s burning forehead falls against Geralt’s shoulder, he shrugs, trying to rouse him… but nothing does the job. Even when Geralt, grumbling furiously, is forced to haul Jaskier back up onto Roach and leap up after him, the fever permits Jaskier to do little more than melt against him. His head lolls, eyes half-open and staring into nothing. Worse than it all, he is completely silent.

For once in his life, Geralt misses the damned bard’s complaining.

[xfandomwritingsx]

And The Devil Makes Three – Billy Butcher

-gif source-

Description: Years after Butcher abandoned you, he finds out he left you with more than the thought he did.

Warnings/Labels: Angst. Heartbreak. If you’re looking for a happily ever after, this ain’t it. Mentions of sex and pregnancy. Reader has a named son.  

Approx. Word Count: 2,500

A/N: First, I SUCK at accents and dialect so just… forgive me for Butcher not sounding like Butcher. Second, there is so much history between these two that doesn’t get explained and I’m sorry because it would be like a 10k long story if I did that and I just… can’t do it right now. Maybe another time. Third, I need more Billy Butcher. NEED.

You had been washing the dishes on a fucking Wednesday afternoon when your doorbell rang. It was mundane. It was ordinary. It was how you liked it now. But then you opened that damn door and the floor about came out beneath you as your stomach plummeted and your blood burned.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” The rage in your voice is clear as a bell. Billy fucking Butcher turns around to face you instead of the rag tag team of men on your doorstep. The faded look on his face is replaced with a forced smile as your eyes meet.

“Hello, love.”  

You slam the door in his face. You hear muffled voices through the door and then a delicate, but very persistent knocking on the wood.

“Please,” Frenchie calls from the other side. “We won’t be long! Just let us in and talk to us for a few minutes! That’s it. Then we’ll leave you alone.” His knocking continues through his entire plea. A mixture of inconvenient curiosity and concern of what your neighbors will think cause you to throw the door open again.

“Five minutes,” you snap at them before walking away from the door, leaving them to shuffle in behind you and follow you to your living room. “The hell are you doing here?” Your bitterness is aimed at Butcher and judging by the way he doesn’t meet your eyes, he knows it.

“We just need some information,” M.M. Speaks first, softly. There’s something about his tone that doesn’t quite sit well with you, like he’s afraid to speak to you. Sure, you weren’t exactly welcoming to them on your doorstep, but your grudge wasn’t with all of them. Just the one. “I know you got out of the game and you don’t want anything to with us, but we could use your help.” You scoff loudly and cross your arms over your chest just to make sure you didn’t punch anyone, specifically the asshole in the leather jacket, currently wandering aimlessly around your living room while the others stayed politely near you.  

“Is that what you told them?” you ask coldly. “That I left?” M.M. And Frenchie exchange a confused look before looking back at Butcher. You haven’t felt like this in years. You hate it.

“I told them you were out of the game and moving on.” He says it so plainly, like it was the whole truth and you snap.

“You left! You fucked me one night and the next morning you were just gone. Ghosted me with a half-assed note about how it was better this way or some shit!” You turn your attention back to M.M. and Frenchie. “He ever tell you that?” The shell shocked looks on their faces clearly say he did no such thing. “He decided I was out of the game. He kicked me to the curb.”

“Yeah well, looks like it worked out pretty well for ya, didn’t it?” You turn sharply to glare at him and see he’s got one of the photos that was on your mantle in his hand, holding it up for you to see. A cold dread rushes down your spine and your anger subsides for a moment.

In his hand is a photo of you and a young boy with dark hair that looks a little too much like the man standing in front of you. Butcher’s eyes are hard and unreadable. You wait for him to say something, to do anything just so you can move past the cold fear that’s slowly making you shrink down.

“Everyone get the fuck out now.” Your tone, though it waivers in the tiniest way, leaves no room for argument and the two men next to you seem ready to hang their heads and leave. But the new guy who followed them in, the doe-eyed young fella filled with optimism so sweet it makes you sick, steps towards you, briefly touching your elbow to bring your attention to him. You flinch at his touch and he withdraws quickly.

“Please, Miss…” he struggles to try and find your last name in his memory. He senses your impatience and moves on without it. “All we need is a name.”  

“Kid, I don’t know who you are, but you’re hanging with the wrong crowd.” His eyes drop to the floor, defeat slowly coming over him too. “My advice? Leave before he abandons you like a sick dog too.”  

“Told you she wasn’t gonna help,” Butcher says, an air of confidence in his voice that brings your anger flooding back over the fear. He gently puts the picture back and ushers all his boys back towards the front door.  

You don’t move from your spot, don’t walk them out, don’t do anything except stand there squeezing your arms over your chest and willing them all to go away. When you hear Butcher say, “I’ll follow in a minute,” your heart sinks. You don’t want to do this. Not now, not ever.  

His face is a stone when he stalks back into your living room, his own rage and confusion masked behind a blank expression that pierces through you. It threatens to make you feel guilty. You refuse to let him have that control over you, not anymore. You stare right back at him, waiting for his first move.

“How old is he?” There’s no question who he’s asking about

“It doesn’t matter.” You don’t have the patience to play dumb, but you’ll be damned if you make this easy on him. Your defiance breaks a little of his façade.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me,” he growls. “How old?”

“He turned three last month.” Your nails dig into the skin on your arm through the thin fabric of your sweater.

“Fucking hell!” He runs a hand over his face, his mind doing the quick and easy math to arrive at the answer he already knew. You let a little bit of your anger bubble past the surface.

“You don’t get to be fucking angry,” you snap at him. “You made your choice to walk away from me and anything and everything that came with me.”  

“It’s not like I knew you’d end up fucking pregnant!” He takes a step towards you and even though he’s still across the room from you, it feels like he’s too close. You finally release your arms, letting them flail up in an agitated fury.

“What difference does it make it if I ended up with a kid or not?”  

“He’s fucking mine, innit he?”

“No!” you scream at him, something within you snapping. Years of anger and resentment flooding out. “He’s mine. He is mine and no one else’s.” Your screaming drops to a deadlier tone. “I went through the pregnancy alone. I went through labor and nearly dying when I gave birth alone. I did the sleepless nights, the diaper changes, my fucking recovery, his entire three years of life all alone. He is mine.” You point your finger into your chest even though the emphasis is unneeded. Your fingers on your other hand have curled into a fist, squeezing into a white knuckled grip around themselves.  

“He’s got my blood,” Butcher says slowly. You shake your head.

“That doesn’t make you his father.”

“Legally, sweetheart, it does.” He tilts his head and that sickly sweet, better-than-you voice he uses makes you bark out a bitter laugh.  

“What, Butch?” you ask, utterly amused. “Are you going to take me to court?” He flinches back just the slightest bit and it gives you a sick twist of pleasure. “Want to stand in front of a judge and explain why your lifestyle is so conducive to raising a child?”

“Yeah well maybe it coulda been had I fucking known.” His eyes are still hard and angry, but they falter and look away from you for just a moment.

“I saved you,” you tell him slowly. “I saved you the struggle and the guilt of saying you’re going to be there for us and then not following through because you can’t let go of your crusade. I saved him a lifetime of where’s daddy? and why isn’t daddy here?” You feel the sadness creeping back in and the tears you thought were over years ago start to well back up, your heart breaking all over again. “I saved him from looking out a window, watching you leave and wondering why he isn’t good enough for you.”  

There’s a short silence where his eyes soften and you know your words hurt him. Not because they’re mean, but because they’re true. His eyes keep flitting to the pictures in the room, looking at the boy he doesn’t know. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You didn’t even give me the choice.” It sounds more pained than he meant it to, his anger melting away.  

“Kind of like how you didn’t give me a choice in leaving?” There’s still a little bite in your voice, but you try to subdue it. “What did you want me to do? Call the phone you’d already ditched? Go to the safe house you’d already burned? Did that.” You pause, considering if you should tell him the next bit. You feel yourself starting to tremble and without thinking about it, you find yourself walking towards him. “You think I should have tracked you down? I did.” Your voice is much softer now as you get closer. “I had your confirmed location in one hand and a pregnancy test in the other.” You put your hands out as if you’re still holding those items and the emotions of that day come flooding back. “And the moment that stick read positive, it was over. I threw out that piece of paper with your address on it and I never looked back.” You feel tears spill onto your cheeks and you try to not break down. Butcher won’t look at you, actively keeping his eyes anywhere else. “Tell me I made the wrong choice,” you whisper, not even sure what kind of reaction you’re hoping for.  

“What’s his name?” he asks instead, his own voice quiet. You roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders.

“Why?” You hate how defeated you sound. “What does it matter?” He clenches at your words and he rolls his neck in the smallest circle before looking back to you.

“C’mon, just…” he starts harshly, but falters when he sees you. His hand reaches up and his thumb strokes across the tear streak on your cheek. “Just give me that?” There’s a desperation in his voice that makes you ache.

“Ollie,” you finally tell him. “Short for Oliver.” His brow furrows and his lips tilt up in just the slightest way. When you involuntarily smile, you realize his hand is still hovering near your face. “I remembered you liked that name.” He sighs, giving in and letting his hand cradle your cheek gently. You want to push him away, but instead you find yourself melting into his touch.

“You’re such a bitch.” It’s said without malice and he stops trying to withhold his smile.

“So are you,” you say without missing a beat. He leans in to be closer to you and your hands find the edges of his leather coat, the zipper teeth biting into your hands.  

“I do miss that spitfire mouth of yours,” he admits.

You hate how much you miss him, how easily he can make you want to forget every awful thing he’s ever done. You told yourself for years that what you had was a one-night stand, that neither of you cared for the other. And then he shows up and unravels the delusion you held onto in order to keep yourself sane.  

“Why’d you do it, Billy?”  It’s the question that’s been burning at the back of your throat since he left. He grimaces and lowers his eyes to the floor.

“You needed out. You were ready to move on from all of it.” He leans down further, presses his forehead to yours and groans. “But you weren’t gonna leave me. And you… God dammit, you deserved more.” He pulls himself away from you and leaves the space in front of you cold. He starts pacing your living room again, footsteps heavy. “You wanted the white picket fence bullshit. And I wanted ya to have it.” He stops, facing away from you and brings his hand over his face. “I didn’t intend on fucking ya.” There’s an honesty there that you know he doesn’t like showing. “I was going to say goodnight and leave your room and just be gone. But then…”

But then you had grabbed his hand and asked if everything was alright and before you knew it, his lips were crashing down to yours and you were both tumbling back into your motel bed, years of bottled up passion and feelings pouring out. It had been the happiest you had felt in years. Until you woke up the next morning and it all came crashing down.

“Do you regret it?” you ask softly. “Any of it?” He pauses before answering, approaching your mantle once more.  

“Do you?” The bastard could never just answer a question. His fingers trace a frame that’s holding a picture of Ollie’s school picture.

“I don’t regret him.” It’s not a direct answer but it needs to be said. He nods firmly to himself before turning away and walking back towards your front door.

“They’re waiting on me,” he says gruffly, a flimsy excuse to make his exit. You follow him this time, not wanting him to leave yet.

“Butcher,” you stop him with his hand on the knob, but you can’t think of a single thing to say. There’s really nothing more left to discuss. It’s not like he’s going to stay and you sure as shit aren’t going to ask him to. So you sigh and ask instead, “What information did you guys need?” He puts his fake smile back on.

“Don’t worry about it, love.” He straightens out and his eyes clear, slipping back into business. “I told ‘em not to come here anyways. Was still trying to push them off your porch when you answered the door.”

“Look, if it’ll help you finish all of this then I’ll give you the information I have.” You shrug casually, but he sees right through it and catches that hopeful glint behind it. He shrinks again and his voice gets low, regretful.

“You know when this is finished… I probably won’t still be around.” You press your lips together and nod, the hope squashed right out of you. He was going to finish this plan even if it killed him. And it probably would. Watching the ground, you hear him open the front door. “Take care of the little bugger. I’ll make sure no one comes to bother you again.”

And just like that, he’s gone again, leaving you just as alone as he did last time.

[annecoulmanross]

Thoughts on “Terror of the Arctic” (2005), aka, “I listened to the Doctor Who audio drama episodes about the lost Franklin Expedition so that you don’t have to!”

Alright terror-friends, this was not how I expected to spend my day, but I have now listened to all eight episodes of the 2005 Doctor Who Audio Drama series “Terror of the Arctic,” featuring all of the ~ familiar ~ icy ~ boys ~ meeting the infamous Doctor. 

With arguably more horrifying sexist/racist content than the 2007 Simmons novel, this audio drama actually predicted a lot of the tropes that Simmons popularized, including ship-board conflicts that escalate to stabbings, the appearance of supernatural creatures from Inuit oral traditions, and even a squick-y romance between Crozier and a much younger Inuit woman. 

To clarify, I do not recommend you listen to these episodes. They’re a hot mess, and a really jarring departure from the beauty of The Terror (2018). 

HOWEVER I highly recommend you look below the cut for episode-by-episode notes about the first Franklin Expedition adaptation that has well and truly driven me up the wall. So, welcome to the world of “Terror of the Arctic” (2005), featuring:

Crozier, (pronounced "Crow-zee-eyy,”) a polite door-mat of a captain with an agonizing lack of snark and minimal personality beyond “the only white man who can magically fix racism.” 

Fitzjames the “proper English officer” who has every prejudice you can imagine – and a couple more you can’t. 

Le Vesconte, the irrepressible lad with an inexplicable American accent and extreme boy-scout-gone-crazy energy. 

Sgt. Tozer, who has a bad habit of punching people in the face even though his superior officers haven’t yet told him he’s allowed to do so. 

Also featuring: Cybernetic Tuunbaq aliens! Complete breakdown of shipboard protocol! Expected amounts of cannibalism! And more! (spoilers, obviously) 

Episode 1

– We start with a mandatory brief appearance from the Doctor and his companion Christine. I don’t (initially) hate this iteration of the Doctor – he’s very paternalistic and old-fashioned, but at least the voice actor’s competent. Christine’s voice, tragically, is high-pitched beyond all reason and laced with a variety of odd dialectical features. Some quick research reveals she’s supposed to be a 15 year old from medieval England. She sounds neither like a teenager nor a medieval person. From the very beginning, her character seems very infantilized, and plays into a lot of the Born Sexy Yesterday tropes, even if she and the Doctor aren’t a thing. 

– Next, we have Sir John Franklin giving the “we’ve been stuck in the ice for nine months, here’s what you missed” sum-up. 

– Sir John’s voice is gravelly 👏 as 👏 fuck; also, I don’t think that the phrase “to sugar-coat it” was a common 1840s expression? Correct me if I’m wrong history folks.

– Crozier shows up to give his “we should start walking out now” speech, minus any passion or conviction whatsoever; he bends immediately to Franklin’s whims. Crozier’s voice is quite high-pitched, and Sir John pronounces his name “Crow-zee-eyy.” (Update: everyone pronounces it this way!!! Uhmmm!) Though I struggle to judge accents, Crozier’s Irish accent sounds... leprechaun-ish. It’s not Jared Harris by a long mile. 

– Not gonna lie, I kind of love how much Fitzjames sounds like a posh bastard. He immediately gets into a one-sided shouting match with Crozier and has to be reprimanded by Franklin. 

– Lieutenant Irving appears on the scene; I don’t know what Irving’s accent is, but it sure is something.

– All of the officers seem to currently be on the same ship for some reason but I don’t know why. We’ve met Sir John, Crozier, Fitzy, and Irving, and Gore’s been mentioned, as have doctors Peddie and Stanley. And they’re all in the same boat. Guess we’re just ignoring Terror for now? 

– Franklin begins narrating as he writes in the log-book: “11th June, 1847.” Oh BOY guess what day it is!!

– RIP Franklin (surprise, surprise). We have no real idea yet how this has happened. 

– Fitzjames, talking to Sir John’s mysterious corpse: “Captain, what could have done this to you?” 

– Fitzjames: “We have a killer loose on this ship” (Fitz gets ALL the best lines, apparently. Do they make sense? No. Are they hilarious? Yes.)

– Irving is shockingly nonchalant when the Doctor and Christine appear from nowhere out on the ice. Why is Irving so chill when he thinks that these two people are the lone survivors of a DIFFERENT failed expedition?

– Fitz apparently has refused to let Crozier start the walk-out after Franklin died. (Um, that’s not how the chain of command works?)  

– We learn that Beechey-boy Braine apparently died of sudden-onset-scurvy. What is sudden-onset-scurvy, you ask? We do not yet know. 

– Irving, happily describing their recent course of action: “...Ignoring the advice of our ships’ ice masters...” Oh god Irving don’t sound so happy about that. Blanky’s going to take an ice-axe to your head. (Tragically, Blanky does not appear in this show.) 

– Lieutenant Gore has ALSO died of sudden-onset-scurvy. RIP Graham Gore.

– Is the Doctor going to focus on the existence of sudden-onset-scurvy? No, we’re gonna hyperfixate on the high officers-to-crew death rate! And he’s going to infodump about officers’ privileges TO Irving, an officer, and muse about how odd it is that more officers than crew are dying when the officers get all the best food! 

– Fitz, the “proper English officer” apparently has managed to get about half the men to refuse to follow the orders of their expedition commander, because he happens to be Irish. Babe, this is a really bad look!

– Irving, our good Christian Irving, just swore “By Jove” in a weirdly sexy voice.

– Tozer has Extreme Deep Voice.

– Irving: “There’s something odd about them I just don’t trust.” Why on earth wouldn’t you trust two strangers who wandered up to you on the ice and asked if you were “human,” John Irving? What’s “odd” about that?

– The Doctor only remembers that he does actually know the events of the Franklin expedition after he reads the entire Victory Point Note. 

– Irving has suddenly decided to threaten to shoot the Doctor and his companion. Irving promptly gets attacked. 

* jarring transition to triumphant Doctor Who music *

Episode 2

– The ~mysterious~ attack on Irving has left weird wounds on Irving’s neck. I’m calling it, Ice Vampires!

– We have an Edward Little appearance! His voice is so sweet and gentle! And then... “I’ll have Sergeant Tozer shoot you both where you stand!” Okay, maybe not... (Update: Little is, in fact, very awful to several people. As we will see, all of the lieutenants and marines swing between weirdly nonchalant dudes and trigger-happy maniacs.) 

– Tozer just punched the Doctor’s lights out, unprompted. 

– Crozier: “Good old John Peddie... he’s like a brother to me.” Well THAT’S not a friendship I expected.

– So Dr. Peddie has brought a young Inuit woman in to Crozier’s cabin to have a “lovely chat.” Awkward book!Crozier/Silna energies. The woman’s name is Liak. She speaks with a vaguely Spanish and/or Italian accent. 

– Liak: “I have been with my tribe. They would not allow me to come back to see you.” /  Crozier: “Why? It’s not because of Fitzjames is it?” 

– (It’s not because of Fitzjames. It’s because of evil spirits, obviously.)

– The Doctor, once they get back to the ships, explaining to the higher officers what’s happened: “Mr. Tozer got all excited and could no longer restrain his Neanderthal-like impulse to start clubbing things.” Boy this by show is NOT for Tozer fans. (Note: Tozer is standing right there? In the room? When the Doctor says this?)

– The Doctor just dropped an f-bomb?????????? And not as an expression of shock, but a hard-core sexual use of the f-bomb. Literally, he said “you can let Tozer fuck me again” – did I mishear this????????????

– Irving’s dying words: “I was attacked by a large silver creature with claws!” Wait did Dan Simmons rip off a fan-made 2005 Doctor Who Audio Drama?

– RIP Irving, first confirmed victim of “Tuunbaq the First.”

– Fitzjames is SO racist, throwing around a lot of “savage” and “barbarian” words. Why are you letting this man walk all over you, Crozier?

– Crozier: the first person who has the correct reaction to two weirdos appearing on his boat (aka shock and surprise, rather than worrying nonchalance followed by unprompted extreme aggression.)

– Fitzjames literally laughed after being informed that Irving is dead. (Like Crozier’s bad Raft of the Medusa joke, but SO MUCH WORSE.) 

– RIP Ice Master Reid, actual first confirmed kill of “Tuunbaq pre-Tuunbaq,” several weeks ago, apparently??

– Okay so Fitz here is obviously meant to be a horrible person, but I have to acknowledge that he’s making a few good points: (1) the Doctor has admitted that he has a “sailable” ship, and it’s pretty rude of him to not even explain why he’s unwilling to help these dying men, and (2) it’s been bothering me the whole episode that the Doctor hasn’t been calling officers by their titles, and frankly, I do think Fitz is within his rights to demand the Doctor call him “Captain Fitzjames” rather than “Mr. Fitzjames” on Fitz’s own ship. Like, it’s not that hard.

– The Doctor’s first example of “ways the Franklin crew could mess up the time stream” is the insane scenario: “what if one of them married the mother of Winston Churchill.”

– The “Tuunbaq: The Prequel” can talk!!!!!! “Hello meat!!!” it says, gleefully. 

– Tozer is just the fucking most. He punched the Doctor AGAIN.

– Crozier just “Mr. Fitzjames”ed Fitz!! And Fitz backed down! Crozier finally grew a spine! Just in time to decide to commandeer the Doctor’s ship. 

– The Doctor’s ship inevitably disappears before it can be commandeered. Because of course. (Things and people disappear and get transported to different places and later times all through these episodes for timey~wimey~reasons.) 

Episode 3

– A conversation between the two named female characters (Liak and the Doctor’s companion Christine)! What will they talk about? ...Their dead fathers. Ah. Hmm.

– This show is not sophisticated enough to handle a “white man’s disease killed my father” subplot. And yet, Liak’s father died of TB he contracted from the white men. I’m *worried*

– To help Liak overcome the superstitious antagonism of her “tribe” after her father’s death, Crozier apparently gave a bunch of food to the Inuit, which is  an... interesting take. (One Irishman’s grand gesture fixes racism!)

– Magical Inuit shaman powers are only inherited through the male line (The racism and sexism in this is palpable.)

– So “Tuunbag Episode I: Revenge of the the Tuunbaq” is actually a larger coalition of aliens, run by a being called “Matriarx.” Can we decide whether woman are powerless victims or power-hungry monsters, please? Both is just greedy.

– RIP Strong (another tragic case of the triple threat: sudden onset scurvy, lead poisoning, AND Tuunbaq attack)

– Wait WAIT the Tuunbaq gave Strong the lead poisoning AND the scurvy by biting his neck and sucking his blood, stealing nutrients and leaving lead in their place: Ice Vampires!! I called it!!!

– Groups of people Fitz has verbally degraded: the Irish, the Inuit, all women, and now “common folk.”

Episode 4

– Le Vesconte’s first lines! He sounds like a Boy Scout, by which I mean he sounds about 16, and has an American accent? Also, Fitz pronounces his name “Leh-vay-cont” 

– An AB named “Seeley” is writing an account of the events that are happening, perhaps as this show’s version of Bridgens and/or Peglar? Also Fitz is REALLY opposed to Seeley writing this, because Fitz hates “common folk” that much, apparently? 

– RIP Seeley, we hardly knew ye. 

– Major episode events: the walk-out begins, leaving Terror and Erebus just as the boats slip into another dimension because of alien reasons (this didn’t age well, now that we have the shipwrecks). Also, there’s an Inuit woman who is in league with the cybernetic-alien-Tuunbaq-vampires. 

Episode 5

– As soon as the walk-out begins, the cybernetic-alien-Tuunbaq-vampires begin attacking. 

– Boy Scout Le Vesconte: “I have an idea! If bullets won’t stop them maybe an axe will!” I mean, this is stupid enough for our Dundy, but he follows it up with “Murderers! I’ll hack you to pieces!” and rushes them like a child and has to be rescued. (Also Crozier is way WAY more concerned for Le Vesconte than Fitz is, though Fitz leaps into the rescue effort and Crozier... does not do that. He’s doing a lot of standing on the sidelines and bemoaning his dying men.)

– Peddie is basically just Crozier’s all-purpose lieutenant at this point. Little and Hodgson whomst? 

– Le Vesconte, Fitz, and Tozer get struck by lightning WHILE fighting the Tuunbaq, and some Frankenstein stuff seems to happen, because Fitz now has the munchies. But like, the ominous munchies. 

– Le Vesconte’s in something like a coma. The dumb boy-scout. 

– While explaining why the Netsilik have legends about these aliens as “evil spirits,” the Doctor implies that errors in the historical record happen “especially” in oral traditions. Can we stop insulting the Inuit oral historians please?  

– The cybernetic-vampire-aliens can mind-control their victims sometimes. Calling it now: Fitzjames is under the mind-control already. 

– Liak is revealed to possibly be in cahoots with the aliens, because she has a necklace that her sister gave her that’s actually an alien tracker. 

– Fitzjames, upon learning that Liak may be in league with aliens, attempts to physically kill her with his bare hands, and has to be restrained. 

– Crozier hears murmurs about mutiny, and assigns this poor Marine named Hopcraft to find out more about the mutiny and report back to him. Next morning: RIP Hopcraft, first victim of the “we’re knifing each other” stage of events (aka this show’s Irving.)

Episode 6

– Lieutenant Little, who got separated from Fitzjames and Crozier, tries to comfort ship’s boy Chambers, whose use of the term “panic attacks” is a little anachronistic; a small gripe in the grand scheme of things.

– The Tuunbaq-aliens attack Little’s camp and wipe them all out, leaving Little to the last. Edward Little, a British Christian naval officer in the 1840s, gasps out “I’ll see you in Hades” as his dying words. (Someone write me Little/Irving neo-pagan fanfic for this mess?)

– The Doctor is playing detective, trying to solve Hopcraft’s death. He finds footprints, and both Liak and Tozer are missing. 

– The Doctor calls attention to Tozer’s “enormous feet.” Weird.

– We have our first cannibalism! Perpetrated by Tozer, and uhhhh oh great we’re eating Dr. MacDonald for dinner tonight.

– Le Vesconte woke up from his coma just in time to brain Tozer to death.

– The Doctor: “There were no women’s bones at any of the sites [of the lost expedition remains]” that’s a hilarious comment given that one study suggesting as many as four female skeletons.

– RIP Le Vesconte, from his wounds, offscreen!! Nooo!!

– Tozer (and Fitzjames, and a few others), because they all got struck by the lightning, now have Frankenstein’s cannibalism curse. They all hunger for human flesh.

– Fitzjames is now a sneaky murderer-cannibal who manages to gain Crozier’s trust before turning around and trying to butcher him. As least my evil boy is smart? 

Episode 7

– The big bad reveal: it’s Liak’s secret evil sister! (Just like Season 4 of Sherlock!) She’s been helping the Tuunbaq-aliens the whole time because she hates white men! Because they gave her dad TB and one of them broke her heart! Thanks, it’s bad! 

– The Tuunbaq-aliens eat Liak’s sister anyway because they do not care. 

– Liak, Crozier, the Doctor, and Christine are left to defeat the Tuunbaq-aliens. 

– Fitz feels a little bad about eating people I guess? Also Fitz is “weak” and can’t resist his hunger and all those fun tropes.

Episode 8

– Fitzjames gets a redemption arc via heroic self-sacrifice narrative, complete with death via horrid gurgling. “He sacrificed himself in a last act of humanity.”

– The Doctor agrees to give Crozier a lift to somewhere a bit further south, on the assumption that Crozier will settle down with Liak and live with some “tribe” of other Inuit people that neither of them have ever met. 

– There’s a parting joke about Crozier enjoying drinking wine that did NOT age well.

And that’s all, folks! Hope you... enjoyed? 

[madlori]

Unveiled - Chapter 1

Unveiled, Chapter 1

by MadLori Word Count: 3300 Fandom: Men’s Hockey RPF Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Evgeni Malkin Rating: NC-17 (like, heed this, please) Tags: Arranged Marriage, Modern Royalty AU, Mpreg, Not Omegaverse, No Consent Issues, Veiled Sex, Weird Traditions, Don’t Think Too Hard, Handwavey Biology

Read this on AO3

[there will not usually be this many notes, it’s chapter 1]

Biology note: This is mpreg but NOT omegaverse. All genders have both reproductive systems, meaning anybody of any gender can get anyone else pregnant. Men and women exist, but gender presentation is a result of how things are arranged/presented. I'm not super into getting into a ton of details about this. Handwave, handwave.

Note about language: I made the conscious choice not to render anyone's dialogue in a particular accent or dialect, as I felt that in this setting it would be a distraction. We're gonna go with "everyone in the story is fluent in whatever language you'd like them to be speaking."

Note to my existing readers: This is my first story in this fandom. If you have followed me here from Sherlock or another fandom, please take note of the tags - this is unlike anything I've ever written before. My first foray into mpreg or RPF. If those things don't work for you, that's fine, then this fic isn't for you. No need to inform me.

Thank you to burning-up-a-sun and luckie_dee for excellent beta services, and to ljummen and right-of-the-curve for reading and reacting as I banged this out in record time.

-------

Zhenya had hoped to sleep in on his last morning as a bachelor, but his eyes flew open just past dawn and would not close again. 

His wedding day. The culmination of several years’ work -- the selection of his consort-to-be, the negotiations, the contracts, the preparations...all of which he’d had minimal part in, because one simply didn’t arrange their own marriage, let alone their own embargoed marriage.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, going over and over it in his mind. Ceremony, blessing, consummation, and then...life as usual? Regular people had celebrations after their weddings. They gathered together with their friends and families, ate and drank, danced and celebrated along with the person they’d just married. Lots of photos, smiling faces, Instagram posts and hashtags.

For embargoed spouses, such celebrations were pointless. It was hard to rejoice with your new life partner when you weren’t allowed to see or speak to them, or even to know their name.

All that he knew about the consort was that he was from New Scotland, was Zhenya’s age, and of noble blood. It had been tempting to at least Google him, but poking around an embargo like that was inappropriate, not to mention insulting to the significant sacrifice being made by his new consort. This man had agreed to a restrictive situation to become Zhenya’s husband and bear his child -- the least Zhenya could do was respect his decision. Besides, the consort’s entire online presence would have been digitally embargoed by the palace tech team, which was really meant to shield him from the rest of the world’s snooping, but also served to thwart tempted spouses.

  Zhenya’s parents had asked for quite a bit of input about what sort of person he hoped for as a life partner. They had already known that he preferred a male spouse, and had accepted his one additional condition for a match, but beyond that, he trusted them. He’d known since childhood that his marriage would be arranged and had accepted it, was even grateful for it. It was difficult to meet people when you were a Prince. Zhenya had dated his fair share of men, but he was never sure about their motives -- was his money a factor? his status? his fame? -- and his dates were often put off by the press attention, not to mention the trappings of royalty. He thought his chances of finding happiness with a spouse selected by his parents were possibly better, and certainly no worse. Besides, he didn’t really have it in him to rebel. Refusing to have an embargoed arrangement would be a serious break with tradition, and the very idea was just -- exhausting. 

Sasha, his boisterous, gap-toothed valet, banged into the room at 7:00 a.m. sharp; Zhenya groaned and pulled a pillow over his head. “None of that, now. We have to make you look royal, so God knows we need every last second.” Sasha grabbed the blankets and yanked them off. Zhenya yelped and curled into a tight comma on the bed. “Up, you lazy, posh twat.”

“Why did I make you my valet. Why,” Zhenya said, muffled into his pillow. Sasha had not come up through the ranks of the palace staff, as most valets did. He had been a teammate of Zhenya’s on their university hockey team, and some fit of insanity had led Zhenya to conclude that his total lack of finesse in matters of protocol and politics was appropriate for the job. 

“Because you knew I wouldn’t put up with your bullshit and you were right. You’re getting married today, so let’s try and fool all these rubes into thinking you’ve got class, eh?”

Zhenya slumped out of bed, only to be manhandled out of his pajamas by Sasha. “Hey!”

He snorted. “Like I’ve never seen your dick before. And a lot more people are going to be seeing it today, so get over it. Shower, now.”

Zhenya spent the morning being scrubbed, polished, trimmed, neatened, and perfumed to within an inch of his life. Breakfast was brought in, an unusually light meal. “Are they afraid I’m going to throw up?” he grumbled, eating his toast.

“Probably. Are you?”

“No.”

“You’re not nervous?”

“I’m a little anxious. Excited. What’s to be nervous about?”

“I mean…” Sasha made vague gestures all around him at everything.

Zhenya swallowed and sipped at his tea. “Have you heard...anything?”

“I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”

He rolled his eyes. “About my betrothed.”

“Even if I had, I wouldn’t be allowed to share it. If you want to know, you’ll have to hire a hacker to un-embargo his Instagram.” Zhenya just looked at him. Sasha sighed. “All I know is that he and his entourage arrived two nights ago.”

“‘Entourage?”

“His parents are with him, and he’s got his own guards. He’ll have the guards until he’s unveiled. You knew that, right?”

“I know.”

“Other than that they’re all keeping to their quarters. He’s not supposed to be seen until the wedding.”

“He’s not going to be seen after the wedding! Not that anybody knows what he looks like. He could be walking around the palace in a bathing suit eating peaches and nobody would know it was him.”

“The embargo is for your own good, and his. And the kingdom’s.”

“I get it.” And he did, really. If his consort hadn’t conceived within a year, he would be replaced, and that process would be a lot easier for everyone involved if he, and the citizens, hadn’t gotten attached to him. Hence, the embargo. At least, that’s what the clerics said. Endlessly. “I understand the principle. It’s just going to take some getting used to, being married to someone and having sex with him without seeing his face or talking to him.”

Sasha snorted. “C’mon, Zhenya. You’ve had more than your share of hookups.”

“So?”

“How many of their names can you remember, or even their faces? You’re telling me you had deep conversations with them?”

“That’s different. This man will be my husband.”

“I heard that the prince of Patagonia and his consort broke their embargo and fell in love. She didn’t get pregnant so she had to leave, they were both heartbroken, he almost abdicated his throne, it was a horrible mess, he wouldn’t sleep with the new consort and so she had to be replaced, the first consort was disgraced and went into hiding, nobody knows what happened to her and he’s a giant ball of depression.”

Zhenya blinked. “That’s terrible.”

“Honor your embargo, Zhenya.”

He sighed. “I intend to.”

Embargoed marriage ceremonies were small, private affairs. The unveiling was really the big public spectacle, when the kingdom could at last meet their prince’s husband. The wedding was more for the clerical blessing and the witnessed consummation, and a huge gathering for that was considered unseemly. Zhenya had been trained since childhood not to feel immodest for this occasion, but he was still glad that there would only be a few witnesses present.

He walked to the chapel in his custom-made marriage robes, simple but lush as was the current style. Standing outside the chamber were six of his consort’s guards. Their uniforms were pleasingly clean-lined, black and tailored with deep gold trim, and they snapped to attention as he approached, disciplined and in perfect formation. Zhenya nodded to them -- he imagined he’d be getting to know them soon enough -- and passed through.

A heavy drape hung in the center of the dais with a small hole cut in it for their hands to pass through. Zhenya took his place on the left, nodding to the head cleric. He heard rustling from the other side of the drape and a shadow fell upon it; his new consort had taken his place on the other side.

They did not speak during the ceremony, as their embargo forbade them from hearing one another’s voices. The cleric spoke to them; they acknowledged his words with nods of assent to his questions and directives. When he bade them do so, they joined hands through the hole in the drape. Zhenya noted that his betrothed’s hand was square and strong, and gripped his without hesitation, exhibiting no sign of a nervous tremor. A promising start. He shut his eyes and sent up a prayer to whatever deity might be handy...please, let me like him. Please, let him get pregnant quickly. Let him be smart. And if it’s not too much to ask, please, let him be...not hideous.

“You are joined,” the cleric concluded, simply. Two deacons appeared and removed the drape.

His consort was dressed in elegant marriage robes of his own, including a cape and a veil that hid him from view entirely save for his hands. The only new information Zhenya received with the removal of the drape was his consort’s height, about half a head shorter than Zhenya. He smiled at his new husband and they bowed to each other. Zhenya watched as his consort made a silent greeting to his parents, the Duke and Duchess of New Scotland, who Zhenya did not know at all. With over seventeen thousand peerage titles in the world, one couldn’t meet them all, or even a tiny fraction. The consort’s guards had materialized in the chapel and now surrounded their master and escorted him off the dais and off into the chamber where the next and final step would happen.

Zhenya turned to receive his own parents’ congratulations, and a back-slapping hug from Sasha, wildly overstepping his role as a valet as usual. Zhenya’s father rolled his eyes but didn’t chastise him; his parents loved Sasha as they loved Zhenya himself. More, he sometimes suspected. 

The cleric hovered at Zhenya’s elbow. “Your Royal Highness, you are awaited in the antechamber.” 

Sasha winked at him. “Good luck. Do it right the first time and this embargo can end quickly.”

“I don’t think it’s entirely up to me,” Zhenya said, but he hoped for the same. He couldn’t imagine waiting for months on end, walking on eggshells every day, everyone looking askance at him if it dragged on and wondering at his virility if he failed to impregnate his spouse. As if it would be for lack of trying. 

He followed the cleric into the antechamber. His consort would have gone on ahead to be prepared and arranged by his personal attendants, although Zhenya wasn’t quite sure what that meant, beyond the obvious. This situation was generally not intended to produce arousal in both parties, so he damn well hoped that his consort’s “preparation” involved vaginal lubrication of some kind, for both of their comfort. He’d find out soon enough, but first there was still all manner of ceremonial mumbo-jumbo to attend to.

Zhenya wasn’t particularly devout, a fact he kept mostly to himself. At minimum, a visible attention to custom was expected and valued by the citizens, and Zhenya had no wish to disappoint them, or more accurately, to give them cause to distrust him. He respected the beliefs of his parents (mostly his mother) and of the clerics, but he’d have dispensed with the whole rigmarole if he’d had his choice. But this was his duty, so he stood quietly and allowed the clerics to say their blessings over him and waft their burning herbs as his outer robes were removed.

Underneath his robes were his tunic and trousers, which had been made with a flap at the front (“easy access,” Sasha had joked). He wouldn’t undress further than this, at least not for this ceremonial consummation. He’d be expected to achieve a minimum objective today, the most that could be hoped for in these high-pressure and decidedly not private circumstances.

One of the sub-clerics stood at his side. “Your Royal Highness, will you require assistance readying yourself?” he asked, quietly. Sasha, lurking behind him, snorted.

“Assistance?” Zhenya said, puzzled...but then it hit him. He was being asked if he’d need help getting it up. It stood to reason that he might, with people watching and the Fate of the Kingdom Depending and blah blah blah. Anxiety was not typically the friend of erections. The sub-cleric was offering a helping hand, so to speak. Zhenya had heard stories. Supposedly there’d once been a groom nervous enough that the sub-cleric had to use his mouth on him before he could manage it.

Zhenya didn’t think he’d need quite that much assistance; indeed, he hoped he wouldn’t need any. “Let’s...proceed, and we’ll see,” he said. The sub-cleric nodded and went to the door into the main chamber.

It was dim inside, fragrant with burning herbs. Several clerics were lined up at the far side of the room, chanting quietly. Behind a screen stood half a dozen shadowy figures; witnesses, drawn from the nobility and the royal family. Zhenya didn’t know who was back there and he didn’t care to know. He would likely never know; it was considered rude to disclose one’s presence at such an occasion. Zhenya had himself been a witness at his cousin’s consummation five years ago. You really couldn’t see much at all, through the screen and the awkward angle.

At the moment, however, his attention was captivated by the bed in the center of the room, and his consort upon it. He was laid out on his stomach, covered in drapes even including his head -- Zhenya worried for a moment if he could breathe adequately under there. Two of his guards stood at the head of the bed, eyes fixed firmly forward. The drapes extended from over his consort’s head past his feet, and in the center was an oval-shaped cutout exposing what was, without question, the most fantastic backside Zhenya had ever seen in his life, and he’d seen his fair share.

No. He would not be needing assistance. In fact, he felt himself swelling at the sight of just this one part of his new consort’s body. It was odd, and unexpectedly titillating, to be presented with a more-or-less disembodied ass, even if he could see the shape of the rest of the man under the drape -- but, he supposed, that titillation shouldn’t really be unexpected; why else did glory holes exist? Not that he’d ever partaken of such things, in clubs, in his slightly-wilder youth, absolutely not. But this was his husband, not a late night quickie. It wouldn’t be like this all the time, he assured himself. This was just for the ceremonial bit. Future couplings would be much less...ritualized.

They were all looking at him, waiting for him to get to it, but there was a step to be taken first. He glanced at the cleric and nodded. The cleric hesitated, then moved to the head of the bed. This was Zhenya’s personal addition to the ceremonies, and the cleric had been reluctant to deviate from the traditional sequence of events, but Zhenya had insisted.

He had no interest in a spouse who’d been forced into marrying him, as he’d made sure his parents understood before they set out to find him one. “I do have one condition, and it is non-negotiable,” he’d said.

His father had looked surprised. “What is it, son?”

“I require absolute assurance that any consort of mine enters into marriage to me of their own free will, and not under duress.”

His parents had exchanged a glance. “That should not be difficult; marriage into our family is considered very desirable.”

“Be that as it may, I need you to promise me, Father..”

His father had nodded, and seemed even pleased by this directive. “You have my word, son.”

And now, the cleric spoke to the consort on Zhenya’s behalf. “Your Highness,” he said, using the man’s new title -- after the embargo was lifted, he would become His Royal Highness, the same honorific that Zhenya received. “Prince Evgeni wishes me to ask you for your consent before he joins with you.” Zhenya saw the consort’s head turn to the side. “He values your agreement to this consummation.”

The man hesitated. Zhenya saw the surprise in his shoulders. His head turned further,  seeming to look back over his shoulder at Zhenya, and he nodded.

The cleric straightened up. “Does this satisfy Your Royal Highness?” There was just a touch of “are you happy now?” impatience in the cleric’s voice which Zhenya chose to ignore.

Zhenya nodded. He removed his gloves and handed them to Sasha, who was being appropriately quiet and invisible for once in his life. He unbuttoned the flap on the front of his trousers; he was half-erect already and filling fast.

He knelt on the bed. He wasn’t supposed to make any unnecessary contact this first time, but he couldn’t help but run his hands briefly over his husband’s smooth, muscular rear. Just like that, he was fully hard and more than ready. He placed his knees within the drapery cutout on either side of the consort’s hips; the man shifted slightly, spreading his thighs a little bit to give him room. Zhenya reached back and tucked his cock down and against the man’s entrance, relieved to find that he was, indeed, slick. He pressed forward and entered him; Zhenya stifled a groan and felt a shudder pass over the man beneath him. He was tight and warm; Zhenya held still for a moment with his eyes closed and hips pressed against his consort’s impossibly plump ass. 

He braced on his hands and shut his eyes, making smooth, even thrusts. There’d be time later to investigate what kind of sex his husband enjoyed, but now was the time to be quick about it and get the job done. He tried to visualize success, as the clerics liked to say during their instruction, and picture his seed finding its target and blossoming in his consort’s womb. The minimum embargo time was three months; even if he conceived right now, early pregnancy was so delicate that it wasn’t considered official until the three--month mark. After carrying to three months, the consort was accepted into the family and unveiled, even if the child was subsequently lost.

Zhenya had often wondered about consorts who failed to conceive and were replaced. Who was to say that it was their fault? Both parties underwent pre-marriage medical testing to minimize this risk, but bodies were unpredictable. Of course it might not be the consort’s fault; the would-be sire could just as easily be the one whose biology failed them, but such a thing could not be admitted for a royal scion. He’d heard one tale, possibly apocryphal, of a prince whose consort hadn’t conceived -- unwilling to accept defeat, the prince had asked his consort to get him pregnant, which she had done, and their embargo was released.

The contemplation of such machinations was premature, he knew. He and his new consort had only just begun.

As keyed up as he was, it didn’t take long for him to finish. He thrust in deep and spilled, clenching his teeth against the desire to cry out. He felt his consort sigh and press back against him a little, a welcome signal of acknowledgment. Zhenya let his head droop for a moment, then straightened up and pulled out. Sasha was right there with a cloth for him to clean himself before he refastened his pants.

The cleric stepped forward and blessed the union, prayers for the success of the joining, yadda yadda. Zhenya barely paid attention. Sasha was replacing his robe on him, but all Zhenya could do was look at the draped form of his new husband, especially the one part of it that he could see, and hope that it wouldn’t be too long before he could see the rest of it.

He let Sasha lead him out of the chamber, glad that was over -- but in another, very real sense, it was just beginning. He was now a married man, with a responsibility to his consort, who was at something of a disadvantage in this situation. He hoped he could be a good, supportive husband to him, until at last the day came that he’d be allowed to see his face.

Next Chapter

[mar3ggiata]

professional help, c3. preview

simon riley x original character.

abstract: Simon here, I saw Jude again, she's still going on about her theories, whatever. it's not even funny anymore and she has some weird secret I want to find out… still, she's a fucking menace to society. idk what's wrong with her probably got dropped on her head on purpose as a kid. don't blame the parents.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs.

song to listen to when reading this: The Fruits, Paris Paloma.

In the end, she did hear back from Price. An email. 'Scherzi!' She shouted out loud in her apartment. She sat down on the couch and Jinx hopped on with her, sniffing her laptop. An email from the captain, an invitation to a briefing, to discuss the situation. Tomorrow after your last session at 5pm. 'No vabbe, me fa parià…' she mumbled and wrote back that she would be there.

'So, I wanted to update you on your patient. We spoke with him and three other soldiers about joining us to the next mission in Al-Jareena next week but he refused. Well…' he stopped, rubbing his beard in clear distress. 'He got up and came up to me saying his injury is not fully healed and he will not be able to get deployed. So I told him we needed him and he started to get nervous and left the room in a hurry.' She listened without intervening. 'I know you have an appointment with him one day before we leave. I was wondering if you could let me know if you find out something about this, he's required to leave with us, otherwise we'll have to report him. His doctors cleared him.' He showed her a piece of paper, sliding it across the table.

'Too risky.' It was Simon that spoke. He was British, his voice was deep. He had been debating on intervening in the meeting from the moment Price asked him to be present. He asked him cause he trusted him, and valued his opinion. Jude could have been informed and educated with her little theories and stories, but she didn't know how things worked in the army. This wasn't Cluedo. She had the same attitude when she walked in the room, maybe a bit less stiff. He took his time exploring her. Her pretty green eyes, her nose, her neck. She wore a blouse this time, with grey trousers. She still had those shiny high boots. She had her hair up, a blonde ponytail. He looked at her jaw. She had a mole on her cheek. He shook her hand, he could smell her deodorant. Her skin was warm, soft. He liked talking to her. Her voice still sounded weird, he couldn't pick up a particular accent. He understood she would't let it go.

'I think you're waisting an opportunity.'

'I think you're thinking too much about it.'

I think I want to brake your neck. She was mad now, he could see her, he could feel it. They weren't listening. She stood up and thanked the two for inviting her to the meeting, she assured them she would keep them updated. Her smile was fake, she still wanted to be polite even thought she thought they were both fucking stupid. Ghost didn't feel guilty for going so hard on her, he looked at her leave while she was trying to hide her anger. He said what he really thought, that was what he had been trained to do. 'What's her deal?' he asked the captain on his way out. 'Jude?' the man looked up, then shook his head.

notes: translation: 'Scherzi!', you're joking! 'No vabbe, me fa parià' Naples dialect for 'you're making me laugh'.

notes: Saturday or Sunday for full chapter, when do you want it?? replies and reblogs are highly appreciated!!!

love, mare.

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[inquistior-a]

@bornpariah​ said   :   [ 𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙿 ] 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙱𝙴 𝚃𝙴𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙾𝚁 𝙸𝚃 𝙲𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳 𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃 𝙱𝙴 𝙾𝙱𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴𝙻𝚈 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙲, 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚈𝙾𝚄’𝚁𝙴 𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙼𝙾𝙾𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁

   THEIR DESCENT THROUGH THE ELUVIAN DISTORTS HALWN’S SENSE OF WHERE TO PUT HIS FEET---above him, or below him. He is barely on them to begin with. There is shouting, none of it is his, but he can hear Dorian’s fevered tenor barking orders at the soldiers standing guard at the mirror, and the small room is flooded with a panicked flurry of motion. Raised voices. Fear. If he falls, or is carried, or crashes shoulder first into the bookcases on the far wall, the Inquisitor could not say. The only thing in his eyes is pale green light, so vicious that he can taste it. The pain is tremendous in a way that he has never before understood anything to be-----

   It visits him like a memory, as though he could feel the ghost of the orb on his palm. Perhaps it would be cool, now, by comparison. Cool as smooth-hewn stone. He becomes gradually aware that he cannot move his left arm from shoulder to palm, though his fingers convulse in small, tight twitches on their own, muscles drawing reflexively against the bursts of nerve pain---hot and white, incoherent. This extends along a web of veins into his shoulder, his neck, jolts hard against his heart until he thinks he can feel the muscle memorizing its resistance. His body reacts, too, as if stuck by a knife. Convulsions that curl him, though he’s pushed up against the wall again after each one, preventing him from slumping to the floor. 

   Halwn is only aware that he’d been shuffled through the mirror, good arm slung across Dorian’s shoulder with the mage bearing nigh all of his weight, once Dorian is on a knee before him with his hands framing his face---but the mage is not looking at him. His keen grey eyes, bright now as if with fever, are darting around the room to all those who are clearly not responding quickly enough to his commands. Commands for alchemists, or healers, or a draught of lyrium if he really must do every-fucking-thing himself. Between orders, he speaks to Halwn in Tevene---a babbled string of reassurances and orders, too, and Halwn has been studying, hasn’t he? Hasn’t Dorian laughed at him enough across the sending stone as he stumbled over the grammatical nuances, or made himself embarrassingly provincial with the hiccup of his Andersche accent over a dialectical tendency tainted by Common? He has enough of the language, now, to understand what Dorian is murmuring to him:  Stay awake, beloved, please, Halwn. It will be all right, stay awake for me, I must heal you, you must stay awake. Beloved, beloved, look at me. I will ease the pain, just a few moments more. Stay with me, beloved. A little longer. Please---

   Halwn sucks in a breath as he wakes from the haze of half-faint and feels Dorian’s focus shift sharply to him. There is a moment of stunned or stunning silence as his eyes come fully into focus, the fog of pain drawn back---the ozonic bitterness of a healing draught on his tongue provides a clue as to how, though Halwn does not remember being made to drink it. Dorian’s hands are on his face again, holding him, and the Inquisitor relaxes, drunk with strain, under the other man’s eyes. There is such fear there. Fear and love tangled together. How Halwn wishes he could ease it---how, he thinks, delirious, that he would go so far as to give up the love if it meant erasing the fear as well.

   Something rises in him and he wants to tell Dorian, to make him promise:  if the memory of me causes you suffering when I am gone, then I hope you will forget me.

   ‘ My love--- ’

   There is a sound like a sob, but he is unsure which of them has made it. Halwn lifts his right arm to lay a hand on his lover’s face. It’s a heavy and ungraceful motion and his thumb grazes Dorian’s lower lashes accidentally---damp with unshed tears. Sweet man, so full of pain as he is full light. Halwn’s mind is slowly coming full and he can smell it, now:  the acridity of magick and seared flesh. Blood, and sweat, and steel. He’ll need a bath, won’t he? Halwn uses his clumsy thumb to brush the tears aside, and smiles when Dorian turns his face to lay a kiss against his palm.

    The petition dies before ever reaching his tongue, replaced by the desire to push death bodily from the room. The fear in Dorian’s eyes is a confirmation of what they have both known since before they had acknowledged a love that proved impossible to deny:  that he will break Dorian’s heart. That, in this moment, sweet as it may be, he has already begun it.

   The Inquisitor, of course, is dying. Perhaps not from this particular set of wounds, perhaps not today, or this coming night, but the Anchor is killing him. The Maker marks a martyr, and comes one day to make it so. It was only a matter of time.

   Such a shadow he will cast on Dorian's life. It is real, physical work to keep the shame away, the guilt that comes to swallow him. They have had enough of it, shame, they must refuse to let in more. Halwn feels a strong compulsion, such as he hasn’t felt in a very long time, to tell the Maker to go to hell. He lets his head rest against the wall at his back. Tremors still pass through his body that does not feel like his body and the room remains a frightened churning of soundless activity, but Halwn’s vision is consumed entirely by how easy it is to look at the man that is kneeling before him, legs mixed over legs---how accessible he is, how tangible, and how near. Halwn speaks around the coarseness of his throat,  ‘ Have I told you how good it is to see you? ’

   Dorian’s face collapses on an exhausted laugh, torn somewhere between desperation and disbelief. The sloppy stroke of Halwn’s bloodied fingers across the mage’s cheek spreads what blood or other viscera is smeared there already but Halwn hardly notices, as he hardly notices the hot, receding vibrations of his left arm that is curled limp in his lap. The potions have numbed him enough that it is only a weight on his shoulder, useless, pulsing with painful light. The healers are swarming and someone pulls his marked arm away from his body to tend the Anchor and Halwn does not feel it even then. It has ceased its dangerous arcing, for the moment---

   All he wants is for Dorian to curse him. In all the world, that is the thing that he would like most. So, Halwn flirts a little more. His roughened voice is thick and earnest as he presses the pad of his thumb tenderly to the birthmark beneath Dorian's left eye, where a bruise is also blossoming.

   ‘ A sight for sore eyes. ’

[fatandnerdy30]

The Itsy Bitsy Spider 14

I do apologize for the somewhat boring chapter, but we've gotta have some dialect, right? Haha. 

 But, I will tell you, I have a lot already written, with hopefully plenty more to come! I just want to say a big thank you to all the readers and commenters, and everyone who voted or favorited this crazy dip into my fluff filled mind! Until next time, everyone!

A flying ant buzzed by a guard's ear and he swatted it away. The man on the ant swung a little in the saddle, but managed to hold on. "Hope, watch the guard, he's got a sissy swing," he joked.

"Not that I don't appreciate your humor, but please focus on the mission," Hope said, mirth in her voice anyway.

Scott smiled as he straightened the ant he was riding. He flew as high as he could to to keep out of the way of the agents, all carrying guns. This was going to be hard. He heard shouting ahead of him and turned Antonia to the door it was coming from. Landing his mount on the florescent light above two people, he laid on his stomach and peeked over the edge. Below him the lab was a mess, there were beakers broken, with a rainbow of different colored liquids spilled all over the floor.

"What do you mean you refuse!?" a man screamed, German accent thick in his anger. "Do you forget who has your family!?"

Scott gasped. "Hope, they have Sean's family."

"I know. Mom's on it as we speak."

"Thanks for telling me!" he whisper shouted.

"Well, we didn't have time, and why are you whispering?"

"I don't know!" Scott huffed. "Women, am I right?" he asked Antonia, who cocked her head. "Sorry."

The men were now in a stare down, the red head standing his ground. "I am not hurting another child!" The man spoke with a Scottish brogue, which added to his presence. "You killed all those kids in the lab because you were scared of the Avengers. And you have every right to be!"

The German man pulled out a phone. Why did he look so familiar to Scott? "You know all I have to do is make a phone call and your family is as good as dead!"

"And you will lose everything I have made." Sean threatened and pulled out a handheld tablet. "Every file in the system on my work is on this tablet. You call, I press delete." His finger hovered above the screen, eyes challenging the now angry German man.

"Then all I have to do," he pulled out a gun, and Scott cursed. "Is kill you."

"Hope! Bloom's gonna kill the doc!" That was his name! Octavion Bloom! What a stupid name for a guy.

"Stop him!" Hope's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Scott nodded and jumped off the light and pressed the button on his right hand. He grew to his normal size and kicked the gun from the German man's hand, then shrunk back down, running along the floor. He saw a shadow above him and looked to see a giant boot coming down on top of him. "Oh no!" he cried, then pressed his right hand again and shot up, kicking the man, then grabbing Sean. "We've gotta get outta here!"

"Pym?" the doctor asked, shock in his voice and all over his face.

"Oh," Scott let the helmet flip away from his face. "I'm Scott Lang..I'm Ant-Man," he said proudly. "But, you didn't want to know that. Um, I work with Hank Pym?"

At that name, relief lit in the man's eyes."So he is still alive."

"Yeah, but I think this would be better discussed elsewhere." Scott tried to drag the man out, but he resisted.

"My family! I can't go! They have my wife and daughters!"

"They're okay," Scott said with a smile. "Janet, Hank's wife, probably has them in her care right now." Sean sighed, but then his eyes went wide and stared down at the spot beginning to grow on his stomach.

Scott watched it happen almost as if he were small and everything was going in slow motion. The blood on the man's lab coat, spreading almost like thick fruit punch, the look on the man's face; pain and shock. Lang didn't know what happened, until Sean fell to his knees and there stood Bloom, holding a bloody knife, a sick smile on his face.

"Hope," Scott said, shock lacing his voice. "We have a problem."

The woman then appeared next to him, staring in shock. "Dr. O'Cleary," she whispered, catching the man as he fell. "I'm Hank's daughter, Hope."

Scott had attacked the other man the moment she arrived and had punched him, knocking him out.

"Hope," the man breathed, his chest rattling. "That was the name.....your father loved. . Tell me...Is at least one of the children from the lab alive?" He needed at least one survivor to not feel like a failure.

Hope nodded. "Yes. A boy named Peter. He's alive and safe."

Sean smiled, tears in his eyes. "Good. He didn't deserve any of this. No one did or does...." He then brought the tablet up and before she could say anything, pushed the button to erase his files.

The woman grabbed the blinking tablet and tried to undo the damage, but it was too late. "No, no!" she looked at Sean. "Why? We could have saved Peter, fixed him!"

Sean shook his head and coughed. "Don't want your father's work in anyone's hands." The Dr. smiled as he took his last breath, lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

"Damnit!" she shouted. They'd failed in so many ways. She felt like the fate of that boy was weighing on her shoulders and it got so much heavier.

Scott was by her side in an instant, a hand on her shoulder and felt a little of the weight coming off by his presence. She wasn't alone in this.

"Come on, Hope....let's get out of here, it's getting too dangerous to stay." The sound of an alarm was blaring all around them with lights flashing. Already he could hear boots hitting against the metal floor, getting louder.

The woman nodded and got up, leaving the man on the floor, but took the tablet, placing a reducing disk on it and shrinking down, then pressing the remote to shrink the tablet down as well. If anything, they would have the remnants of Dr. O'Cleary's work, and hopefully if her parent's couldn't get the files back, Tony Stark would cooperate with them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter was getting so bored sitting in his room all day alone. He did have Morgan to talk to, but she was at a friend's house right now. So, at the moment he was sitting up on a pillow with a makeshift pencil Mr. Stark had brought in for him. The man had come in with a Cheshire grin holding a long piece of lead like you would find in a mechanical pencil wrapped with a piece of plastic that made it look almost like a pen to Peter.

The boy was grateful to hold the tool, to feel its almost familiar form in his grasp. But, the note book the man had brought was HUGE! He'd brought him the largest notebook he could find as a joke, but the funny thing was, Peter loved it. The lines on the paper were as tall as he was, so it made it a little harder for bigger people to read.

The boy was busy with his newest chemistry formula when there was a knock on his door and Dr. Banner's head poked in. "Hello there, Peter." The man walked into the room, greeting the boy with a big smile, shaking his head when he saw the notebook being used again. "Came to check on my favorite patient."

Peter laughed. "I'm your only patient." Dr. Banner had been coming multiple times a day the past three days, and Peter had gotten more comfortable with the scientist, which is what he suspected the man wanted.

"Very true. Well, I came to do a final check up. If you're all clear, you can get out of bed." Bruce chuckled at the look on the boy's face as he leaned over the bed, offering his hand. "Same as yesterday." When the boy climbed onto his hand, the doctor reached into his pocket to bring out his magnifying lens. "Any pain or stiffness anywhere?" he asked as he looked at the boy's ankle.

"Nope."

"Good. Move it up and down. Very good. Now, left to right. Now in a circular motion clockwise and counterclockwise." The boy did everything with no pain and easy, fluid motions. The scientist in him was geeking out. It only took the boy three days to fully heal, and his ankle had been severely damaged, practically crushed under the piece of asphalt. It was remarkable. He moved Peter to the nightstand, setting his hand down. "Okay, so how are you walking?"

Peter stepped off the palm and walked around the nightstand without a limp or showing pain whatsoever. "So am I cleared?"

Banner chuckled and nodded. "You have the all clear."

The boy whooped for joy, almost loosing his washcloth toga he was given since the Thor costume he was wearing got destroyed. He remembered Tony giving him something Morgan had given him.

"I have a gift from Morgan. She made it originally, but Pepper sewed it. Tony gave it to me since I see you the most at the moment." He reached into his jeans pocket and brought out the suit the girl had made from the boy's old uniform. Bruce was sure it looked better than it did with the duct tape, but the stitches were pretty visible.

Peter smiled and took the offered clothing, staring at it like it was made of gold. "I'm gonna go change," he finally said, his voice cracking. The fact that Morgan had made him something he could wear, well that meant it was special to him. Once he was in his little 'bathroom', he looked the new suit over. The chest, stomach and the top of his arms were red, while the rest of the suit was blue.

The girl had given it legs instead of the dress like style it originally was, and somehow had taken the Hydra symbol off the back of it. "I wonder if she still has that symbol," he wondered, having an idea for it.

Peter put it on and even noticed there was a small button in the back of the neck that he was able to close by himself. He would have to thank Pepper for doing that for him. When he was finished, he wished he'd had a mirror to look the back over, but, he stepped out, arms held out. "What do you think?" Apparently Morgan had the same eye for detail as her father as it fit him perfectly.

"Oh, very stylish," Mr. Stark's voice came from behind the doctor. "Hey you two. Came to tell you dinner's ready." He walked into the room and smirked down at the boy. "What did the good doctor say?" he asked Bruce.

"I gave him the all clear."

"That's great! Now you can move about, scurry along and whatever it is you do. Bruce and I will meet you in the kitchen." He patted the doctor on the shoulder, smirking at the delighted look on the boy's face. He left the room, and a second later, Bruce followed him.

"Are you insane? He could get hurt!"

"He won't get hurt. I'll just tell everyone they have to be careful where they walk from now until the kid's fixed. If Morgan can do it, so can they. Speaking of Mighty Mouse, anything new?"

Bruce shook his head. "Not yet. That Sean guy is a genius. He was actually able to hide the genetic makeup of the serum so well, that even looking at the serum, if that's what they used, you can't tell what it's made of because one chemical takes over the entire chemical compound and I can't see past it. I even had Friday run diagnostics and she couldn't break down the chemicals. I have no clue how he did it, but I want to meet this man."

They walked out into the kitchen where the group was seated at the large table. "Why does everyone gather on my floor?" Tony complained with a smirk.

"You have the best food," Clint said around a bite of stew, making the others laugh.

"Is Peter with you?" Wanda asked, her eyes looking them up and down.

"Yeah, he'll be along in a minute," Tony said sitting down. "I told him that from now on he'd be able to travel by himself."

A bunch of tableware hit plates. "What?" Steve asked, getting to his feet, gaze roaming the floor. "Are you insane?"

"No. The kid proved himself during the battle. He kept Morgan safe. So, from now on, you'll have to watch where you step if you want to keep gathering here."

Sam clicked his spoon against his bowl as he looked up. "I was wondering about that! How did he pull Morgan up? At his size, it should be impossible!"

Bruce nodded. "Yes, it should be. But, that may be another ability coming through. We'll have to do some tests. Or it could be when he was...well, shrunk, his mass was affected, giving him stronger muscles. We won't know until he's back to normal."

"So, that kid could basically be Steve but with the ability to crawl up walls?" Natasha made a face. "Just what we need."

Tony shrugged. "So, we'll train him, starting now. Starting with the tests. It's that easy." He sipped from his bowl, which was brought over by his wife.

"Just be careful with him," Pepper warned. "He may be enhanced, but he's still only three inches tall." The team nodded.

"So no throwing dump trucks at the kid," Rhodey joked. "Got it."

@sparrowrider @letsbeinspiredby @carttorchdeatth @6inchicon @ixlovexirondad

[what-even-is-thiss]

I wrote a creative essay about my least favorite aunt. Yeet.

Read it if you’d like. I’m just happy to finally get the damage she caused me mostly dealt with to the point where I feel comfortable writing about it.

Language Barrier

Whenever I speak in German my expressions and hand gestures suddenly become ridiculously animated, like I’m trying to make up for my lack of vocabulary with a sign language that hasn’t been invented yet. One that only I know the meaning of. I flap my hands around like a maniac and point to things I don’t know the words for and make broken sentences that sound like a caveman made them as I misgender inanimate objects left and right.

Das. Das. That. That. This. This.

I can physically feel my brain rewiring itself. I speak like fool. Wrong order spoken are words. Sometimes anxiety make cry me. Social kind.

However, I speak much more German than my uncle’s mother and stepfather speak of English so I’m forced to use what I can and hope they can understand my thick American accent as we stay with them in Southern Germany. Everyone keeps trying to reassure me that my German is very good, but I can’t stop out of order speaking.

Kann ich habe Brot mehr bitte? Can I having bread more please?

I want to crawl into a hole and die.

My grandmother warned me that a person can grow tired of the amount of bread that Germans eat and according to that Bible thing that we both read man cannot live by bread alone. I’m starting to understand both of those things, eating bread and jam for breakfast yet again because I don’t like butter with marmalade and there’s no cheese left.

The weather, unlike my breakfast or Deutsche Grammatik, is perfect. Slightly cold, sunny and overcast at the same time. The neighborhood that my uncle’s parents live in is beautiful, suburban, on the edge of Schwartzwald, known in English as the Black Forest. I can’t remember the name of the town but I do know that we tried to get a brewery tour and my aunt, her twins, and I waited in the van as my uncle talked loudly at somebody in a local dialect until he got out of them that they don’t do tours anymore.

We went to a rope climbing course instead. My uncle, tall and skinny, balding, fit, took the twins, boy and girl, skinny like their dad, not taking after their mother, my mother’s sister, and went rope climbing in Schwartzwald.

I’m stuck talking with my aunt as we stand below the ropes course and I’m tired of speaking in German so we both take time to find comfort in each other’s distinctly Californian manner of speaking.

My aunt is a character. That’s a polite way to describe her if you don’t want to speak ill of someone that’s not in the room. She wears no makeup except for when she’s getting her picture taken or going somewhere important and she always looks stressed and tired with her eyes just a little too wide open. She’s maybe four inches shorter than me but she has the ability to make me feel like I only come up to her waist. In my mind she’s always wearing a knee length beige skirt and a green t-shirt even though she owns other articles of clothing than that, including more than 20 pairs of shoes. Her eyes are wide and her hands move in an animated fashion even when she speaks English. When she speaks German she becomes an exaggerated version of herself, perhaps to make up for her thick American accent and occasionally sketchy grammar. She has lived in Switzerland since the 90s and spoken German since the 80s. I once asked her how to tell what a noun’s grammatical gender is. She told me that she had no idea.

I didn’t know my mother for very long before she died but my grandmother tells me that when my mom was young, to describe her sister, she quoted a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The one about the little girl with the little curl who when she was good she was very good and when she was bad she was horrid.

My aunt’s hair is straight, but other than that the poem describes her very well. Today would be a day she was horrid.

I don’t claim to be a perfect human being. I can be a bitch sometimes just like anybody else. The thing is though, my aunt never let me know when I was doing something bitchy like a normal person would. Instead she let me keep on doing it until she was ready to explode. And then she exploded.

Or, no. Not exactly being bitchy. Just doing something that she didn’t understand or like. She’s a very animated person and her voice goes like

And

Up.

Down.

All the time.

She’s very expressive. I, on the other hand, am not that excitable. I smile, yes, I cry, yes, but I try to be stoic. I like being stoic. It feels natural. I don’t want to express to everyone around me every time I am excited or upset. In my opinion it’s none of their business. I also tend to express gratitude through actions and gift giving rather than hurting my face and voice smiling and screaming all of the time.

I had thought bringing gifts from America, delivering onto my aunt’s family the ever elusive box of grits and Bakersfield candy and trinkets from Disneyland Anaheim would show gratitude. I was under the impression that helping to cook dinner, pack the van, refill the ice trays, take care of the twins, carry the groceries, clean the house, would show how much I loved her. I learned though, in a firestorm under the canopy of dark trees and children riding on zip lines that our love languages didn’t translate properly and she thought that my lack of expressiveness meant that I hated her. She was hysterical about it. I then expressed myself by changing into a lovely shade of red and producing saltwater from my eyes.

Climbing hills is a thing you get used to when you spend time in Central Europe. Walking for three or four kilometers isn’t such a feat in a valley, where the ground is flat and rarely changes, but in hilly terrain you quickly learn just how long that distance is and how much walking can hurt. Locals take no pity on you because they expect that everyone has those muscles built up in their legs when you’ve never had to use your legs like that for long stretches of time before.

Navigating emotion and expectations at home is easy. There is one language being spoken and everyone uses it to tell each other what’s wrong. When staying with my aunt for long periods of time, however, you start to understand emotional exhaustion. Something that would take half a minute to communicate takes up ten minutes of screaming because she expected you to know everything. A flat crowded city turns into a hilly countryside with no help for miles. You quickly learn how to swear in German because she pushes her husband to screaming as well.

Scheiße.

Eventually my uncle finished with the ropes course and pulled me away from her. He gently explained to me in English what we were going to be doing for the next few days. I stopped leaking water from my eyes and tried to remember what had prompted her to start yelling at me but I couldn’t figure it out. Another talent she has. Distracting you from linear events.

While I was in Germany there was a terrorist attack in Münich. Brexit was fresh in everyone’s minds. My first presidential election would be happening in November. I only understood about half of what was said on the news. My little cousins and their dad took turns translating for me. I had the feeling that I still wasn’t getting the whole story.

My aunt and uncle have twins. Test Tube Babies. The girl is the older twin but strangely enough doesn’t hold it over her brother’s head, which would fit perfectly with her personality. The boy takes after his mother in some respects, namely her loud voice.

When we went to Prague we stayed in a campground because that’s a lot cheaper than a hotel and that family affords a second house because they’re stingy. Almost every morning it was a struggle to get the boy out of bed. He and his sister were almost ten and he screamed and refused to move. He cried. He was loud. No amount of discipline worked. His sister stood around quietly going about her business, as did I. We did the same thing when her parents got into screaming matches.

Prague is an old city. A busy city. I loved it, even with all of the pay toilets and Czech bluntness. Even when an angry Czech lady smoking a cigarette yelled at me in broken English for not knowing that I had to pay for the restroom. The old castles and cathedrals and statues and just the right amount of dirtiness in the subway more than made up for it.

My aunt payed for me to go look at a museum that she didn’t want to look at. She told me to take all the time I wanted as the rest of the family waited outside. I didn’t sense any passive aggressiveness that time, so I did. It was a complex that was part of the Prague art museum, a system spread out around the city. The section I walked through by myself was a collection of medieval Roman Catholic art. Stained glass windows, paintings, tapestries. I’m a Lutheran that lives with atheists, so my experience with Catholic art is mostly non existent. Atheists don’t have religious figures to draw and Lutherans are extremely stingy with their images, worried about crossing into the realm of idolatry.

One thing I noticed was that Mary appeared everywhere, even in stories I thought she didn’t belong. In some images she stood equal with Jesus, reminding me of a female God. She seemed mature, different from the outcasted teenage mother I had told children about in Sunday School classes. Different from the refugee that had been painted for me in sermons. I wondered what kind of mother this Mary was. I wondered what her Hebrew sounded like. Or, maybe this Mary spoke Czech and the Mary in Germany spoke German and the Mary in the Vatican spoke Latin and the Mary my Catholic friends at home looked to spoke Spanish. Maybe if I prayed to Mary she would speak English. Maybe she would turn out to speak German and would look down at the frantic dancing of my hands, trying to find meaning in it.

But I don’t pray to Mary, and neither do my aunt or uncle. I report to them what I saw and my observations about Mary. Namely that she seems to be everywhere. My aunt doesn’t quite pick up on the fact that I simply find it interesting and takes it as an invitation to rant about Catholics. I squint at her as we walk back to the subway. I’m trying to figure out if I’d somehow been speaking another language. She certainly seems to be. Maybe it’s a generational gap. Maybe it’s just her, but I try to turn the conversation back to a tone of tolerance rather than complaint. A battle I quickly lose.

Later, in a public park in that busy city, my aunt yelled at me and cried because I had been calling her by her first name rather than Aunt. I nearly start leaking again. I shake. I think she’s speaking English but I don’t understand it. I physically step away from her as she accuses me of not seeing her as family. At the bottom of the hill we’re standing on a dog plays fetch with his owner. Neither of them take notice of the screaming middle aged American woman throwing accusations her deceased sister’s child as her own children zone out and wait for it to be over. No help comes. Nobody translates for me and Google Translate doesn’t have a setting for this.

Twenty minutes later she jokes with me as we find a rare but welcome burrito shop. I buy a mango soda imported from Mexico and it softens my homesickness. We eat on the steps of a light rail station. I laugh. The twins laugh and bounce around, talking to each other in a mixture of English, Swiss-German, and high German. The boy takes a bite out of my burrito and thinks the fact I can eat something that spicy makes me the coolest person in the world. My aunt laughs with me. We make plans for when we go to Southern Germany and visit her husband's parents. That’s where his dentist is. He needs a bit of work done. We’ll have fun, she promises. We had a good time in Prague. I put the bad times in a shoebox for later and then agree with her.

After she yells at me in Schwartzwald for not showing emotion I go quiet. I put more things in the shoebox I’ve made in my mind to deal with later. I learn that all of them have been eavesdropping on the phone calls I’ve been making to my dad and friends back home. My aunt approaches me about how I complained about the yelling. I’m suddenly paranoid and wonder if she read some of the postcards I sent out. I watch my words now and put the ones that might set off her fuse in the box. The little house outside of Zurich has started to feel like home when I return to it and I’m slightly disgusted at that realization. The flowers all make my eyes water and I’m not given nearly enough allergy pills. I still don’t understand what language she’s speaking. Her words are in English or German, as are mine, but we still don’t understand each other.

Currants, especially the red ones, are beautiful fruit. Not easy to find in stores, even in Europe, so you’ve gotta pick them yourself. My aunt and uncle have a small city of currant bushes living in their backyard that hugs the bank of the stream that runs through the neighborhood. They’re beautiful and inviting, asking you to eat them please, but when you do your face scrunches up at the tartness. I never did care for sour tastes, so I found my own way to make the currants sweet by baking them into scones. At first my aunt was sceptical of my scones but after some reassurance from her kids that they didn’t taste like cinnamon she tried them and agreed that I did a good job. They were sweet and went really well with milk or tea. We all enjoyed them very much. Nobody had to translate anything.

Every member of that family gives excellent hugs when you can get them. They share drinks and food with each other, a concept that shocked me at first, but I quickly fell into the rhythm of it with them. They bought me my first beer and took me to Worms, Germany. I loved that place. I got to see one of the first print versions of Luther’s German translation of the bible. I ate pastries and tea with them at an outdoor cafe. It was cold and wet in the middle of the summer and the cobblestones made it even gloomier. The moving feet on the sidewalk seemed to have a language of its own and the new architecture standing by the old had no words to be translated but told a story nonetheless.

My experience in Europe was like Europe itself. Americans expect it to be shiny and beautiful, and it is, but you also have to pay to use the restroom which leads people to piss in the street. You will also find cigarette machines on almost every corner. There is one right outside my aunt and uncle’s second house. The packages of cigarettes have pictures of black lungs and diseased gums on them. The people smoke anyways. Europeans are people. They have drama, they worry about money, they cry, they abuse, they kick, they scream, they love. All the problems you had in America won’t disappear over there, and in fact you might find some new problems you didn’t expect. Like not finding salsa or not knowing how to deal with carnival rides that have no line and are boarded like a much more violent version of musical chairs. And don’t expect to practice your target language there either. The people will hear your accent and excitedly try and use you to practice English. And even if you do speak the language, don’t expect to understand with everyone. Hand gestures can only go so far.

When I got home I left the German language behind me for the most part. I also slowly cut off most contact with my aunt’s family. Six weeks spent putting things in a shoebox and not speaking whatever language my aunt was speaking with English and German words was enough for me. By the time I opened my shoebox a few months later it was rotten, smelly, and leaking. It took over a year to clean it out and it’s still warped and stained, containing whispers of my own desperate language that would never penetrate my aunt’s skull or jump over the barrier we had built together.

My rotten shoebox is revolting to look at, and while I was cleaning it parts of the mess got onto the happy memories but thankfully they’re still there. The cathedrals, the warm hugs, the new foods, and comforting rain are all there. Late nights and early mornings, potato pancakes and beer, museums and trees and the times I could honestly say; Ja, ich bin glücklich. Yes, I am happy. And thankfully that sentence is easy to translate.