#this was agonising to draw BUT I REALLY LIKE HOW IT TURNED OUT SO!!!!! WINNING

[zosonils-art]

ohhh can we hear more about sweet woman 🥺

we totally can!! infodump about this gaslighting gatekeeping girlboss is under the cut as always

sweet woman was commissioned by a super classy french dessert restaurant called the orgueilleux pâtisserie [orgueilleux being very poorly google translated french for elitist/snobbish lmao], acting as both a chef and a mascot! the gimmick worked wonders for the restaurant's popularity, with rich people coming in droves to experience the novelty of food prepared with a robot master's help, and she was quickly promoted to social media manager as well as her original duties. despite her cutesy demeanour, she's much smarter than she looks, and is equipped with an in-depth understanding of chemical reactions and inhumanly accurate sense of timing and spatial awareness. she knows hundreds of recipes and most of them cost several hundred dollars to make

her personality is more deliberately engineered than most robot masters, designed to fit her appearance and be marketable. she's unwaveringly cheerful, incredibly extroverted, and just silly enough that it's cute rather than grating. she plays these traits up a lot for the cameras, exaggerating her energy and playing dumb when it'll appeal to the masses, but even when she doesn't have her public image to consider she's a bubbly and energetic goof. she's a stubborn optimist, and if she can't find a bright side to look on she'll take out a flashlight and make one. her optimisim makes for a good workplace morale boost and an even better social media presence, although when combined with her ditziness and being a bit out of touch from almost exclusively interacting with the 1% it often makes her come across as insensitive

since she's in the spotlight a lot, most of sweet's hobbies and interests outside of work are still carefully selected to match her public image and look good on an instagram post. she has a passing interest in shopping and fashion, and enjoys going to parties and gatherings and what have you to meet new people. she also loves to experiment with cooking and come up with new recipes, some of which end up on the orgueilleux menu. she does, however, have a private interest in chemistry! as mentioned earlier she knows a fair bit about it already, since cooking is just chemistry with a restricted set of substances, and in her own time she ended up getting curious and reading into the sort of reactions that arise from chemicals she doesn't work with. she rarely mentions this interest herself, but she gets super excited if someone brings it up or gives her the excuse to talk about it, and it's probably listed as super secret trivia about her on the pâtisserie website

unlike other robot masters, sweet has an acute sense of both smell and taste! [since robots seem to only use e-tanks for fuel, there's not much benefit to smelling or tasting things, so i personally believe that most of them don't have those senses unless it'd directly benefit their job.] being able to actually taste the food she cooks makes it much easier to tell if she's doing it right, especially if she's trying to come up with something new. she's also capable of replenishing her energy by eating - it's less efficient than e-tanks, but she thinks they taste gross so she always opts for actual food. fittingly, she has a massive sweet tooth, but she's accustomed to only the highest-class dining and dislikes cheaper or less 'refined' tastes

her magical girl vibe, brought to you by someone who has watched maybe 4 episodes of anime that weren't sonic x, is entirely an aesthetic and marketing gimmick rather than serving any functional purpose. she'll play it up for promotional videos and photoshoots, twirling her fork-trident thing and striking dramatic poses and calling out thematically appropriate attack names like 'sparkling sugar swirl' and 'cinnamon whirlwind' whenever she does anything, but it's mostly for show. while she genuinely enjoys the shouting and posing and twirling, she massively tones it down when she's not performing, maybe occasionally saying an attack name at a reasonable volume while she works. her fork-trident thing isn't even a real weapon, magical or otherwise. it's just styrofoam with metallic paint on it

sweet's weakness to harpoon shot was decided before i figured out exactly what tide man's weapon would be, going on the idea that getting food wet tends to make it sad and gross. this logic doesn't quite carry over with harpoon shot being, well, a harpoon rather than something specifically water-based, but i imagine shooting a cake with a harpoon would also be a very one-sided battle so this weapon wheel makes sense i promise. i guess you could also make the argument that it's because sweet is only experienced with a fake pronged weapon made of foam and would be completely blindsided by a real one? maybe it's that tide is so staunchly anticapitalist that his weapon inherently vibe checks her? i'm grasping at straws a bit over here but listen, if mega man 5 can insist that water is elementally weak to trains, i can insist that it's elementally strong against the french

i think her stage could be some kind of factory! lots of conveyer belts definitely, maybe some crushing hazards, definitely a few mets. the idea there is that she's seized a major food processing plant and is using that position to wreck the regional supply chain. even when she's evil, she basically keeps the exact same personality she shows to the public with only a noticable capitalism upgrade. she has pretty much no combat abilities on her own, but at her own suggestion she was upgraded to shoot a specially formulated icing that's acidic enough to burn through thin metal, finally putting her interest in chemistry to use. her fork-trident, on the other hand, was not changed in the slightest. still just styrofoam. i think it'd be pretty good if she opened her battle with it but even if it hits mega man it only deals one point of damage and the second it touches something it snaps in half and she never pulls out a new one

designing sweet was pretty fun because she's pretty different from my usual taste in character design! my experience with the magical girl genre is that i read about half of sailor moon when i was 12 and absorbed everything else through pop culture osmosis and tv tropes pages, so it was definitely fun to draw what i think a magical girl might look like. i also don't use oranges and yellows much, so picking out her colours made for an agonising exciting challenge! she didn't change too much from the initial microsoft paint sketch, although she lost a skirt layer along the way because i didn't feel like figuring out how to draw another one, and her weapon was originally just a big fork that probably would have been a ksjfjhkjhfillion times less cumbersome to draw. oh well. live and learn [HANGIN ON THE EDGE OF TOMORROW]

that about wraps it up for sweet woman, i think - thank you so much for asking about her!! here's the transparent art and the version without 15 different filters on it to make it look kinda like an 80s anime screenshot

[jazzistolkienfanfics]

Scared - Eowyn x fem!reader

I’m in love with your writing and am a disaster of a bisexual, so when I saw your Arwen piece I was thrilled. Could I request an ÉowynxFem!Reader where she’s tending to Éowyns wounds post battle, so when Éowyn wakes up she sees the reader crying and they confess feelings?? 

sure thing @itgetsatadhazy! sorry if it got kinda long. SHE SO PRETTY-

Type: Imagine Pairing: Eowyn x fem!reader Summary: Y/N isn’t scared of much, but losing her best friend is the one thing that terrifies her. Warnings: non-canon parts?, ‘shit’ Word Count: 1114 words

The battle raged around Y/N, and for the first in her life, she was truly fighting for her life. 

These Orcs were unlike any that she’d faced before - with such relentless rage and bloodlust in so many numbers that Y/N was very prepared for the possibility of death. 

Dying didn’t scare her. Pain never had. Battle was too ordinary for fear. But the thought of leaving Eowyn, her beautiful best friend, behind if she did perish with a sword through her chest ... that scared Y/N more than anything.

Although, she supposed that if she was currently fighting a battle outside Gondor itself, surrounded by what seemed like millions of Orcs, pirates and Oliphaunts, there really wasn’t that much more to be scared of. 

She glanced over at Eowyn, who rode her horse with a casual grace, and admired how beautiful her fellow Shieldmaiden was. Then, Y/N forced herself to snap out of it - Eowyn wasn’t actually meant to be here, and she was disguised. Y/N wasn’t about to be the reason that Eowyn got caught because everyone in Rohan knew the h/c-haired girl’s lovesick glances directed towards the blonde.

Y/N’s sword cut through another Orc with a squelch, and she grimaced as blood splattered across her armour. The battle wasn’t going exceptionally well, but, then again, they faced Sauron’s forces. It wasn’t exactly a play fight. 

When Y/N looked to Eowyn again, she realised her mistake after a couple of seconds making sure that her friend was okay. The h/c warrior had gotten distracted, and some soldier slashed through her horse’s flesh, making her fall off with a scream. 

As Y/N raised her head again, she saw Eowyn looking around.

She recognised my scream, Y/N thought warmly. She cares about me.

But that fuzzy feeling quickly turned to panic as Eowyn was yanked from her horse.

“Shit!” Y/N hissed, drawing a shorter sword and sprinting towards Eowyn.

The Shieldmaiden staggered to her feet just as Y/N reached her. Her blue-green eyes that Y/N found so beautiful were wide with shock, and they were no less stunning through the large helmet that obscured the rest of Eowyn’s face.

“You okay?” Y/N yelled, swinging her sword to intercept the attack of an Orc, stabbing it through the chest with a sickening gurgle.

“Fine!” Eowyn yelled from behind her - back-to-back was their favourite way to fight. “Merry!” 

This next cry was directed at the Hobbit who’d been with her. “Stay close to us!”

The small Hobbit nodded furiously, and held his own impressively as the three of them fought their way towards Gondor.

---

In hindsight, Y/N was stupid to think they’d been winning. That was before the Nazgûl had showed up, wailing with such pure agony and force that Y/N almost dropped her sword to cover her ears. 

The screams made her want to curl up and die, but she forced herself to keep fighting - she was in no hurry to die.

Then, the thing that Y/N least expected to happen did.

The Witch-King of Angmar himself flew down, and she acted before she could think. His steed, a fell beast, roared at Merry, who was frozen to the ground, and lunged forward, presumably to bite his head off. Y/N swept her sword upwards, and the leader of the Nazgûl was forced to slide off his beast as its head flopped around its detached body.

Before Y/N knew it, she’d been knocked to the floor, at least half a dozen of her ribs probably cracked or broken, and a rapidly swelling cut on her head that blurred her vision with tears and blood.

Y/N could barely raise her head, let alone help Eowyn, but she was glad to see that Eowyn held her own. She crawled quietly so the Witch-King didn’t notice, reaching for her sword, and looking up just as the Nazgûl had her crush in a chokehold. 

With a swing of her weapon, he screeched, dropping Eowyn to the floor. Y/N felt an indescribable pain shudder up her shoulder, and she fell back to her knees.

“I am no man,” she faintly heard Eowyn declared before crying out, followed by an agonised death wail.

“Eowyn!” Y/N cried as the blonde fell to the ground. But she was barely keeping herself conscious.

Everything went black.

---

Y/N was beginning to worry.

She’d woken and recovered fairly quickly, finding herself in Gondor’s Houses of Healing. A fellow resident there, Prince Faramir, had befriended her and kept her company even when she was so upset at being confined to a bed that she felt like throwing something extremely valuable and preferably delicate at someone’s head.

But Eowyn still slumbered, her pink lips slightly parted as she breathed quietly, humming in her sleep. Her eyes were tightly closed and her forehead lined - even in dreams she could not escape worry or pain.

Y/N wanted to take it all from her so badly.

Why? she asked herself stupidly. She’s just your friend. Just as Eomer is. Then why are you so much more concerned about her? 

Y/N berated herself for finally facing the truth as she sat by Eowyn’s side, stroking her long blonde hair out of her face with a s/c hand.

“Why do I care about you so much?” Y/N said aloud, wrapping a deep cut with a fresh, medicine-soaked bandage. “Well, maybe it’s because you make me smile like no one else can. Maybe it’s because you’re mor ebeautiful than anyone else I’ve ever laid eyes on. Maybe it’s because ...”

She took a shaky breath. 

“Maybe it’s because I love you.”

Of course, Eowyn didn’t respond. Of course, Y/N was only greeted with silence.

The h/c girl couldn’t help it. She started to sob.

Ugly, fat tears, rolling off her cheeks and onto Eowyn’s bed as she bent her head to cry and cry and cry. 

Hopelessness was as familiar as a breath. But never had it seized her like this.

“I love you!” Y/N said, her head still down. “I love my best friend, and she would never feel the same!”

“H-hey.”

A quiet whisper snapped Y/N out of it instantly.

Eowyn’s eyes were wide open, blinking away tears of sleep to reveal the beautiful blue-green depths.

“I feel the e-exact same way.” It was obviously paining her to say anything with the state she was in, but she said it anyway. “W-why did it take this?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N whispered, almost smiling. “But I want a happy ending. And I want it with you.”

“My Knight in shining armour,” Eowyn teased.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that’s you.”

A laugh. “Goddamnit, Y/N, just kiss me, please.”

“Gladly.”

A/N - hope you enjoyed @itgetsatadhazy​ and everyone else reading this!

[fairiesherefairiesthere]

Fraxus Anastasia au #5

Here’s the ao3-link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144866

Summary: “Does anyone have a map?" "Nah", Freed says in a blasé manner. Maybe the bastard doesn't care about dying all that much, but Laxus would like to live a little bit longer, thank you very much. "We don't need it", he continues and Laxus scoffs. "Hey man, control your hubris." 

Chapter under the cut!

When Laxus comes to, it's not in a nice, warm and cosy room with blankets wrapped around him. Instead, it's with his face or rather his whole body half-buried in the snow. Some confused part of him thinks it's quite cosy and warm anyway. He debates closing his eyes and going to sleep, but a brutal twack to the head bars him from doing so. "What do you think you're doing?" Freed yells before lifting him on his feet.

With his brows settled in a frown, Freed brusquely dusts of Laxus' poor excuse for a coat. "Dumbass", is all he says before tugging him along to meet up with Bickslow and Evergreen. Those two greet them with varying degrees of enthusiasm. "Babes!" Bickslow yells before throwing his lanky arms around both of their shoulders. Ever opts to punch the nearest one of them (unfortunately, Laxus) and pout. "Don't do stupid shit like that again. Why did you guys wait that long? "

"We we're enjoying the scenery for a little while longer", Freed says before Laxus has to go and explain himself. "The snow, the crumbling bridge, the utter drama of it all." He bats his ridiculously long lashes at that and Evergreen moves over to give him a punch to the shoulder as well. "Of course you dragged this poor man into your ludicrous schemes", she grumbles as Freed laughs her concerns off.

Looking around, Laxus can't see anything but a white wasteland. Snow surrounds them from all sides and there are no indications of where they could possibly be. He starts to fear that they only postponed their deaths and that they would encounter a slower, more agonising one. The others haven't seem to have realised this, caught up in bickering over something or other. "Guys?" When they turn their attention to him, he waves at the white surrounding them. "How are we going to find our destination? Does anyone have a map?"

"Nah", Freed says in a blasé manner. Maybe the bastard doesn't care about dying all that much, but Laxus would like to live a little bit longer, thank you very much. "We don't need it", he continues and Laxus scoffs. "Hey man, control your hubris."

"It isn't hubris", Freed counters and squats down to write something in the snow. Very quickly Laxus realises that he isn't writing, but drawing. Soon a map appears and Laxus has to admit that the man knows his stuff. It's meticulously detailed and he raises his hands in surrender. "You win, just get us out of here please."

"I will", he promises, "and I wasn't trying to brag. You looked a bit worried and I wanted to alleviate that feeling a bit." It's surprisingly thoughtful coming from Freed. As Laxus is about to give him his reluctant gratitude, Freed slaps his arm hard and grins obnoxiously. "Also, if I were trying to brag, you'd instantly know. My dear Laxus, my hubris could move mountains."

Instead of being irritated, Laxus can't help but be amused at Freed, standing knee deep in the snow, proclaiming that he would fistfight God if given the chance. Interrupting Freed's passionate speech about his own arrogance, he throws his arm around the man and gives him a noogie. "You're nothing but a loser with a big vocabulary, ain't ya?"

"That's blasphemy!" Freed protests and Laxus rolls his eyes. "Whatever, whatever. Let's go already, it's not getting any warmer." With a confidence that's completely unfounded, Laxus turns into a direction, striding away, hoping that it'll inspire the others to finally move already. It doesn't. "Laxus darling?" Freed calls out in that tone of his that spells annoyance for Laxus. "Sweetie, you're going the wrong way. You should know that, the defective bridge is in that direction. You know, the one we were unfortunately heading to?"

"Just lead the way and shut up, please."

"Since you asked so nicely."

Surprisingly, they reach a town around the evening. Although it's not very grand, a quick look through the windows of some shops tells Laxus that the place certainly is expensive. He whistles as he sees a particularly outrageous price for a dress and Evergreen comes to stand next to him to see what the fuss is about. When she spots the price tag, she shrugs. "It's normal. This is a tourist town, famous for its fashion, quaint panorama and terrific food."

"Shame we won't be enjoying it", Laxus muses, "We don't have the money for it. Hearing those words, Bickslow turns around with a big grin. "Laxus, Laxus, Laxus", he tuts, "Money is no issue for those with fast fingers." Although Laxus certainly doesn't disagree, he does wonder what their grand scheme is. "Should you guys really be dragging a royal into the criminal life? No offense, but you guys are a little bit shady."

"A little bit?" Freed's voice sounds disbelieving. He turns to Bickslow and Evergreen. "Would you look at that, we we're doing better than I expected!" Evergreen hides her smile behind her hand in an attempt to save Laxus' dignity a little bit. "We're doing so well that he nearly promised us his first born", she giggles and Bickslow holds out his hand. Unsure of what he's supposed to do, Laxus takes. Suddenly Bickslow's face turns serious as he pulls Laxus close. "Baby, you just signed a contract by taking this hand", he says, voice uncharacteristically grave. "Seeing as you trust us that much, from now on I'll entrust something to you as well."

With his free hand, Bickslow reaches behind him, grabs an unsuspecting Freed by the collar and unceremoniously shoves him against Laxus. "Here you go, my own firstborn child." Dramatically, Freed blinks and stretches his arms out towards Bickslow. "Mommy, please don't give me to the strange man! He reeks of sweat and he looks like a mountainboar! He'll eat me for sure!" Laxus rolls his eyes. "Yep. I'll swallow you whole", he says interrupting their inpromptu theatre.

The phrase makes Freed choke on his spit, his cheeks flushing a deep red that's very visible on his pale skin. Bickslow outright guffaws and Ever lets out a little "Oh my". The exact phrasing of his own words hit him at that moment and he shoves Freed away. "You are all nasty. Mainly you", he says and points at Freed. "Nasty, nasty gremlin boy."

"I am not a gremlin boy!" Freed yells back, getting a bit heated. "Getting called nasty, I can live with, but I am no gremlin! I refuse to be adressed as such." Laxus tauntingly pats the man's head. "But you can't refuse. Here's a royal order for the two of you." Evergreen and Bickslow listen in amusement. "You are to call him nasty gremlin boy at any and all times. For all you know, it is his name now. Amen."

"Amen", they chorus and as per royal order, he-who-was-formerly-known-as-Freed is getting pestered by all three of them until he tells them that he'll leave them to sleep out in the streets if they don't knock it off. Since this implies that he-who-is-now-again-known-as-Freed can actually get them a room somewhere, they promptly shut up and bury the nickname for later use.

Once Laxus is laying on the bed in the room Freed's managed to score for him, he wonders how Freed had done it. Looking around, he can see that the room (and the whole inn) had been made for people with a lot of money and he doesn't think that any of the people he's travelling with have that. The bed he's laying on is so comfortable and soft, that it's very likely that he'll never move from there again.

"Sup buddy", Bickslow whispers as he tiptoes into the room. "We decided that I'd be your roommate for a couple of days, I hope you don't mind." Laxus shakes his head. "It's fine. Ever would probably like her privacy and if I had to room with Freed, one of us would have killed the other before dayrise. It would've been a gruesome scene."

"Not if Freed was the culprit", Bickslow winks and Laxus is too tired to think about the implications. He gives a simple thumbs-up instead. "You mind if I use the shower first?" Bickslow asks and Laxus blinks slowly. "Don't care", he mumbles before yawning. "I'm going to stay here forever."

"You do that baby", Bickslow laughs before disappearing into the bathroom. Curling up into a ball, Laxus makes himself comfortable. It's easy with the soft mattress, although it is very warm. He drifts off regardless of the heat.

When he wakes up, the heat is unbearable, but the cold he's simultaneously feeling doesn't allow him to put the blanket away. He's deeply uncomfortable, but too sleepy to think about what his next course of action should be. His thoughts are a muddled mess and unable to make sense of them, he tries to fall back asleep. Instead, he keeps toeing the line between being awake and slumbering and it doesn't make his feel any better.

The door of the bathroom opens, bringing forth a warm gust of steam that does nothing to help relieve him. "Babe, you can use the bathroom if you want", Bickslow calls out and Laxus merely grunts in response. He doesn't think he could leave the bed even if he wanted to. Hearing Bickslow approach, he painstakingly cracks open a single eye. A moment later, he feels a very warm hand on his forehead and he swats it away. "Stop that", he murmurs and Bickslow complies. The sound of his footsteps removes itself from Laxus' vicinity and he barely hears the "Be right back!" before the door opens and closes again.

By the time the door reopens, Laxus is a sweating, shivering mess. His teeth are chattering violently and he's confused whether he's cold or not. Three sets of footsteps approach his bed and Laxus wished Bickslow hadn't made a public spectacle about him being sick. He should protest, but he hasn't got the strength nor will for it. "You guys should go eat, I'll handle this", one of them softly whispers and soon, it's only the two of them in the room. At this point Laxus is too far gone to recognise them and too far gone to care about any of it. He falls back asleep.

The hours? that follow are confusing to him. Between waking and slumbering he registers someone cooling him down with wet towels, their cold hands patting his head from time to time and the sense of calmth that comes over him when they do it makes his whole body unclench. Sometimes he can feel nightmares threatening at the edges of his mind, but his caretaker waves them away with a simple hand on his forehead or sweet, nostalgic lullabies hummed under their breath.

The time he spends awake is becoming longer, Laxus notices. Now, he's able to form somewhat coherent thoughts and the first thing he does, is try to pull himself upwards. Immediately, someone's pushing him back down. "I wouldn't do that if I were you", someone advises him and after a few moments Laxus recognises him to be Freed. "How are you feeling big boy?"

He tries to answer, but no sounds escapes his mouth. Seeing this, Freed offers him a cup of water and when Laxus takes a sip, he suddenly notices how parched he is. With big gulps, he downs the whole cup while Freed watches in amusement. "You don't do things in moderation, now do you?"

"Moderation makes life boring", he rasps as soon as he's caught his breath and Freed gives him a wink at that. "Well would you look at that, seems like there are things we can agree on." Between coughs, Laxus manages to get out: "We'd probably agree on a lot more if you weren't such a bastard."

"But where would be the fun in that? We just established that neither you nor I do things in moderation. Keep up with the schedule, my dearest Laxus." Freed draws himself closer, placing a familiar cool hand on Laxus forehead and keeps it there for what can only be a short while. It feels infinitely longer though and Laxus can feel himself heating up under his studious gaze. "Your fever had broken, but now it seems to be coming back." Then he looks Laxus right in the eyes, smile devious. "Or might there be another reason for your lovely red visage?"

Determined to not let Freed have the last laugh, Laxus reaches for the sweat-ridden pillow supporting his back. With one hand he quickly draws Freed closer and simultaneously he smushes the drenched pillow right into the man's face with his other hand. Instantaneously Freed starts yelling in absolute disdain and after he's wrestled himself free it turns into laughing as the two of them grapple for a while.

It shouldn't be as tiring as it is, but he's sick and Freed picks up on his weakening arms immediately. "Looks like playtime is over for this patient. I'll call Bickslow over and leave you to him."

"You aren't gonna stay?" He hates how vulnerable his voice sounds and how obvious it must be to Freed. "Nah, you stink", Freed answers seemingly completely oblivious to Laxus' little moment of weakness. It's probably for the better. "Goodbye, I'm going to take a nap", Freed says before waltzing out of the room.

Not even five minutes later Bickslow appears and the first words that tumble out of Laxus' mouth are: "Do I smell?" He suppresses the urge to facepalm at his own words. Frowning, Bickslow asks why he thinks so. Moping like a child (he chalks it up to being sick), he explains that apparently Freed's reason for leaving is his smell. As he's explaining Bickslow's face changes from concerned to amused until he's barely able to suppress his giggling.

"Is that what he said? If he was truly bothered by the smell of a sick person, he wouldn't have been taking care of you for the past seven days. That man has a flair for the dramatic, but I think he just needs a nap. He wouldn't allow himself to properly sleep before he knew you were okay though, so he must be walking on his last legs."

Now that he says that, Freed had been looking a bit pale himself and Laxus thinks he remembers dark circles under his eyes. He does wonder though, why the man was so adamant about taking care of him, seeing as Laxus mainly seems to be a form of entertainment to him. His hands had been so careful though when nursing him back to health and his voice oh so sweet. Laxus decides to not dwell on it anymore, but he does fall asleep with the soft sound of Freed's voice in his mind.

[areluctantsblog]

My second fill is here, this time for the Models AU square. Enjoy 😉

Summary: Peter has been modelling in an art school for years. He's used to strangers' eyes roaming his body - clothed or naked -, and he knows that it's not him they are looking at. Not him who they are interested in. He's just a model, a tool for their work. And for a long time he doesn't notice the one pair of eyes that, despite seeing him but rarely, is looking right at him.

No warnings.

Read it on ao3

***

Curiosity Killed The Cat

Peter has been modelling ever since he turned eighteen. He loves the colourful chaos of the studios, the scrape of the pencils on paper, the smell of paint and turpentine. The long hours he spends posing for pictures are a form of meditation for him. He feels alive under the gazes meticulously observing his body; he feels free. Because those eyes aren't looking at him. They are just looking at their model for the day. It's safe and oddly unobtrusive.

Once his classes at the university are finished, Peter goes to the art school four times a week. He usually walks, preferring to move his limbs a bit between sitting in classes then lying motionlessly for hours. He usually arrives early enough to have lunch at the Indian place at the corner. He almost always walks into the building just before break. And he almost always runs into the same dazzlingly handsome older man. They exchange a glance, sometimes even a smile or a nod before going on their way. Peter likes having a routine. It's almost like a ritual, a sort of preparation, so that by the time he takes on his position, he's completely centred.

One day however his routine is disrupted by an uncommonly heavy downpour. Rain usually doesn't deter Peter from walking, but the weather is already turning chilly and studios aren't very well heated. It would be foolish to lie in there with soaked hair for hours. So, he takes the subway and arrives a good half an hour earlier than usual.

He decides to take a walk in the building to get at least some exercise. He walks up the stairs and down the corridor. He looks at the pictures hung on the walls and hears the noises of the theoretical classes going on in some of the classrooms. The last door in the corridor is ajar. Curious, Peter walks up to it and peeks inside. When he glimpses the man, he always sees leaving, Peter gasps.

He's naked and now that Peter has a chance to really look at him, he looks even more beautiful than before. His dark curls and his salt and pepper stubbles frame his features perfectly. His body is chiselled and perfect but for a huge scar on his chest. And his cock looks impressive even despite the chill of the classroom. Peter lingers for more than what’s prudent and only steps away from the door when the bell rings and, stirring from his dreamy state, the man's eyes dart straight at him.

Peter is out of breath by the time he reaches the classroom where he's supposed to be. He tells himself that the man didn't see him over and over again. But the shame that colours his cheeks and the fright that sent his heart pounding feel sweeter than normally, so much that Peter has to take a few deep breaths to will his erection away before stripping for the class.

Two weeks pass and Peter revisits the memory in his dreams almost every night. He sees the man and he's naked, but instead of lying on the sofa, he's sitting with a sketchpad in hand and he’s looking at Peter with those deep dark eyes, seeing him no matter how he tries to hide. Despite being dressed, he feels naked under that stare. He's cock is growing harder with every second. He wants to pull open the door and walk over to the man but before he would make his decision, he wakes up. Sweaty and aching with need, he jerks himself off and tries to go back to sleep, only to wake up in the morning, his cock hard and his head full of images of the man again.

Desperate to somehow get the whole thing of his system, Peter decides to stay back after he's done modelling one Friday afternoon. He hangs around by the vending machine until the corridor empties, then walks over to the classroom at the end. He's knees are weak, almost as if he was going to meet someone in there, while it's only him and his desire. As he approaches the heavy white door, it hits him that he might find it closed. Maybe that would be for the best, putting a stop to this ridiculous plan. But he doesn't stop. He needs to try. He wants to be there. To touch the leather where his body lay.

He pushes down the handle with shaking fingers and lets out a trembling breath when the door moves. He steps into the room and takes a look around, but his gaze gravitates back towards the brown leather sofa in the far end. He walks closer, his heart beating faster with every step. Then, it skips a beat when he realises that it's not empty.

A black notebook lies at the far end of it. Even though Peter knows that it could belong to anyone, he can't get rid of the feeling of familiarity. It looks just like the sketchbook from his dreams. He picks it up and runs his finger down the cover. The sight of the embossed initials at the corner makes his chest ache with longing. He doesn’t even know the man's name and yet the T and the S stare at him as if confirmation.

Peter stands there, heart beating in his throat, almost as excited as when he first glimpsed the man on this very same sofa. It feels almost as intimate, too. He itches to take a look at the contents even though he knows it's an indiscretion. Eventually, his curiosity wins out at he opens the book…

And nearly drops it. Staring back at him from the soft paper is himself. Something hot courses through his veins and settles as a pressure at the pit of his stomach. Someone is drawing him. Not one of the many for whom he models but someone who really sees him. Another hot wave runs through his body at that and he swallows even though his mouth is dry. Peter keeps staring at the drawing, then he flips through the pages and finds many more. Sometimes it's just his lips or his eyes, but mostly it's his face – almost as if someone was studying him. Someone who sees him enough to be able to memorise his features. Someone who is interested.

Peter shudders. He closes the books and slips it under his jacket as he hurries outside. He has no memory of his journey home. He just sits on his bed staring at the initials on the cover. He wants to open the book and look at the drawings again, but it makes him feel odd. Naked. Beautiful. The realisation takes his breath away. He puts the book to his bedside table, strips and touches himself, eyes glued to the sketchbook. He draws it out, savouring every sensation before coming all over his chest with the man's image in his mind's eye.

The wait over the weekend is torture but at least Peter can sleep again. His emotions however are all over the place. He’s excited, curious, nervous but mostly impatient. Monday morning he’s acutely aware of the little black book lying on the bottom of his bag. He’s fidgety all through his morning classes and keeps checking his watch every five minutes. When the time finally comes for him to leave for the art school, he decides on taking the subway. Sure, they always run into each other when Peter gets there on foot but today is too important to risk missing the man.

When he gets off the train, he realises that he’ll arrive 20 minutes before the bell is ought to ring. Preparing for another agonising wait, Peter walks somewhat dejectedly towards the school building. However, as he rounds the corner the first thing, he sees is the man, leaning casually against the wall by the entrance, looking as though waiting for someone.

Peter approaches him, his heart hammering madly. He stops in front of the man and fishes out the sketchbook from his backpack.

“I believe this is yours,” he says holding it out.

The man takes it, but his eyes never leave Peter’s.

“You looked at them,” he replies. It’s not a question.

Peter can feel a blush colouring his cheeks, but he holds the man’s gaze and nods.

“Haven’t you heard the saying about a certain cat?” the man asks scoldingly, but his smile betrays his tone.

“It has to do something with satisfaction, doesn’t it?” Peter asks with the most innocent expression he can pull off while a mischievous grin is tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The man chuckles and holds out his hand.

“Tony Stark.”

“Peter Parker,” Peter replies and even though his heart skips a beat when their hands touch, he lets the joy filling his chest spread on his face.

***

A/N: The title and the conversation play with the proverb Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. Please don't take this note as condescending but the joke is quite lost without it.

[lucifer-in-my-head]

To Love a Prince - Chapter Seven

Summary:   A new kingdom. A new home. A new husband. When Prince Dolion is arranged to marry the heir of another kingdom, he is eager to leave behind his loneliness, along with the family he knows won’t miss him - but fate is not so benign. Married to a man that does not love him, Dee finds his heart drawn to another; a man that can never be his. As the stability of his marriage rapidly deteriorates, Dee must endure the weight of his own feelings, the crushing isolation that comes with them…and the brutality of the one who is supposed to protect him. Pairings: Roman/Deceit (abusive), Virgil/Deceit   Overall Warnings: Abuse, abusive relationship, abusive Roman, angst, broken bones, disowning, domestic abuse, exploration of trauma, injuries, non/con, parental neglect, rape, sympathetic Deceit, violence Chapter Warnings: Violence, broken bones, implied rape, unsympathetic Roman, abusive Roman Word Count: 2049 Masterlist AO3

Chapter Seven:

Dee had never worn the face paint that higher-class women were often seen to wear, especially in court, but today, his face was covered in it. Roman had sought out one of the face artists in the palace and paid her very heavy coin to conceal Dee’s bruising. She had done her work with a neutral face, and Dee was suspect that he wasn’t the only bruised face she’d been paid to cover-up over the years. 

God, wasn’t that simply awful?

The entire experience had been abysmal- he’d had to stay stock still while she worked - occasionally he’d wriggle, and she’d get frustrated and snap at him to sit still, and Roman would glare at him from beside her. Not to mention that his face felt like it had been dipped into mud, but...at least it covered the bruises. 

It couldn’t cover up the pain, though.

Every part of Dee’s body hurt. His torso was littered with even more bruising than his face, and every time he moved - even just a little - white-hot pain would shoot through him, and he had to just grit his teeth and bear it silently. He didn’t want to imagine even for a moment the wrath he’d face from Roman if he didn’t…

Walking to the training area was agonising, and it took every bit of self-control Dee possessed not to let any noises of pain escape his throat, no matter how difficult it was. When he finally made it to the bench, he sat down slowly and carefully, exhaling in relief when he was finally off his feet. 

The other knights were warming up, and Roman went to join them, leaving Dee to suffer through his pain alone for a while. 

Dee didn’t even try to focus on what they were doing today, the pounding in his head too persistent to warrant any such attempts. Instead, he closed his eyes, leaning back on the bench and breathing slowly. 

He winced when he didn’t move slow enough, and his chest constricted in pain. He wheezed quietly, holding his breath for a few moments to let the pain pass before he tried again, much slower this time. 

The pounding in his head only grew worse as the knights finished their warmups and began sparring properly, the ringing of sword against sword piercing his ears and sending a sharp pain through his skull. He winced, wanting nothing more than to get up off this bench and go somewhere quiet - the gardens, maybe, or the library - but he couldn’t - if he left Roman’s sight, then he’d only find himself in even more pain. 

He faded out for a bit, the sounds of his surroundings becoming muted for a while as his body tried to slip into sleep, but a voice pierced his haze and forced his eyes open.

Virgil. 

Dee jerked back as he opened his eyes to see Virgil standing right in front of him, and a jolt of pain shot through him at the movement. 

“Dee? Are you okay?” The Captain asked, and Dee forced himself to give a small nod. 

“I’m fine,” he said, somehow managing to hide the pain from his voice. “You merely startled me, is all.” 

Virgil nodded doubtfully, then tilted his head, eyes narrowing. 

“Are you wearing-”

“Virgil!”

Dee let out a relieved breath as Roman called Virgil’s attention away from the question he’d been about to ask, but tensed a little when his husband strode over to them. 

“How are you, Roman?” Virgil asked, turning around to face him. 

“I’m feeling splendid on this fine morning!” Roman exclaimed with a grin. “So splendid, in fact, that I’ve decided to challenge someone new.” 

“Is that so?” Virgil asked with a chuckle. “And who would that be?”

Roman’s grin widened, and his eyes flicked to Dee for a split second - long enough for the familiar feeling of dread to settle in Dee’s stomach. 

“You.”

Though Dee couldn't see Virgil's face, he imagined it was one of surprise. “Really?” He asked, almost disbelievingly. “You want to challenge me?”

“I do,” Roman confirmed. 

Virgil pondered that for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not?” He responded. “If you really want your ass kicked this early in the morning, then who am I but to oblige you?”

“Wonderful!” Roman clapped Virgil over the shoulder. “I’ll be with you in a moment - I must have a kiss of good luck from my husband before I battle a worthy foe such as you.” 

Virgil chuckled again and set off towards the training ring, while Roman stepped closer to Dee, gripping his chin between his thumb and his forefinger and tilting Dee’s head up. 

“You’re going to watch,” he said, his voice quiet enough that only Dee could hear him. “You’re going to watch every moment, do you understand?” 

A shudder ran through Dee, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. His throat closed over and he couldn’t speak, so he nodded his understanding before Roman could get angry with him. 

“Good,” Roman said lowly, leaning in to kiss him for a moment before walking away, leaving Dee trembling where he sat. 

Dee watched with trepidation as Roman approached the sparring ring, where Virgil stood waiting for him, sword drawn. Roman strode up to him, and stopped but a few feet away, drawing his own sword from its sheath and bowed.

Virgil bowed back, and, just like that, the match had begun.

Roman acted first, lunging forward and swinging his sword. Virgil’s sword met it halfway, and the ringing reverberated in Dee’s ears as the two fought for the upper hand. After a moment, Virgil jumped back, then stepped to the side, swinging at Roman in a low arc that Roman only just managed to block. 

They danced around like this, one attacking, the other defending, then switching it up. They moved in and out and back and forth so much that Dee struggled to keep up with what was happening, his breath coming short and shallow. 

For a while it seemed as though Virgil was going to win, as he blocked and parried every attack Roman made, countering with his own. For a while, it seemed Dee had nothing to fear. 

Roman went in for another attack, and even Dee could see the false attack for what it was. Roman very obviously feigned left, and when Virgil moved to block the incoming attack to the right, Roman surged forward, pushing through with his attack to the left. His sword struck Virgil’s armour so hard that the sound echoed across the ring, and Virgil let out a startled sound as he stumbled. Roman seized the opportunity, striking Virgil’s sword out of his hand and snatching his wrist. He moved so quickly it was impossible to focus on him, twisting Virgil’s arm behind his back and kicking his feet out from under him.

Then Roman snapped Virgil’s arm over his knee. 

Virgil’s scream was terrible, painful and loud enough to cover up the horrified scream that escaped Dee as his hands flew to his mouth in shock.

The other knights rushed forward, separating Roman from Virgil as one of them ran to fetch a healer. Roman stumbled backwards, his face morphing into shock as he realised what he’d done - Dee saw through it, knew it’d been intentional, knew this was an act he was putting on for the audience-

Virgil’s screaming tapered off into pained groans as someone inspected his arm, and before Dee even knew what he was doing he’d made his way over to them, gasping at the sight. One of the knights removed Virgil’s arm guard, and Dee’s stomach lurched as white protruded from his pale skin.

He startled as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and his head snapped to the side to look at Roman, standing beside him solemnly. “Don’t look away,” his voice was so low Dee barely heard him, but he obeyed, his entire body shaking as he forced himself to stare at the wound Roman had inflicted upon his friend. 

A healer arrived quickly, and Virgil was carried away to the infirmary to be treated properly. Most of the knights scattered, except for one or two who stayed behind to ask Roman what had happened. 

“It was an accident!” Roman lied as he squeezed Dee’s hand tightly. “I never meant to hurt him! His arm caught on my knee when I dropped him!” 

Dee exhaled shakily as the knights nodded, believing his lies. Of course they did - Roman was the Prince. He was honourable. He would never tell a lie.

Roman squeezed Dee’s hand again tightly as he excused himself back to his bedchambers, declaring that he was going to take the rest of the day to himself after what had just happened. 

Then he dragged Dee back inside. 

Dee was silent the entire walk there, trembling as tears spilled down his face. Sheer terror pulsed through his veins as his husband bolted their door shut, then turned to face him. 

“This is your fault, you know,” he said.

“What? How is it- you broke his arm!” Dee sputtered, yelping when Roman slapped him across the face. 

“This is your fault!” He repeated, louder this time. “Do you understand me?” His eyes blazed with fury, and Dee shrank back away from him. 

It had been a power play, Dee realised with horror as he whispered that he understood. This had been the consequence of Dee’s feelings… 

It was his fault Virgil was hurt. 

“If you ever so much as think about him again, I’ll do a whole lot worse, do you understand?” 

Dee squeaked. “I- I understand!” 

“Good. Do not make me hurt him again.” Dee whimpered as he nodded, and Roman stalked forward, shoving him down onto the bed. Dee yelped in pain.

“You belong to me,” Roman growled as he removed Dee’s clothing, and Dee whimpered quietly, shutting his eyes as his legs were forced apart. 

He didn’t need to be reminded after what Roman had already done today…

When it was over, Roman left him on the bed, disappearing - to where, Dee didn’t know. Didn’t care. He laid there on the bed for a long while, letting the world drift in and out of focus.

Eventually, he forced his bruised, aching body up and off the bed, leaning against the wall for support as he stumbled into the bath chambers. He washed the paint off his face, then ran himself a hot bath, not caring that it was far too hot as he slipped into the water, letting it engulf all but his head. 

For a long time, he just laid there, letting the burn of the hot water distract him from the pain he felt everywhere else. He hugged himself beneath the water as tears slipped down his cheeks. 

When the water started to cool down he forced himself to move, to wash himself. He scrubbed away the blood and sweat and everything else that had stuck to his skin, watching as the water changed from clear to murky. 

He blinked tiredly as he stared at the water for a while, trying to hold himself together. His chest began to tighten again, and his throat closed over. A sob tore from his throat as images of Virgil flashed into his mind, on the ground and screaming in pain. Soon he was crying properly, sobbing as tears streamed down his face. This was all his fault.

If he hadn’t let himself fall in love with Virgil, then Roman wouldn't have gotten angry, wouldn't have challenged the Captain to a fight, wouldn't have broken his arm. 

It was all Dee's fault.

He needed to control this - control this traitorous heart of his and lock it away. He needed to lock away his heart so that he couldn't feel anything at all. If he couldn't love Roman, his husband, then he didn't deserve to love anyone at all…

Didn't deserve to be loved. 

Another broken sob tore from his throat, and he pressed a hand over his mouth to shut himself up. He didn't deserve to cry when Virgil had been hurt because of him. He didn't deserve to feel his own pain when Virgil had been hurt so much worse.

Dee didn't deserve anything.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

The Morning Watch

Another quick ficlet sprung from a very specific mental image and to get me out of the headspace that everything I write needs to be a big thing I’ve been agonising over for the past year or something silly like that (giant WIP pile? never heard of her). And also because pearls (and jackets).

Pearl and Pink Pearl, sometime shortly after Change Your Mind. ~1600 words.

---

The Morning Watch

“Here.”

It’s part of her light construct, of course, and not an actual jacket. But with just a bit of focus she can make it solid enough, real enough, heavy and warm enough to match anything she might find in one of Amethyst’s piles. And she knows very well how much comfort can be derived from simple, gentle, enveloping and grounding pressure.

And… well, she hopes the gesture counts, as well. The other pearl’s… Pink Pearl’s shoulders are trembling, and it is just too much, the way her hands grasp at her sides and her arms, the way she is trying to shrink into herself, as if she wants to disappear.

So Pearl makes sure to approach the other pearl from her unmarked side where she can be easily seen, and give ample warning as she shrugs the jacket off her own and drapes it over her shoulders instead. Makes sure to sit at her right, both of their legs dangling off the palm of the Temple’s hand, high above the beach. She also knows to keep from very abrupt movements - perhaps sadly, she isn’t exactly inexperienced in this.

Though, usually… usually it would have been Rose handling this part, with her healing, soothing tears and flowery words full of welcome and promise. Or Bismuth with her easy and warm manner and almost contagious ability to just, as she said, ‘roll’ with most of anything. But, well, this is hardly a usual case. And besides, times change, and Pearl adapts - with no small amount of pride.

“Okay?” Pearl asks, softly, and the other pearl nods, burrowing into the not-fabric as it is carefully wrapped around her. Her hands grasp at the hem and lapels of the jacket now, as the crisp breeze of just before dawn plays with it. It’s just big enough to hide the subtle tremor in those narrow shoulders, even if it doesn’t quite reach fully down her back.

Pearl studies her as she gazes out across the ocean and wonders idly if she even knows what an ocean is. If she’s ever seen one before, on some far off colony visit, before the lapis lazulis got called in to do their work.

She takes in the pale skin with the slightest brush of pink hue, the perfect rolls of rosy hair, and the worried little frown her lips are pursed in. The strange, slightly numb tiredness imprinted around her eye and the webbing of cracks running over the other, marks which the pearl lifts her hand and runs her fingers over every so often, almost as some sort of nervous habit.

No matter what Homeworld may think, they are not the same, and they are most certainly two very different, distinct, absolutely individual persons. But so much of… this feels so familiar, and so much of it like looking in a pink-tinted mirror.

“I’ve never been here before,” that small voice speaks up, so much more like hers than Yellow’s stringent, demanding one, or Blue’s soft whispers. To a discomfiting extent, perhaps.

And of course she hasn’t been to Earth, but Pearl doesn't interrupt, and lets her proceed at her own pace. By the time Pink Diamond got anywhere near her first colony, there was nothing pink about Pink Pearl anymore - in her place, something approaching the ideal pearl, the helpful little doll under perfect control.

Control going even beyond an Order, taking over your limbs, rooting you in place or sending you off to do something without the slightest chance of protest or resistance. So… violating, and especially so after all she’s gone through to win every possible scrap of independence. Pearl has to stop to wonder which is worse, and if something like that should even be compared. Being denied the possible sanctuary of your own mind, your own thoughts, and any awareness at all - or remaining fully conscious of being puppeteered around.

She shudders, and finds herself oddly thankful she doesn’t remember much of their mercifully brief time in White’s head. And then she feels a stab of awful, biting guilt, because Steven and Connie had to face so much on their own in there, and she, their guardian and teacher, failed them both like that…

But then, drawing her back into the moment, a touch. Pink Pearl noticed something off, perhaps - or perhaps she is just drawing comfort from wherever she feels she can find it. Whatever the case, she is pressed against Pearl’s side now, so Pearl takes it a small step further and puts a slow, careful arm around her, reaching over the bright yellow star.

“Is this alright?”

Her response is a nod, and shoulders relaxing the slightest bit under her touch.

They sit immersed in the quiet for a while, until Pink Pearl speaks up again uncertainly. “This is her planet… this is where she…?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about what happened. About... her. Everything.” The eagerness purely because she can now is only a part of her desire to share this, and with this Gem in particular. This pearl she never got to know, but with whom she seems to share so much.

“And she’s really… gone?”

“Yes,” Pearl confirms slowly again. There is such a finality to it now, to something near-unthinkable that she’s been struggling with for what feels like so long. Even if, in the end, it was merely a blink of an eye in Gem terms. And even if it ended up being so strangely, frighteningly simple. Gone. “Yes, she is.”

“But then… what do I do now?”

Lost, so lost.

Pearl meets her wide, worried eye, strained with the beginnings of tears, and decisively stomps down on the painful sense of familiarity. Instead, she gives her best encouraging smile.

“Well, first, it might help to know that there’s no rush. You don’t have to do anything just now. Taking your time is… perfectly fine. In fact, I recommend it.”

Pink Pearl looks away, frowning, but Pearl presses on, free hand gesturing excitedly.

“You can stay here at the beach house with us for as long as you want. Forever, even! We can certainly make room, or make a room, and Bismuth, oh, that one’s always itching for new projects. But there’s also an entire world out there to get to know, with all sorts of people and Gems in it. And then - if we just get you a ship, which really shouldn’t be much of an issue anymore - an entire universe!”

Pearl stops herself just a bit too late, noticing she’s gotten carried away and has slipped far past overwhelming, and her pink counterpart is drawing back into herself.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says more softly, and sighs, rubbing gentle circles where she’s holding the other pearl’s shoulder. “Listen. What I mean to say is just… I know ‘whatever you want’ seems unfathomable, and, well, impossible. And entirely unhelpful when it feels like you want nothing in the galaxy as much as you want some simple direction. But it’s the truth. We can start off slowly, and find something you like, and work from there.”

Pink Pearl nods, and for a while it seems like that’s the end of the discussion, the rest of it packed away for some other day.

But then: “I liked the juggling,” Pink Pearl pipes up, rather suddenly, sitting up and almost dislodging both Pearl’s arm and the jacket.

“I really did, I wasn’t just saying that to make her happy. I even...” She trails off, and after a moment continues in what could almost be termed a conspiratorial whisper, a shy bit of blush painted across her cheeks. “I tried to learn how to do it myself, while I was alone during council meetings… it was supposed to be a surprise, maybe, but I never got to-- I wasn’t very good at it anyway, it’s so much harder than it looks.”

Pearl blinks for a moment, then latches onto the opening provided by more (and more lively) words than she’s ever heard Pink Pearl speak. “Well, that’s… that’s excellent! There you go, something to start with. A bit unorthodox, perhaps, yes, but an interesting challenge, and one that requires quite a bit of skill and perseverance. We’ll just… make sure you practice outside the house.”

It’s enough to prompt Pink Pearl’s first real smile, small and hesitant though it may be. Pearl feels a grin pull at her own lips and a sense of victory bloom in her chest as they both turn back towards their lovely ocean view.

“It’s very quiet here.”

“It’s a bit early for the humans,” Pearl explains, then reconsiders. “Did you mean that as a good thing or a bad thing?”

“I’m not sure.” Pink Pearl squirms under the jacket a bit, and pulls at it where it starts to slide down off her shoulder. “Good, I think. For now. But I don’t think I’d want it to be quiet forever.”

Pearl hums. “No, I wouldn’t either. As relaxing as it can be, one does appreciate the distraction, eventually.”

The horizon is tinged with the start of morning light, the slightest bit of purple already spilling over and mixing in the sky. The stillness does indeed begin to ebb (though thankfully still free of seagulls), and there, not too far off, a fishing boat returning mars the calm surface of the sea as well.

“You know,” Pearl begins, echoing the earlier slightly surreptitious tone, “if we stay here a little while longer, we’ll get to see something wonderful.”

“Oh?” It’s a very soft sound of genuine curiosity, and Pearl feels an immense need to nurture and encourage every bit of it.

“Oh yes! We can watch the planet’s sun rise over the horizon. It’s quite a sight, and the particularities of the atmosphere add some lovely elements to the visual. Would you like to see?”

A moment of consideration, and pink hands worrying at the lapels of a jacket, then straightening them out.

“Yes. I think I’d like that.”

[ben-j-man]

Secret War- Chapter 1

Gunfire. Las and solid projectile alike ripped down the corridor, stray rounds punching holes through the wooden walls, showering us in pouts of exploding dust, which engulfed much of the hallway in a thick, white haze. Forcing my colleagues and me into cover. Two of whom, Jarvus and Callague, never made it. A Las round burned through the side of Jarvus' skull as the ex-guardsman desperately dived. Callague was dead before he could even move, the poor bastard almost cut apart by the intense fire.

Cursing, I blindly fired my auto gun from the corner, Into the dust obscured corridor. "Spray and pray" is the technical term and wondered for the hundredth time why I had joined this line of work. No way in hell could I get a clean shot; my only hope was to pin the assailants.

With a quick-fire signal to Garrakson behind me. I slipped back, and the ex-guardsman took my position.

"Fire in the hole!" he sang out in his oddly melodic voice, and with a grunt, the middle-aged man hefted a tube-charge down the hall.

The explosion's deafening roar preceded by the hefty clatter of falling debris.

Without hesitation, Elandria and I slid into the corridor. Side by side we sprinted through the dust and debris, firing our auto guns from the hip. Two unfortunate gangers buckled and collapsed under our withering fire. A pair of darkened figures stunned by the grenade's force.

At the last moment, we dropped our weapons and fell upon our enemies. Elandria drawing twin monomolecular enhanced blades from the sheaths on her back. I drew my mono-sword from its hip scabbard. Elandria let out a spine-chilling cackle and dodged a ganger's clumsy blow then countered with a deft slice, relieving him of his head.

Not in such humour. I parried a ganger's stabbing knife and kicked my boot's knife into his shin. The man's agonised scream became gurgling as I stabbed through his chest and I kicked the convulsing idiot off my blade. Immediately, I was forced to duck the next Hammer's wild swing of the butt of his Las gun. My blade arced into his left hip and through to his right shoulder. The man gurgled blood then fell onto his back.

Beside me, Elandria also finished her last attacker, disembowelling the ganger with a quick slice of Setsukia then decapitated him with Katrina.

She and I worked well together, but our combat styles could not have been more different. I was taught the way of the combat pragmatist: to do anything and everything to win, to fight with quick, brutal and practical techniques.

She fought like a gymnast, with acrobatic and fanciful techniques I found at first contemptuous. But I could not deny that she was skilled, very skilled.

She had yet to reveal what school of assassins she was taught in, but I could hazard a guess.

Elandria enjoyed killing. To such heights, it disturbed me and her obsession with decapitating her victims, unnatural. Hence why she wielded twin blades: Setsukia, for blocking and wounding. Katrina, specifically to decapitate. She fought while amped on combat drugs, which I was taught to do too, but detested. If you relied on enhancements, what good would you be without them? I supposed that was why her fanciful style was so effective.

I do not enjoy killing; I do it because needs must, in a professional manner and pride in my work. I am Attelus Xanthis Kaltos, I am a mercenary, and that is that.

Despite her ruthless, bloodthirsty nature, Elandria was an attractive young woman. At times her beauty held me in awe. Her skin, deathly pale and her straight brunette hair, jaw length. But I was wise enough to know a girl like her was only to be looked at, not chased being so indoctrinated by her cult, all she would ever know was the mindless urge to kill. It was quite depressing really.

The four that fell to our blades were the last; another three had taken the brunt of the blast.

'Good work you two' said Garrakson, his heavy boots crunching on the debris as he approached our backs.

Elandria and I turned to our colleague. Elandria was tense, shaking and as she spun she almost toppled over. Fortunately, Garrakson was smart enough to stand out of range of Elandria's blades; she was hugely unpredictable when in such a state.

I shrugged. "All in a day's work," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. "We must be getting back before the local Magistratum arrive."

Garrakson grimaced slightly, "or the damnable Arbites."

"C-cut the chit chat s-shall we?" said Elandria her voice was painful, needy. "Our master will be wanting, to hear of our exploits.' She was twitching madly now, another reason I kept off stimms; the withdrawal was intense.

"What?" said Garrakson. "Our exploits being that we lost even more good men chasing yet another dead end?"

I sighed, Garrakson's words rang true. I had been part of Taryst's personal army for half a year now, and so far this had to be the most horrible, thankless job I've ever had.

Taryst, a famous Rogue trader, well known throughout the Calixis sector as a master of trade and business. Who, for an unknown reason, was waging war against the gangs of this Hive world: Omnartus. So secret this struggle was any mercenary who joined had their mind blocked from psyker intrusion. That was over two thousand men and women. Emperor only knows how even he could afford it.

"What are we to do about Callague and Jarvus?" I said; starting down the corridor and past Garrakson, although already knowing the answer.

Garrakson sniffed causing his scarred, square-jawed face to contort. "Do what we always do," he said, shaking his head. "Leave 'em; we don't have the time, kid."

"Just for a change huh?" I sighed. "Poor bastards. I hope that the Magistratum treat them well."

"Why does it matter?" asked Elandria, despite a drug-induced withdrawal approached she with such feline grace she seemed to float. "The dead are dead; it does not matter how well you treat them."

I sighed again. No matter how many times I explained it, she still didn't understand.

Garrakson sniffed again but this time he hawked up a wad of phlegm he unceremoniously spat to the floor. "Okay kiddies, we split up," he said, "Elandria go south-west-"

"Yeah, yeah," I interrupted. "We know the drill: I go southeast, and you go south, meet at the base at eighteen hundred, we know."

Garrakson shook his head with a bemused smile, "how long has it been now?"

"One hellish half of one hellish year," I answered, though I was not sure either.

"Hellish? Hellish?" said Garrakson. "Now that's the damned understatement of the damned century. Alright then, just move out now, if you know the bloody drill so frigging well."

And we did it, yet again.

I ran out of the building and into the polluted, darkened streets. My black flak jacket is whipping and snapping in my wake.

I did not need to check my wrist chronometre's compass to know I ran south-east. Ever since I was a child, I had an innate sense of direction. I could find my way through the thickest of bush on my homeworld, Elbyra with only my wits.

As I silently moved, my thoughts wandered. Half a year ago our squad numbered ten, but with the losses of Callague and Jarvus, now we're reduced to four.

The fourth was Torris, an ex-Arbitrator. He was wounded in our last incursion; the poor bastard lost an eye then got knifed in the guts. His condition was still uncertain. I was not into praying, but I was tempted to for Torris.

It was quite depressing really; seeing your colleagues killed off, one by one. Was it like this to serve in the Imperial Guard? Perhaps I should ask Garrakson one day if I ever remember to.

Better do it sooner rather than later, Garrakson maybe the next. Or perhaps me.

I shook away the morbid thought. The morale of Taryst's personal army was on an all-time low. We maybe mercenaries, throne gelts were a good incentive for us. But Taryst expected us to give up our lives without ever telling us why.

We were human as well if we had a cause, a meaning! It could make us fight all the harder.

Anger started to well, my jaw clenched. What was the point of implanting us with psychic blocks if you don't give us any of any information to protect?

But I was no stranger to secrets and sabotage. Everyone has an ulterior motive. I had learnt my of lesson "trust" from my dear old dad, my dear old frigging father.

I sighed, too many memories suddenly flooded back. I shook it away, now was not the time for sentiment.

There was never any time for sentiment.

I turned a sharp corner, out of the alleyways and into the main streets.

We were meant to meet at the base at 1800 hours, but I intended to get there sooner. I felt I needed to speak with the employer; a mother-figure to us and was more of a mother than my own ever was. Her name was Glaitis; she saved me after my first, futile, assassination attempt. Glaitis taught me the way of the assassin in more detail than my father ever would. And she knew my father, my real father.

My brow furrowed and I sped up my already fast pace.

She never looked up, and she never seemed to need to as I entered her office.

"Ah! Attelus Xanthis Kaltos. What is it that brings you to my humble abode, my apprentice?" said Glaitis. She was a tall, harshly beautiful woman and I couldn't help my gaze gliding over her. Glaitis sat at her desk, long legs crossed. Her cold blue eyes studied a data slate intently.

My jaw clenched. I hated it when Glaitis used my last name, and she was well aware of it. It was part of her constant testing which drove me nuts. It was to anger me so I could learn to control my anger- I almost always failed.

I swallowed the anger, and nervousness replaced it. A nervousness that overtook me when in her presence.

'I-I am here to advise you of-.'

The sharp snap of the data slate suddenly shutting interrupted me and she fixed me with her piercing gaze.

"No stuttering young one, unless it is an act! You are to be confident! Precise in your words and your demeanour and stand up straight! Your posture is utterly horrendous!"

I did as told, holding back an annoyed sigh.

"Now, Young Attelus, you may start again."

"I am here to advise you that we have lost two more members of our squad."

"And who were they?" she said, her gaze falling to her data slate, uninterested.

'Callague and Javus.'

'They are of Taryst's ilk,' she stated.

I nodded, already knowing what she was about to say.

"If they are not part of our own organisation. I do not care, and you know this as well as I. come out with it then. I know you, child, tell me the actual reason you are here."

I let out a heavy sigh, hoping that it didn't sound too fake, right now I was testing myself to see if I could hide the exact reason why I was here, 'the men are losing morale-'

"I am well aware of the state of the morale, my apprentice," she interrupted. "You are just here to seek guidance for your own melancholy. Am I correct in my assumption?"

I hissed air through clenched teeth, hesitating my response. Damn it, outwitted yet again!

'Yes...'

She smiled a steady and starkly rare expression.

"At least you have learnt from my teachings the value of deception young Attelus but yet not the proper technique. As I told you when we first began your training your father had taught you well in the basics; close quarters combat, swordsmanship, ranged weaponry. But he had neglected the more subtle arts of an assassin's trade."

My jaw set at the mention of my father.

"Do not do that!' she hissed. "That is one of your many tells young one. You do when you are annoyed or angered. Remember, I have taught you time and time again: 'give nothing to your enemies or your allies.' That proverb was handed down to me by my master, and now I hand it down to you. Do you understand what it means, child?"

"Yes." I barely said rather than sighed. I started regretting coming here.

"Good!" she sat back in her chair. "Now, tell me. What troubles you young Attelus."

Her voice softened; she seemed legitimately interested. That had always taken me back, how she could change from harsh, berating teacher, to tender and kind-hearted motherly figure in the blink of an eye.

My heart skipped and suddenly found words hard to form; when she changed like that, it would always give me a strange tightness in my chest. I had no idea why.

"I- I hate this!" I managed to blurt. "We have been here for six months, and we have nothing! Nothing! Just more corpses and questions! It's hard every frigging day is the same! A new lead we are sent to track down and- and! We are only to find a new dead end!"

"I know," she said softly. "I know it is hard."

"But you know what else?" I snarled. "I get the suspicion that frigger Taryst knows more than he lets on! That he could give us information that would allow us to do our jobs but for some, idiotic, selfish reason, he holds it back! I don't know why but I have my ideas!"

Glaitis placed her elbow on her desk and cupped her jaw in her smooth, tender hand. A slight smile played over her full purple lips. "Really, young one?' she cooed. "And pray tell, what are these 'ideas'?"

I stiffened, I said more than I should have. But I did not stutter. I looked her straight in the eye and said: "That the information would damn him, that he is desperate to keep it secret so much, that if it was even slightly leaked out, his life would be jeopardised. That he could be branded as a heretic and a traitor." I sighed. "That's why."

My attention dropped to the carpet and waited for her response.

After what seemed an eternity, she finally said: "I have to say my young one, I am impressed."

"What?" I said, looking back up. Of all the responses that were the last, I had guessed.

"Yes, that you would have at least a little tact to figure out makes me believe that finally, my lessons seem to be getting through to you. I, myself, had come to suspect Taryst for quite some time but for you to figure it out all alone," she laughed.

I stood, seemingly frozen to the floor. Never had Glaitis complimented me like that before.

"Th-thanks?"

"That, young one. Is the true key to survival in our...line of work," she said. "The first rule, 'know your enemy'. It is a very simple and obvious statement, but you have learnt it's true meaning."

I winced with a curse, finally realising...

"You have it, child."

Her smile turned cruel.

"Everyone is your enemy."

I Leant on the wall of the dirty, smoggy alleyway and smoked a lho stick. My colleagues were yet to arrive, but I did not mind. I was early, and it allowed me time to do what I do best; think.

It was frigging typical of Glaitis to retract a compliment. After her words filtered through my numbed mind, pride started to well within me. My posture straightened, so straight, I stood taller than ever before, but then she said.

"But do not let it go to your head young Attelus, Xanthis Kaltos. For though I am not sure when you began to suspect Taryst. In all likelihood, it would be far too late."

"What?" and I was back to being hunched again.

She stood and approached me from around her desk; I could not help my eyes running up her lithe, full figured body.

Glaitis shook her head, she knew, she always frigging knew, "by now Attelus if you were alone, working out in the field and it took you this long to suspect your employer? You would be dead; you did well young one in this endeavour but next time..."

"Frig!," I snarled and sighed: "Try doing it a little quicker.".

"Indeed, and remember this piece of advice, young one and remember it well: 'trust nothing, suspect everything.'"

I nodded, wide-eyed.

"I will," was all I could manage.

"And Attelus, as much as I try to encourage you to try...think a little less. Do think on my words now," her face turned dark. "Think on them long and hard, now leave. I have much work to do."

I took the Lho stick with index finger and thumb.

"Trust nothing, suspect everything," I said. The irony was Glaitis meant herself too.

Is this what it meant to be an Assassin? Being some paranoid, psychotic, schizophrenic, trusting no one; not even yourself?

I sighed out smoke; it reminded me of my father. How he would act when some slightly suspicious stranger walked past our home. How he reacted when anyone but me came close. For the first time in a long time; I felt something other than anger at my father. I felt sorry for Serghar Kaltos.

Was he the product of this 'training'? No, I was beginning to think it was brainwashing. Was this why my father neglected to teach me the 'subtle arts?' He did not want me to be a lonesome monster like him?

I took the Lho stick and eyed it; I used to be a chain smoker. They helped me in my darker days. At Galitis' instruction I had quit (which seemed hypocritical as she encouraged the use of potentially deadly combat drugs) but since we came under Taryst's employ, I drifted back to the dirty habit, a coping mechanism indeed.

Was the life of an Assassin what I truly wanted?

I tapped ash off the Lho stick and put it back in my mouth.

I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

I inhaled the sweet smoke, took the dying smoke between index finger and thumb. Exhaled and flicked the stub onto the rockcrete ground.

I kept leaning against the wall, not moving to step it out. Elandria did it as she emerged from the shadows.

"Lost in your little world once more, eh?" she said.

"Not lost enough to miss your clumsy approach."

I could not see the expression on her face behind that cold, featureless mask but I could hazard a guess.

Elandria was many things, but socially intelligent was not one of them.

She stood for a few seconds; trying to make a coherent comeback and the best she came up with was: "why is the son of Serghar Kaltos smoking Lho? Does he think himself too good for the rules?"

My jaw set. I tried to keep my father's identity a secret, but Glaitis had to go and tell Elandria. Perhaps it was yet another "test" but what that bloody woman wanted to test exactly was a mystery; was it my patience? Or my skill at combat when I lost my patience?

I sighed contemptuously, and that riled her up.

"What does that mean?"

"It means what it means," my tone insultingly melancholic.

"Yeah!" she snarled. "Well let us see what it truly "means" when I separate your head from your shoulders!"

And she reached for her blades.

I grinned then in a blink, slid into a combat stance and drew my sword.

Then Garrakson suddenly seemed to appear between us.

Elandria and I yelped in fright and leapt back.

"That's enough kiddies," he said. "I think that we've had enough violence for today."

Then he turned to me, "and kid if you want to sheath your blade in her may I suggest using your "other" blade instead."

I felt my face go hot.

"What?" demanded Elandria, her wide, beautiful green eyes switching back and forth between Garrakson and I. "What is this 'other blade' you speak of, Garrakson? Attelus Kaltos only wields one. Is-is it the knife in his boot?"

"Try a little higher missy," said Garrakson and I blushed even worse.

But she still didn't get it.

Garrackson sighed, "alright let's get moving, kiddies. We've got exploits to report."

My face still seeming on fire and Elandria still confused. We slipped south, toward the "back way." The entrance designated to us dirty dogs of war. We were not good enough for the public entry.

Elandria and I walked on Garrakson's flanks; into the dirty, barely six-metre wide alleyway. We were aware of the cameras watching us. Thirteen of them, perched about five metres up on the grim, grey walls. I reminded myself of them every time; just in case.

We came to the entrance, a well-hidden set of double doors. Garrakson tugged open the panel hiding the keypad, and typed the access code.

Elandria and I kept watch. Which was fine with me. My back was to the gorgeous assassin. In my immature embarrassment, I could barely at look her and counted myself lucky. Her indoctrination had given her a naiveté of such personal matters.

Actually, on second thought, I was not lucky at all. Luck had abandoned me long ago.

I hissed a curse. Then could not help grin and shake my head.

Abruptly, I was brought into reality by the slight hissing of the opening doors and we silently slipped in.

We walked into what was once a maintenance entrance, now was a highly secure, fortified maintenance entrance.

If there was a literal embodiment of Taryst's paranoia: this was it. Mercenaries crawled throughout the ten metre wide, hundred metre long walkway. At every three metres: were waist high rockcrete walls. It was on a sharp incline, so each wall overlooked the last and twelve small balconies jutted from the walls: ten metres overhead. A sniper crouched in each; their Long Las rifles tracked us as we walked.

I hated the place. I would always try to find some way to sneak or fight through without getting evaporated by billions of las, solid projectile and high-velocity hot shot rounds; besides stealing a uniform or complete camouflage. I came up nil; it was as close to impregnable as I knew. It would take hundreds, perhaps thousands of Imperial Guardsmen to storm it and their casualties would be horrendous but it would work...eventually. That or an entire company of Space Marines but even they would suffer: a high yield hotshot round punches through power armour with ease.

Elandria and I silently walked through the crowd of highly armed and armoured mercenaries. But Garrakson seemed to greet each frigger in frigging turn. He knew them by name and stopped for idiotic small talk with them. I was almost glad at Callague's and Jarvus' demise; the walk would have been even longer with them.

After twenty long minutes, we arrived at the end. Here two servitors both with an autocannon for arms stood constant vigil at the doors.

They slid open, and Colonel Barhurst walked out. The grizzled old bastard approached with a warm grin and outstretched arms. But he was contradicted by the ten grim, faceless Storm Troopers escorting him.

"Ahh! Garrakson my good friend!" Barhurst exclaimed. He was well into his two hundred but the use of extensive and expensive rejuvenate treatments kept him looking in his mid-thirties. Though a heavily scarred and beaten man in his mid-thirties. According to my research, he was one of Taryst's longest-serving allies. He abandoned his duties as colonel in the Tamarsk 30th to join the rogue trader; so was wanted by the commissariat and the Inquisition for dereliction of duty. But thanks to Taryst's goodwill and huge influence he eluded justice so far.

I never liked Barhurst, the man was sycophancy incarnate. Taryst was the true commander, all Barhurst did was carry on the Rogue Trader's commands and when asked to do anything himself, he would pass it onto others. He was charismatic, friendly, but it was an obvious facade. How Taryst couldn't see the incompetence of his second was quite beyond me.

"How goes the hunt?"

"Another dead end," said Garrakson, the contempt in our squad leader's voice was well hidden, but not from me. "And we lost Callague and Jarvus."

Barhurst made an exaggerated frown; it was like an alien making a sick parody of human emotion. 'Sorry to hear my friend. Master Taryst is up in his grotto waiting for you."

Then Barhurst turned to Elandria and I, smiling smugly, "and you two know the drill."

I sighed, yes I frigging know, do you need to remind me every single time? I thought and my teeth clenched.

Hesitantly, I unstrapped my sheathed sword, placed it on the nearby table and slipped off my wrist mounted throwing knife compartments. Took my auto pistol from my shoulder holster then lastly and most hesitantly: my right boot which contained the hidden knife.

Elandria did it with even more aversion than I: letting go of her twin swords, her auto pistol and knife.

"Good!" said Barhurst. "You can head on up now."

And just to make sure, we had to file through a metal detector.

Every single damn day for six months we went through this shit. Saying it was quite depressing was a frigging understatement.

I might have to start on Obscura just to get over this monotony.

I shook away the thought. I have seen the damage that the drug can do. I have been through the damage it could do, and I will never go through that again.

Never.

In silence, we rode the up elevator the three hundred stories of Taryst's tower. On a hive world like Omnartus, buildings of such excessive calibre were almost a given. I was from an Agri world, though it was not without great cities of its own. Varander the capital of my home country: Velrosia was a bustling, beautiful metropolis. Varander sat on the north coast of lake Varander. A lake was so large it could be classed as a sea. I spent the majority of my teenage years living there.

I missed Varander. The last I had seen the city, it was reduced to rubble.

Then there was Varanier, the capital of Elbyra's largest nation: Maranger. That was a fantastic city, harsh and sparse. It was a metropolis of granite and grit an embodiment of its people.

Neither city was on terms with even the smallest of hives. Many packing ten times the population of Elbyra into an area the size of a Varanderian suburb.

Omnartus was dead. Millennia of intense colonisation, mining and pollution had destroyed its ecosystem. But when we rode this elevator, it would make my dreary days worth it. As we rose high enough to emerge from the pollution, I would glimpse the might of nature. That despite humanity's wanton destruction here still held a beauty of its own. The sun dominated and in the distance, the peaks of Omnartus' many mountains broke through to the clear air; like icy white islands in a sea of black and brown. But despite everything each mountaintop contained life: a one in a million plant, had the sheer power and audacity to survive in below zero temperatures. That it thrived despite the odds, was a testament.

Of course, I kept this romanticism private; no self-serving mercenary should be like this. Despite having seen so much death and grim darkness, I still held onto slight aspects of my sixteen-year-old self. The foolish, naive me before being forced to find out how horrible it is to live in this galaxy. That was why I was having second thoughts; I was beginning to doubt whether I could handle the damage this life could cause; physical and mental.

No, the damage it will cause.

I sighed, attention stapled to the world outside; hoping like hell my back facing to Elandria and Garrakson was enough to hide my emotions.

Then it happened, what I dreaded most: the end of the journey.

"300th story; Master Taryst's living quarters," said the elevator's pre-programmed, monotone voice as the ascent abruptly stopped. "Restricted access, retinal scan required."

My jaw clenched, and I looked up, seeing the three cameras crowding the elevator with their damnable presence.

Surely Taryst was watching the feed? Surely over the dozens of times, we have been up here, the rogue trader could discern who the hell we were?

I could tell Garrakson shared my teeth grinding frustration; the ex-guardsman stood and waited for about half a minute. Then with a heavy sigh, he pushed his face into the scanner.

"Employee 568; identified as Jeurat Garrakson," said the computer. "Access granted."

The doors slid open, and we filed out.

We entered Taryst's lavish living quarters. Elandria in the middle; Garrakson and I on her flanks. Red dominated Taryst's little world a deep, bloody crimson.

The windowless corridor was five metres wide and about fifteen in length. At the end was a thick crimson and gold curtain. I had never been through those curtains. Taryst would always meet us out here. I knew Garrakson had and I was sorely tempted to ask the ex-guardsman but could not pluck up the courage. Well him and Glaitis.

Two straight-backed guards stood in front of the curtains. They were in golden, ostentatiously emblazoned carapace armour,. They held equally fancy hell guns. I had never seen their faces nor talked to them, but I could not help admire their discipline and stoicism.

Curiosity ate at me. What was beyond the curtains? It could be anything: a secret shrine dedicated to the Ruinous Powers? Or perhaps a den of sin and hedonism? (That could be a shrine to one god, but I would rather keep from uttering its name)

But I was not sure if I wanted to know. No, I wanted to see, but whether I should was an entirely different question.

I was finding Ignorance was very much bliss, in this galaxy (which is ironically against Glaitis' teachings)

I sighed. It was far too late for that; I had long passed that event horizon. Short of having myself lobotomised, there was no going back.

Just like my dear old damnable dad.

"GREETINGS MY DEAR FRIENDS!" The deep voice abruptly boomed, and the boss himself flourished out of the curtains.

I winced; not in fright but contempt. Every time he would greet us this way. And it every single time it smacked of utterly forced, fake enthusiasm.

In all honesty, I had come to suspect Taryst of withholding secrets right from my first week of employment and how could I bloody not? Even if I had told Glaitis' then, it would have been too late in her lofty opinion.

"My friends!' he echoed as he approached us, "my friends!"

Taryst stood over two metres tall. Was big boned and corded with muscle; he cut an intimidating figure.

His strong-jawed face was plain. His tanned skinned, complemented by a finely maintained black moustache and goatee. His smile glaringly bright and like his greeting, fake.

During the months, I noticed Taryst had aged; now there were bags under his eyes and a wrinkle here and there. Being utterly paranoid all the time would do that.

I wouldn't trust him as far as I could frigging throw him.

"Attelus, Jeurat!" Taryst cried as he came close, his two guards in tow. He paused at Elandria and with surprising dexterity eclipsed her hand in his, then lightly kissed the back it. "Mamzel Elandria, what news have you brought me today?"

My jaw set as I saw Elandria's pale skin blushing like mad.

Garrakson cleared his throat; he was the only one used to the Rogue Traders over the top extroversion. "My lord, we have arrived at yet another dead end."

Almost violently, Taryst let go of Elandria's hand. Stood and turned on his heels, so his back faced us. "And Callague, Javus?"

"I am not sure sir."

Taryst spun on Garrakson, "and what does, 'I am not sure,' mean?"

Garrakson shrugged, "I don't know sir, meaning that they are either still lying in the pools of blood we left them in or in a Magistratum mortuary either/or."

His dead tone shocked me so much my jaw dropped.

Taryst grimaced slightly and for a second, looked his three hundred years.

"I-I am sorry to hear that."

Garrakson stayed stoic, kept his gaze locked to Taryst's.

Taryst flinched away, "and as well as no news on your target?"

"Zilch," answered Garrakson. "No sign of this Brutis "Bones" yet sir he is quite the enigma."

Now that is the frigging understatement of the millennia, I thought.

"Then what exactly happened?"

Garrakson sniffed, "they went immediately hostile sir. Ambushing us as we entered their base of operations, even with our cover. We managed to fight our way to their cogitator bank but found the memory all wiped. I haven't seen such ferocity since I fought in the guard sir. From what I gathered if we captured and tried to interrogate one of the hammers we would be wasting our time. They were like cultists, sir. This Brutis "bones" must be getting very influential in the local gangs if they will fight for him like that. The crazy bastards."

Taryst looked desperately at Elandria and I.

"And you two agree?"

Elandria nodded and blushed to the floor. My jaw set again and said simply: "yes."

I could not bother with more detail; I just wanted to get away from Taryst.

Taryst grimaced disapprovingly.

"Alright another dead end it is then!" he exclaimed with forced humour. "And quite literally too!"

The only one laughing was Elandria, both Garrakson and I, not so amused.

"Okay then and I thank you all for the update, and I apologise for Callague and Jarvus, they were good men." Then he turned away and began back to his curtains. "Dismissed, all."

"Oh, and young Attelus," he said, suddenly stopping his tracks and making me halt in mine. "Come! I very much wish to speak to you!"

That was the last thing I wanted to hear.

[stevetervet]

How do I love thee? England, let me count the ways.

There are moments in everyone’s life which you can look back on and remember exactly where you were and what you were doing. It only takes one sound, one image or even the mere thought and you are transported back in an instant.

For me, this happens every two years. It is called supporting England in a major international football tournament.

In 1996, I was only allowed to stay up for the first half of the semi-final against Germany. I went to bed having seen Stefan Kuntz cancel out Alan Shearer’s early goal but only found out the result on the following morning’s news bulletin.

Two years later, Richard Pugh and I were the lucky students in our Year 8 Art class to be sat near enough the radio so as to be able to follow the commentary of the group game against Tunisia. When Paul Scholes curled in the clincher, we passed messages down the line to our class-mates with silent fist pumps and the international sign language for ‘2-0.’

Michael Owen’s historic goal against Argentina and David Beckham’s subsequent dismissal, which preceded the dreaded penalties, had me listening through headphones on the bottom bunk - the full game this time. We deserved to go through and there were tears when David Batty became the latest to suffer infamy from 12 yards.

Fast forward to the World Cup in 2006 and I was stood in a giant fan park in Gelsenkirchen among 50,000 sunburnt Englishmen (seriously, Rachel would have been in a minority of less than 1% females). Many fans were so drunk they had passed out and didn’t witness any of the quarter-final against Portugal. The party atmosphere turned ugly the second Cristiano Ronaldo fired in the winning penalty and we realised the dream was over. Bus windows were smashed and we were lucky to make it back to the train station. Rooney’s stamp on Carvalho, Ronaldo’s wink as he was sent off... it was like red rag to a bull in that sun-baked German field.

By the time 2010 came around, we were married and had moved to Kent. An appalling performance against Algeria in the group saw England booed off by the many thousands who had paid good money to fly to South Africa. This time, Rooney criticised the fans live on air as he walked off the field. It was a new low under Fabio Capello and Germany easily sorted us out in the knockout stages.

Following Euro 2012 during our (first) year in Australia was almost impossible due to the time difference between Ukraine and Melbourne - but more of this later. Still, we sat through yet more penalty pain as the two Ashleys - Young and Cole - came up short against the Italians in another quarter-final which proved one step too far.

Heartbreak turned to anger in the following years as we were knocked out before even completing the group stage in Brazil 2014 and then somehow managed to plunge even more miserable depths by going out to Iceland - Iceland! - in the next Euros. By now we had stumbled upon the combination of watching the TV coverage but immediately switching to Radio 5 Live on the final whistle. Not only was the analysis more honest and insightful but you were kept abreast of developments in the stadium after the final whistle, for instance the terrifying scenes caused by charging Russian hooligans after we’d draw with them in Marseille. Mark Chapman’s anchorage and Chris Waddle’s rants would go on to become our regular soundtrack, especially on the nights England went out.

Ivy was three when Gareth Southgate led us to the World Cup semi-finals in 2018. Rachel was away the night we played Colombia and finally managed to win a penalty shootout. The match kicked off at 6pm, from memory, so most of my day was spent working to a strict schedule that had Ivy in bed and virtually asleep by 5.45 - much earlier than normal - so I could be in position downstairs from the national anthems. I managed to stifle my yells of delight when the shootout went our way but did remove my shirt, such was the shock. Ivy watched the highlights of Jordan Pickford’s heroics over breakfast the next morning and declared that was wanted to be a ‘lady goalkeeper’ when she grew up.

But, if truth be told, she didn’t really enjoy the experience of watching games in my company. My tendancy to leap around and shout at the key moments scared her - it’s pretty out of character, in fairness - and I had not even spoken to her about Euro 2020 in the build-up to the tournament which, once again, found us battling the time zones from Australia, now our permanent residence.

However, the last few weeks have been a shared experience unlike any other, and I’m sure millions up and down the UK - and many more ex-pats around the world, for a variety of reasons - could say the same.

The majority of England’s games kicked off at 5am (2000 BST); I set an early alarm, Rachel got up too and there was Ivy alongside us, wrapped in a dressing-gown, blanket or whatever she had dragged from her room at that hour of the night. She knew none of the players at the start of the tournament but was soon querying why Phil Foden had been left on the bench against Scotland. She was asking for Three Lions to be played after the Germany game, decided Harry Kane was her favourite player after his brace against Ukraine in Rome and chastised Declan Rice and Kalvin Phillips at times during the semi-final triumph over Denmark back at Wembley. All the time in her pyjamas with the sun still some way from rising over New South Wales.

As we approached the final, she knew the entire starting XI and wanted to know if Bukayo Saka would retain his place on the right against Italy. News of Foden’s injury did not go down well.

And so it was, in the wee small hours of my 36th birthday, I found myself behind the wheel of the only car on the streets of Albury at a 24-hour McDonald’s drive-through for breakfast supplies and extra strong coffee with 5 Live once again bringing the Wembley build-up to the far side of the world. At times like this, in moments like this, that vast distance back to London is evident more than ever, yet we felt very much connected to the team nurtured by Southgate and which conducts itself in a way which makes me proud to be English. It is the dignity and integrity of the players, as much as their performances, which has been heart-warming this past month.

What a ride it has been. I have looked forward so much to every early start, never wanted the journey to end, always wanted one more game, one more celebration, one more rendition of Sweet Caroline. A staggering 30 million people watched the final on the BBC and ITV combined; there are few sports teams around the globe that have such power to bring a nation together. The All Blacks and India’s cricket team, perhaps. Because, in these moments, as Luke Shaw sent us leaping off the sofa in the second minute, roaring and punching the air, as Leonardo Bonucci bundled in the equaliser which punctured the balloon of optimism, as we shuffled nearer the edge of our seats during extra-time but barely uttered a word to each other, we are not customers, we are not spectators, we are not even fans. We are England. This is us, and what happens in these moments is etched into our identity.

Not penalties, we agonised, not again. Ivy kept smiling and clapping during the final coin toss and stood holding her Euro 2020 colouring sheet as encourgament to the takers, pointing at the trophy. “I want Kane to have this,” she whispered.

But the script which has become so familiar in our lifetime was played out yet again; Rashford, Sancho and Saka the unfortunate three to miss their penalties. Why does it always have to end like this? Ivy cried too. Welcome to the club. This is England.

Because like all those tournaments listed above, we will never forget where we were on 12 July 2021, when England played in their first final for 55 years. It will be the next trip through that Macca’s drive-through, memories of setting Ivy’s ‘Gro Clock’ to wake her at 4.30am, the haunting images of a distraught Saka being comforted by Southgate which bring it flooding back.

Shame on those who racially abused the penalty missers in the hours after the game; so much unifying work done by Southgate and the squad felt like it had been undone. But when Ivy’s prayer at bedtime was for ‘Rashford, Sancho and Saka as they return to their families’ it brought a different sort of tear to the eye: absolute pride in the young men whose tenacity and humility on the biggest stage has inspired my little girl and so many others like her.

Following England is often gut-wrenching, occasionally exhilarating, always utterly unforgettable.

Football’s Coming Home? The feeling never went away.

[the-desolated-quill]

A Town Called Mercy - Doctor Who blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

Toby Whithouse writing a Western episode? Now this should be exciting!

...

Pity it isn’t.

Okay, that’s not entirely fair. It’s not a bad premise and the first half of A Town Called Mercy is actually pretty good for the most part. A cyborg gunslinger is threatening the nearby town of Mercy, refusing to let anyone out unless they hand over an alien doctor called Kahler-Jex. It’s a great setup and there’s a lot to love. Mercy itself looks incredible. I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for Westerns, and this captures the best of the genre. The mysterious stranger that walks into town, the dark antihero out for revenge, but has a kind heart underneath, the morbid undertaker, the noble sheriff trying to keep the peace, it’s all there. Not even Matt Smith’s childish goofiness could ruin it for me. I also love the Gunslinger. He’s a sympathetic character and the makeup design is brilliant. One of the best ‘monster’ designs I’ve ever seen in this show. Ben Browder was good as the sheriff Isaac and I did initially like the character of Jex, played by Adrian Scarborough (Look @furrychimp, it’s Mr. Jolly from Psychoville! XD).

Then comes the moral dilemma, which starts off so promisingly. Turns out Jex, the nice, cuddly alien doctor who gave Mercy electricity and heating and a cure for cholera, is actually a war criminal. The man responsible for performing brutal experiments on his own people in order to win a war, and the Gunslinger is in fact one of his victims out for revenge. Awkward.

There’s a lot of potential there, isn’t there? Much more interesting and complex than the Daleks wanting to take over the Earth for the ten billionth time. Unfortunately this is all undermined by Whithouse apparently not trusting the audience to understand this dilemma for themselves. A lot of this episode seems to consist of Jex blatantly spelling out for us in black and white either things we already know or things we could have worked out for ourselves.

“It would be so much simpler if I was just one thing, wouldn't it? The mad scientist who made that killing machine, or the physician who's dedicated his life to serving this town. The fact that I'm both bewilders you."

Yeah. Thanks for that. Perhaps you should go on Mastermind. Name: Kahler-Jex. Specialist Subject: The Fucking Obvious.

Sitting the audience down like we’re fucking idiots and explaining all the moral quandaries to us just lessens the impact of it. It’s annoying. For instance, it’s possible to draw comparisons between Jex’s actions and the Doctor’s in the Time War. It’s a nice subtle thing that makes the Doctor’s behaviour that much more impactful and the conflict much more interesting. Or at least it could have been if Jex didn’t draw attention to it with his clunky and cliched ‘looking at you is like looking into a mirror’ line. How about crediting the audience with some intelligence?

So the Doctor gets pissed off and chucks Jex over the line before pointing a gun at him. And like with Solomon’s death in Dinosaurs On A Spaceship, people for some reason have a problem with this. Okay, time out for a minute. Have any of you lot ever actually watched Doctor Who before? I don’t know where you’ve got this idea that the Doctor is a gun fearing pacifist from, but it’s grade A bollocks. The Doctor has done violent things before. The Doctor has even used a gun before. Okay, he only resorts to those actions if there’s no other choice and will always try to find a peaceful solution if he can, but he’s never been above getting his hands dirty. For some strange reason, over time people have taken this from a man who only resorts to violence when he has no other choice to a man who NEVER resorts to violence EVER.

The thing is it’s one thing for the fans to hold this blatantly incorrect opinion that the Doctor is a pacifist, but it’s another thing entirely when the writers start buying into that bullshit too. First there’s Amy who asks “since when did killing someone become an option?”, which is just a profoundly odd thing to ask. What, did the millions of Cybermen that the Doctor killed in A Good Man Goes To War in order to find her not count? What about all the Silence who died in Day Of The Moon? What about Solomon in the previous episode? That’s quite a selective memory you’ve got there Amy. And then later on during the mandatory lynch mob scene, we get the Doctor dropping the clunker that ‘violence doesn’t end violence’, which is just beyond moronic. Look, no sane minded person wants to resort to violence. Nobody wants to go to war or fight people deep down. Of course we should always try to find a peaceful solution and diplomacy is great when it works, but sometimes that’s just not an option. We sometimes have to resort to violence in order to defend ourselves or for the greater good. It’s not ideal, but that’s the reality of life. I’m not saying the Doctor needs to be a violent antihero or anything. What I am saying is that both the writers and the fans need to stop over simplifying the Doctor’s character and the conflicts he encounters to such an idiotic degree.

So back to what I was saying, the Doctor points a gun at Jex, which I have no problem with by the way and neither should you (besides the Doctor reels it back in when he says he genuinely doesn’t know if he could pull the trigger, so it’s still very much in character thank you very much), and Amy starts to scold him for his behaviour. On the surface this seems to be a powerful character moment for Amy, but if you look closely it actually doesn’t work at all. See the Doctor raises a very good point, saying he wants to honour the victims first and that he agonises over the people who have died because of his mercy. This is something the show rarely touches on. The Doctor often moralises over whether it’s right to kill villains like the Daleks or the Master and usually shows mercy, which is all very well, but he never takes into account the number of people who die as a result of his merciful actions. I think this is the first time in the show’s history that the Doctor has ever acknowledged this. That his mercy toward enemies like the Daleks have led to some truly horrific consequences. At a glance it looks like Amy’s talk about how they need to be better than Jex addresses this, but it actually doesn’t because that’s not an answer to the point the Doctor has raised. She basically just reiterates the Doctor’s usual position. That doing good now lets you off of any negative consequences later on. This isn’t an answer to the dilemma, but the problem is the Doctor treats it as though it is. What’s the point of raising big questions if you’re just going to gloss over them?

It’s at this point the entire episode starts to fall apart. The minute Jex is revealed to be a war criminal, he suddenly morphs into this pantomime villain constantly trying to goad the Doctor only to then revert back to his nice, cuddly self at the end when it’s time for him to make his honourable sacrifice. This isn’t a morally grey character. This is more like dissociative identity disorder. Even the Gunslinger’s character starts to become a shambles. The rules surrounding his morality don’t make the slightest bit of sense. He creates a line around the town and orders them to hand Jex over to him so no innocent lives will be lost, but there’s a moment where Jex is is standing right in front of the Gunslinger inside the line. Why doesn’t the Gunslinger just shoot him? The only thing stopping him is a line of his own making. Then later he makes a mockery of the whole ‘no innocent lives’ rule by marching right into town and threatening to kill everyone unless they hand Jex over, which begs the question why he didn’t just do that in the first place.

And what’s the Doctor’s plan? Get everyone to put on face paint and run around to distract the Gunslinger while Jex escapes. Fuck me, it’s just as well the Gunslinger did show mercy in the end with the townsfolk, otherwise the Doctor would have been responsible for more deaths thanks to his own mercy (oh the irony). Also, face paint? I thought the Gunslinger was tracking Jex via his clothes. Now it’s facial markings? In fact, doesn’t the Gunslinger already know what Jex looks like? Why not just search for him specifically? He had no problem picking the Doctor out using his advanced targeting, facial recognition software thing. Why not do the same with Jex? It’s all just daft.

I’m really annoyed by this. Everything started off so well. All the ingredients were there for an intelligent, morally complex episode as well as a great tribute to the Western genre, but it’s all ultimately ruined by some truly sloppy writing on Whithouse’s part. Damn it!

[emilyclose-hnd2-photography]

Who am I? Influences

One of my in influences for my “Who Am I?” brief was anime and cosplay, as it holds a special place in my heart. During the ages of 12-16 i was often made fun of for liking anime and reading manga. I was heavily bullied by it. Looking back on old documents i found a reflective essay I had written for my Advance Higher English folio. It is a bit long but I think it sums up who I am.

“Anime is an interest I had dear to my heart. Anime is a Japanese animation which is targeted towards more mature audiences. Unlike Western cartoons, anime has more in-depth story lines and have far superior detail. At the age of seven, I was given a VHS tape of “Sailor Moon”. As I watched it I was instantly captivated by this girl who was a normal high schooler by day and turned into a Sailor Senshi by night who fought for “love and justice in the name of the moon!”. Sadly, I lost my connection to “Sailor Moon” as I grew up. At twelve years of age, I rediscovered that familiar sailor outfit in my school library, however it was in the form of a book which read backwards and that when my obsession began. After reading the manga book, which is a Japanese comic that anime is based on, I craved to find out what happened next and what other Sailor Senshi where to be discovered. That’s when I finally chosen my favourite character from the series, Sailor Mars. I loved the way she would protect her friends and how she had a soft side to her hard exterior. I soon began to get suggestions for different anime, one which was a new anime “Attack on Titan”. After watching it I was in awe. The animation was beautifully drawn especially the setting of the series. I was enchanted by the detail of every leaf on a tree and the colours sunsets, even the little floating embers from fires impressed me. The plot twists where also very unexpected. It made me feel a turmoil of emotions which no series I has done to me. I had been allured by a raven-haired character who is still my favourite till this day. Levi Ackerman, who was the captain of the “Survey Corps”. I was drawn to the mysterious man and how he managed to look unfazed when losing his entire squad to the fate of death. After watching several anime series, I can say the reason I love it so much is because of the variety of art styles, as others are more detailed than others. An example of this is Sailor Mars or Rei Hino, has very big eyes and soft facial features and a love heart shaped face. Whereas Levi Ackerman has much narrower eyes and very defined jawline. I love the fact that no two anime characters have the same personality or facial features, as Western cartoon characters are very formulaic. Anime also allowed me to escape the harsh realities of the world and I considered it to be my sanctuary. The various art styles allowed my passion for art to grow as I was drawing in so many styles.

I was already a little ashamed when people began to laugh at me for my passion towards anime and that I liked a fictional male over a real one. I had purchased posters of Levi and drew him whenever I could. This was my weakness and their strength when arguing. When showing them the posters or merchandise I would earn a scoff or an eye roll. I took this to my heart and decided not to show them anything to do with him again or talk about him. I remember being called a freak for liking him. I remember the constant mockery when I wore a necklace from the “Attack on Titan”.  I remember taking it of before I sat down when them at lunch. I felt disheartened to wear it near them. I went so far to swap my backpack which had “Attack on Titan” and symbol plastered on for a “normal” bag pack. I felt so ashamed to own items relating to that series or any other. The positivity of being unique by liking anime faded instantly and I felt disgusted and ashamed to be me. The small doodles I drew of my favourite characters in jotters were scribbled out. I didn’t want to remind myself of them. In hindsight I was stupid to succumb to their nasty words and hide my interests. I was 14 and had never lost friends before. I just wanted to fit in and hope that changing myself will allow things to get back to normal. Looking back on that situation makes me sad as I was willing to become a completely different person, so they would accept me. Nothing went back to normal. I had two choices to make after that incident. I either disown anime completely and never welcome it back into my life again. Or let it consume me again and allow it to be a part of me. I chose to embrace anime again.

We all hide an aspect of ourselves when trying to fit in or make friends. We may hear our friends make fun of something we like, and we choose to say nothing in fear of being singled out for having that interest. People wear a false façade to fit in with society as they are frightened to revel who they really are. If these social standards are not met and individuals are branded as “weird” or a “freak”. It takes a lot of different people with different interests to make up this wold. If we all liked the same thing, this world would be bland and predictable. It is sorrowful to think there are people who constantly hide their interests and are too frightened to express themselves. I am lucky that I am a stubborn person and I wasn’t allowing them to win. I began to get back into anime and slowly added merchandise from series to my life, like a necklace or some earrings. It is always heart warming when you hear people murmur behind you “Oh look! She has an anime bag!” or bold people who exclaim with a bright smile “I love your bag!” I hope they never feel reluctant to embrace anime or any other interests they have. By someone simply complementing my bag or necklace it made me feel happy and special again, knowing there are people out there that won’t let others get them down. People are too quick to judge others without listening or doing research. Just because they don’t understand the interests it doesn’t give them the right to look down on others or make fun of them. It is disheartening when asking someone about their interests and when they begin to explain in detail they stop or begin to waver. It shows that someone has previously told them before they talk too much about their passion or nobody cares. Everyone should take time and listen to others about their interests and encourage them to speak.

Stories began to circulate on why I left. Not true of course, but nobody listened to my side of the story or when they did they chose not to believe me. I have had enough with tears and people calling me names. I do worry that people will think I am a horrible person who can’t make at least one friend. I do push these negative thoughts out of my head. Looking back on that situation for a fourteen-year-old, I was foolish for not seeking help, being that age is already a struggle as you feel the whole world is against you. I didn’t consult my guidance teacher which was a stupid move on my behalf. The situations made me more of a positive person. I inform people that if they ever have a problem with their friends they should come to me as the sensation of isolation was disheartening and I don’t want them to experience it. No one should ever go through what I went their self. It was agonising knowing I had no one to speak to or sit with for a bit. Having two people against you isn’t pleasant never mind four at the same time. I am glad I never went back to them as I would be miserable all my school life and I would have lost my unique identity of watching anime. I do think of a life if I had chosen to abandon anime and remained with the group it looks miserable and colourless as I wouldn’t be able to express who I really am. Sailor Moon taught me that no matter what situation we are in, we should all care for each other and let no one feel bad on who they are.”

Looking back on this essay made me feel a turmoil of emotions. Many questions began to circle my thoughts: “Who would I be if I stopped liking anime?” “Would i be as creative?” “Am I too old to like it?”. This is why I chose this as my Who Am I? project as it is me, people know me or my Attack on Titan bag and green hoodie. 

[woodentrain]

OBSABH- What’s up next?

AKA ‘Woodentrain lists about a thousand times in chapter 20 of UMFB when we think ‘I wonder what Viktor’s thinking then?’

I re-read the last few chapters of UMFB last week and despite having read it about a dozen times already, there are things I’d forgotten.  And things I remembered, but I didn’t remember when they happened. In her notes Kaz said this is a transitional chapter but I have to say it’s one of my favourites.  So much happens in it.  I mean, I could sum it up as ‘the one where they meet at the GPF and Worlds and have sex both times and that’s about it’, and that wouldn’t be inaccurate, but there’s SO MUCH MORE going on here.  So, as a reminder, I thought I’d make a quick unintentionally rather lengthy post about what happened in chapter 10 and therefore what we can anticipate in chapter 4 of OBSABH:

Yuuri wins gold in the GPF against Viktor for the first time.  And the subsequent banquet is interrupted by the ‘classy hand jobs’ scene.  One minute they’re having an actual nice, friendly conversation like sensible grown-ups, then next thing you know Yuuri is propositioning Viktor and that’s that.  This is the one where Viktor really thinks about it before disappearing off with Yuuri to the bathroom.  And by ‘he really thinks about it’ I mean ‘he goes from I swear I will never ever sleep with Yuuri again to OK yeah let’s do this in the space of about 5 seconds.’ Even Yuuri, oblivious that he is to most things, notices that there’s some thought process going on in Viktor’s head- but I can’t wait to see Viktor’s thought process.

(This is long I’m afraid so you can find everything from classy hand jobs onwards below the cut)

That brings us to ‘classy hand jobs’.  In this scene a lot goes on, and the sex stuff isn’t really the main event.  Just look at everything else that’s going on here (look I made 7 bullet points and not a cock in sight):

Gentle kissing. A bit of a contrast from the last time.

‘You’re exactly like I always knew you were’. Like what?  I don’t know if it’s me being a bit dim but I have absolutely no idea what conclusion Viktor draws from this.  

‘Oh.  Uh, mine too. Is occupied I mean’.  What relevance does Viktor think this has? Phichit is at the competition with Yuuri, and Viktor has noticed Phichit’s presence at competitions in the past, so it’s not unreasonable to assume he probably noticed this time too.  So wouldn’t he just think Yuuri is sharing a room with his friend?  Or does he think something else is going on (whispers: other lovers?)

‘You’re so beautiful’.  Viktor has been thinking this for years- but why has he suddenly decided to say it out loud?  And what else was he thinking when ‘he trailed off as though he couldn’t find the words’ ?

‘We need to go’ perhaps seems like an echo of the previous chapter, when Yuuri couldn’t wait to get out of there as soon as the deed was done.  How does Viktor feel about this?  And then it gets even worse...

‘No-one can know’.  I mean, it is reasonable not to want people to know you snuck away from the banquet for a hand job in a bathroom.  But Viktor’s going to be thinking that Yuuri means something like ‘I don’t want anybody to ever know about what you and I are doing’.  And that’s going to make him feel pretty crappy.

‘Give me your phone’.  Why now?  What does Viktor think Yuuri will do with his number?  Does he expect Yuuri to offer his number back, or does he get a surprise later when Yuuri sends him a message?

Then- where’s Viktor’s head at after this?  Is his resolve to avoid Yuuri broken a little, or did the banquet just further cement his idea of Yuuri not wanting anything but sex?

Does he agonise over whether to send that good luck text message?  Is he surprised to get one back?

Does Chris tell Viktor that Yuuri didn’t remember the Olympic party- and if so, what does Viktor make of that?

The rest of the partially-overheard-conversation between Chris and Viktor.  I need to know this so badly.

‘Floor 3.  Room 124’.  What made Viktor send this message?  And how surprised is he that Yuuri comes to his room? ‘You came’.  He seems pretty shocked…

How long does he wait by the door?  Or is he actually by the door because he’s about to leave because he’s had enough of waiting?

The first thing Yuuri does, before even saying a word, is take off his jacket.  Is Viktor thinking ‘Well, he’s taking off his clothes already, it’s pretty clear he’s only here for one thing…’?

‘Do you want this Yuuri?’  Yuuri says it’s pretty obvious he does.  If Viktor thinks Yuuri only wants him for sex then presumably he’s in no doubt either.  So why is he asking like this?

Viktor’s clearly thinking a lot of stuff during this scene and I really want to know what.  Yuuri wonders if ‘maybe it was Viktor that was desperate to take back control this time’ (because Yuuri has beaten him on the ice and he sort of assumes that is the only reason someone might want to have sex like this).  Viktor is in ‘such a strange mood, demanding and desperate and pinning Yuuri down as though force alone could make him stay’.  

And then- and this must be important- he flips Yuuri over ‘so that he was pressed face down into the bed’.  Yuuri’s face is pressed into the mattress- he mentions this more than once.  When I read UMFB I thought nothing of this.  But having read this bit of chapter 3 of OBSABH? ‘...finally coming with a bitten off sigh but turning his head away as he did so, refusing to look Viktor in the eye.  As if he didn’t want to look at Viktor’s face as he came, as if he didn’t want to be reminded why was currently lying under him, whose body he was using to bring himself pleasure’.  It can’t be coincidence that next time they’re in bed, Viktor flips Yuuri over to a position where he can’t see his face.  I mean, Viktor might just fancy a change of position, but somehow I think there’s more to it than that...?

Then Viktor talks. You know the bit I mean.  “You give yourself so freely to them.  To everybody… But you came.  When I asked, you came.  I don’t have anything else.”  Viktor whispered.  “But I have this.”  We need further elaboration of these thoughts, please, Viktor.  I figure this probably sums up his mood for the entire scene- but I need so much to know exactly what’s going on in his head.  

‘Stay… please’.  Did he decide to ask Yuuri to stay on the spur of the moment, at the moment when he thought Yuuri was about to get dressed and leave?  Or did he plan it all along- ‘I’ll ask him to my room, and if he comes, I’ll ask him to stay? That way I’ll know exactly what he wants (or doesn’t want) from this, one way or another.’

Dark Eyes.  Not much to say about this apart from, again, I’m dying to know what Viktor was thinking during this bit.  

‘Beautiful view out of my hotel room window this morning’.  How is Viktor feeling this morning?  Where does he think he stands now?

So that’s all the things I want to know.  It got so long- but then it’s a long chapter with a deceptively large amount of stuff going on.  

I’m just briefly going to mention the speculation that’s been going on on Kaz’s asks- why does Viktor think Yuuri knows he loves him?  And I say briefly because my answer is- I got nothing.  No idea.  I love when there are big things like this that I miss, and then when it all becomes clear it’s so obvious.  So... we’ll see.  I hope!

Oh and finally- did I mention that this chapter has one of my favourite lines in?  ‘He was woefully underprepared for an illicit encounter in a hotel room with the one man who made him break all of his rules with such casual ease’.  Makes me laugh every time.  I love it.

[robinhoodrevisited]

Woodman’s Rescue Remedy (pt.4)

Sherwood Forest. Commander's Hut. Lexa: "Trebuchets. You're sure?" Clarke: "Yes. We have to start evacuating now." Lexa: "No." Clarke: (Incredulous:) "What do you mean no, Lexa?" Lexa: "If we evacuate, they'll know we have a spy inside their walls." Clarke: "Not necessarily." Lexa: (Looks away:) "We can't risk it." (Lexa walks over to her desk and Clarke follows.) Clarke: "What's the point of having a spy on the inside if we can't act on what they tell us?" Lexa: "Are the Black Knights assembled in the castle? Has Prince John declared himself King? (Clarke shakes her head:) Then we do not show our hand any more than we already have. The stunt you pulled with the Prince's soldiers already exposed us." Clarke: "Even Vaisey would've found out you were here eventually." Lexa: "With our numbers depleted the element of surprise was our greatest strength. The clan leaders resolve is weakening. It took everything I had just to bring them all to the table here today. We evacuate now and the alliance of the clans will disintegrate. They'll all return to their homelands and we'll be right back where we started." Clarke: "So what are you saying? That we just do nothing? Let the Sheriff's men bomb us?" Lexa: (Not looking at Clarke:) "It'll be a blow. But our army will be safe inside the woods. And it will inspire them." Clarke: (Softly:) "And what about us?" Lexa: (Turning to Clarke:) "We slip away. Right now. (Grabbing a cloak from a chair:) Put this on." (Lexa moves toward the back entrance of the hut.) Clarke: (Following:) "Lexa, wait. You don't understand, I convinced Isabella to spy for us based on the idea that it would save lives." Lexa: "Clarke, sometimes you have to concede a battle to win a war." Clarke: (Shaking her head:) "No (Thinking desperately:) We can inform the leaders of the clans. Pick a rendezvous point in the woods. Each of them can slip out separately." Lexa: "And how many more people will they tell? Where do we draw the line?" Clarke: (Frustrated:) "Well then cancel the meeting! Start a fire, something!" Lexa: (Turning and walking away:) "Clarke, we don't have time for this." Clarke: (Grabbing Lexa's arm to get her attention:) "No, this is wrong!" Lexa: (Steps closer to Clarke, her voice a whisper:) "It's also our only choice, and you know it. You could have warned everyone out there, but you didn't. You said nothing. This is war, Clarke, people die. You showed true strength today, don't let emotion stop you now. It's time to go." (Lexa turns and heads out the back door of the hut. Clarke stands torn for a moment then, reluctantly, she follows the Commander.)

Nottingham Town. Sarah’s house. Interior. (Joseph opens his bag on the table and pulls out a bottle of clear liquid, revealing the Nightwatchman’s mask still in the bag. He steps over to the soup kettle as Much enters with around loaf of bread. Joseph hides the bottle in his hand at his hip as Much steps over to smell the soup.) Much: “Hm. Smells good. Are you a cook?” (Much goes over to the table, closes Joseph’s bag without noting its contents, and clears the table, putting the bag beside it.) Joseph: “No. I’m a man of science.” Much: “Science? What, er, sort of science?” Joseph: (Pours a generous amount of the liquid into the soup.) “The science of elimination.” Much: “What’s that?” Joseph: “Finding ways to get rid of dirt. (Much sets out bowls and plates. Walking over to the table while keeping the bottle hidden, then slipping it back into his bag:) Have you noticed there’s dirt everywhere? We have to get rid of it. And there are people who will make the necessary difficult decisions, who don’t need to be popular.” Much: (Setting out spoons:) “Well, you can talk to the Sheriff. He doesn’t need to be popular.” (Joseph grabs Much’s arm.) Joseph: “With the right tool, we can clean this country, create a new England.” Much: (Pauses, confused by Joseph’s meaning.) “Well, you should definitely talk to the Sheriff. (Joseph pats Much’s shoulder, realising he’s not going to understand, and walks back to the soup kettle. Much watches him a moment, then goes outside. Calls out the door:) Food!” Exterior. (Robin, Djaq and Marian are attending to the sick. Little John comes round the corner.) Little John: “Food.” Marian: (to Djaq:) “I’ll take over.” (Djaq relinquishes her spot to Marian. Robin stays.)  

Marian: (to Robin:) “You organised this?“ Robin: "We had hospitals in the Holy Land. I thought that’d be the last time I’d see them.” Marian: “How did you know there wasn’t some kind of infectious disease?” Robin: (Shakes his head.) “I didn’t.” Marian: “That’s brave.” Robin: (Scoffs quietly.) “How did you know?” Marian: “I didn’t.” (Joseph arrives.) Joseph: “Robin, you eating?” (Marian recognises Joseph and quietly slinks into the dark corner behind her.) Robin: “In a moment. The others can start.“ Joseph: (Insolently:) "No, I need you (Robin scowls back at him. Congenially:) I mean, you should eat.” Robin: “I’ll be there in a moment.” (Joseph leaves. Robin shakes his head as Marian reappears from her corner.) Marian: (Whispers:) “Robin. Robin, I know that man. I’ve seen him before in the castle. (Robin gives her his complete attention.) He’s advising the Sheriff.” (Robin quickly solves the puzzle about Joseph’s strange behaviour and the poisoned pies.)

Sarah’s house. Interior. (Joseph is handing out bowls of soup and bread to Djaq, Little John and Much.) Joseph: (Walking through them towards the stairs:) “And the Lord said, `Take, eat, do this in memory of me.’” (Little John dunks his bread in the soup.) Much: “You make it sound like the Last Supper.” (Joseph folds his arms and leans on the stairs. Much holds his bowl to his lips. Djaq raises her spoon from the bowl. Little John opens his mouth to take a bite and an arrow slices through his chunk of bread, knocking it from his hand, followed in rapid succession by two more: one piercing Much’s soup bowl, which goes flying, and one knocking the spoon out of Djaq’s hand.) Little John: (Angrily:) “Robin!” (Robin steps in the door with a nocked arrow pointed at Joseph. Marian is right behind him.) Robin: “This is the last supper… for you, Joseph.” Marian: (Holds up Joseph’s mask.) “You poison people and then you keep a record of their suffering!” Much: (Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.) “What? That is revolting!" 

Joseph: (Boasting:) "My poison has no taste, and no colour, no odour. (Smiling:) It’s a beautiful thing.” (Djaq sniffs her bowl, trying to smell the poison.) Robin: “What’s the cure for the poison? (Joseph turns his head and merely smiles slyly at Robin. Robin’s temper flares and he lets loose an arrow, which grazes Joseph’s cheek. Marian is a bit shocked at Robin’s tactics.) (Impatiently:) There are people out there dying. (Joseph fingers his wound.) Children!” Joseph: (Smiling:) “It’s made from an extract of the Amanita mushroom. (Joseph revels in their puzzled faces. He looks at Djaq.) The Angel of Death? (Djaq silently gasps. Joseph looks at Little John.) The Devil’s Cap? (Little John glares at Joseph. Marian looks wide-eyed at Djaq.) There is no cure.” (Robin looks to Djaq. Joseph chuckles, then suddenly kicks over a chair and runs past Djaq towards the window.) Exterior. Little John: (From the house:) “Stop him!” (Joseph dives headfirst out the window and rolls into the street before anybody can catch him. He gets to his feet and races towards the barricades. Robin aims an arrow, but can’t get a shot off at the fast-moving target running through all the people before disappearing round the corner. He lowers his bow in exasperation.) Joseph: (to the soldiers:) “It’s me! Let me through! It’s me!“ Little John: (Running round the corner:) “Stop him! (Joseph slips through the barricade which is immediately closed behind him as Little John crashes into it and roars. Much catches him up, followed by Djaq and Robin. Joseph nods his thanks to the guard and leaves.) They knew him!”

Much: “He tricked us!” Djaq: “Clever.” Much: “Clever? He nearly poisoned us. What about these people?” Little John: (Thinking:) “Belladonna.” Much: “Bella what?” Little John: “Belladonna. For mushroom poisoning.” Djaq: “Belladonna is deadly nightshade. It is a poison.” Little John: (Shaking his head:) “It works. Woodman’s remedy.” Djaq: (Amazed:) “Poison to fight poison.” (Inspired, Djaq smiles and runs between Robin and Marian, heading back to the medicine box Much found earlier as Robin wonders if it will really work.) Sarah’s house. Interior. (Djaq opens the medicine box, picks out a bottle and smells it.) Sarah’s house. Exterior. (Marian steps forward, looking over Sarah’s shoulder at Jess. Robin stands at the foot of her bed, with Much and Little John lined up beside it.) Sarah: “Djaq? Djaq? It’s Jess. I thinks she’s going. (Djaq steps round the corner with the jar from the medicine box. Sarah sees it.) What’s that?” Djaq: “It’s a hunch. But it could kill her.” Sarah: “Whose hunch?” Little John: “Mine. (Sarah looks at him. Little John steps forward and takes the jar from Djaq.) Here. (Sits at Jess’s side.) Trust me. Let me do this.” (Sarah cries for a moment, agonising over having to make such a difficult decision. Marian puts her hand on her shoulder. Sarah sucks in her breath and regains control.) Sarah: “She’s going anyways. Just try it. Just try it. (Little John smears a bit of belladonna on Jess’s tongue. Jess turns her head. Marian watches anxiously.) Jess! No! (Sobs. Marian and Robin exchange glances. Djaq looks on sorrowfully. Little John’s face falls, thinking his remedy killed Jess. Sarah sobs.) No! (Sarah bends over her seemingly lifeless daughter, then notices her eyes moving under her lids. Jess opens her eyes. Happily:) Jess! (Puts her hand on Little John’s shoulder.) Oh, it’s working! It’s working!”

Djaq: “I think it is. It is working.” (Sarah hugs Jess as Marian smiles.)   Sarah: “Oh, merciful God!” Much: “Amazing! (Slaps Little John in the chest with the back of his hand.) How did you know that?” Little John: (Slightly embarrassed and offended:) “I know some things.” Robin: “We have to stop Joseph before he poisons anybody else. Now, he’ll have gone into the castle. We have to find away to get in after him.” Marian: “Well, how did Will get in?” Much: (Confused:) “Will?” Marian: “He’s in the castle. (Robin’s eyes widen in disbelief. Much looks back at Little John, who hangs his head, knowing exactly why.) Didn’t you know?” Robin: (Realising:) “Oh, no.” Marian: “What’s going on?” Djaq: “He’s going to kill the Sheriff.” Marian: “Well, doesn’t he know Prince John would destroy Nottingham?” Much: “Oh, he knows, but…” Robin: (Quietly:) “The man the Sheriff killed… was Will’s father.” Marian: “Dan? (Crestfallen:) No.” (Marian looks at Robin with a mixture of sympathy and horror.)  

[literallyjustanerd]

Holes In His Armour (Powerfist) - Chapter 3

As traditional an angsty love story as they come (but hopefully a good one)!

My AO3

Chapter 3: Holding On

           Danny’s muscles were on fire, screaming at him for rest and relief. It had been that way for an hour at least, and yet he knew that they’d still be denied for hours more. It was chaos on the streets, people thrust from their sleep into the all-too-familiar terror of a supervillain attack in downtown New York. Danny took half a moment to cast his eyes across all he could see: Jessica was closest, wielding a broken parking meter as a makeshift weapon. Matt was more elusive, darting across rooftops and trying to get an upper angle. His eyes caught on Luke, stuck to him as he ushered civilians into the subway and out of danger. Though hours before he had been overtaken with irrational anger at the sight of that broad chest and solemn face, all he felt now was a nauseating tug at his heartstrings before he was plunged into the fight once more.

           It had begun as the four of them stood on a dim street corner, dead-eyed as they sipped bitter, bland coffee and tried to make sense of what was happening.

“You really have no idea who it could be?” Danny asked for the third time.

“None whatsoever,” Jessica replied with a barely perceptible shake of her head. Matt gingerly rubbed at his forehead.

“We don’t even know who it was who called us. They rang, they said that there’s some madman out there who’s about to release some mythical monster into the streets of Harlem, and they hung up. We couldn’t even trace the number.”

Luke frowned, arms folded.

“And they said the deadline is dawn,” he stated, to which Matt and Jessica both gave an affirming nod.

“That’s under an hour away. Just what exactly are we meant to do in that time?”

“Well, we hoped maybe Danny would know something about all this.”

All eyes turned to the blond man, squatting on a park bench and staring blankly at the pavement in front of him. He seemed to tense up under the attention, shoulders rising as they waited for a response.

“What?” he said finally, brow furrowing. “I don’t know. I don’t have an encyclopaedic knowledge of everything mystical and magical.”

“Worth a shot,” Jessica mumbled, glancing down at her phone to check the time. “Looks like we’re out on our asses, then. Unless anyone else has any bright ideas.”

           Luke’s brow was furrowed, deep in thought. It seemed hopeless, uniquely so this time: usually they at least had some vague lead to follow, some faint chance at preventing disaster. Even when their attempts fell through in the end, it eased their nerves and their guilt to have something to try.

“This is out of our hands,” he said finally. “There’s nothing else for us to do. We should call someone else. The police, the Avengers, SHIELD, whoever.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Danny said with a frown. “We can still handle this. Even if we were to call for backup, it’s still our responsibility to help however we can.”

Luke looked down at him, saw the first hints of the new light of day bring colour back to Danny’s eyes, his hair, his face flushed red against the cold of a New York night. With it all, he felt the strange lump of emotion formed weeks ago begin to shift into something new.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he contested, more sharply than he’d meant it. His sudden apparent loss of control only fed the fire that had ignited in the pit of his stomach. “We have no idea what’s going to happen or how to even find out. We can’t go out there with our heads in the clouds thinking our obligation to this city is enough for this to not kill us. The most responsible thing to do would be to call somebody who actually stands a chance here.” His voice was tinged with frustration, a bite to it that definitely hadn’t been voluntary. Though once it was out, he found that it was quite cathartic, and even found a sort of twisted satisfaction in the disconcerted and slightly hurt look on Danny’s face. He knew it was wrong to take out his frustration in this way. He knew Danny deserved none of this for merely expressing his determination, and he knew much better than to vent his own frustration on the object of his unresolved feelings, but more clearly he knew that it was already too late.

For his part, Danny’s shock and embarrassment was quickly channelled into anger. It was something he’d done often during his training, something he was even encouraged to do—taking just about everything within him, confusion, fear, desire, and merging it into a kind of aggravation that pushed him forward and gave him the fire he was so notorious for.

“So we abandon the city we’ve been defending for how long now?” he flared, green eyes suddenly hard as steel. It felt simultaneously sickening and invigorating to be letting out his emotion in such a way, like indulging in the ultimate guilty pleasure. “We run like cowards and let the big kids take care of it?”

“This really isn’t the time for this kind of argument,” Matt chimed in, but he was bluntly ignored by the two, who seemed to have sparked something too hot and too strong to be extinguished, at least not until one of them overstepped the line and said something they’d really regret.

           The fact that Luke couldn’t help but struggle not to get lost in the ferocity behind Danny’s eyes did nothing to soothe his anger. His hands balled into tight fists at his sides, teeth clenching hard.

“You sound like a kid,” he chided. “Snap out of it, Iron Fist. This is the real world. You can’t always win the fight just by believing in yourself and being sure you’re the ‘good guy.’”

“Is that the excuse you use?” Danny tossed back with just as much ferocity. In an instant, all his feelings had been inverted: Luke’s trademark pragmatism had gone from admirable to deplorable, and the hardened look in his eyes turned from fascinating to infuriating. All those nights spent agonising over what Luke thought of him now felt foolish, wasted, horribly naïve. He hadn’t even noticed until that moment that he’d stood up in his anger, holding his own despite Luke still towering a head above him and  twice as wide.

Both men had a dozen more insults lined up, crammed into their throats and all fighting to be the first out, but they were stopped in their tracks when Jessica got between them and physically forced them apart. It took a scolding filled with enough foul language to make a sailor blush for them to finally come back to their senses. Their anger remained, however, bubbling hot and ready under their skin as the four of them made the decision to give it everything they had in lieu of having the time or knowledge of how to call for help. It wasn’t until the fight began that the ferocity of battle diluted their rage, and turned it into a kind of sick regret.

           It was hard for Luke to keep focused on the fight when all he wanted to do was find Danny and apologise. At least, he thought he wanted to find Danny and apologise. He knew he lacked the strength to explain his actions, so perhaps all he wanted to do was disappear, or go back and avoid ever meeting Danny in the first place. He knew better than that, however: despite everything Danny Rand had put him through, meeting him, knowing him, having him in his life was anything but regrettable. Perhaps it was by design that this thought was the one running through his mind as his eyes locked on Danny receiving the blow that knocked him unconscious. The scene played out like a dream in front of Luke: their monstrous opponent heaving one horrible, ungodly limb and slamming Danny to the pavement like a ragdoll during a child’s tantrum. With no sign of movement or resistance, Danny skidded along the asphalt until he hit the corner of a building, and though Luke was thirty feet away and there was chaos between them, he could swear he heard the sickening dull thud as Danny made impact with the sharp brick.

At once, his breath was stolen from his lungs, blood turning to ice in his veins. The moment he was sure the civilians by the subway could continue without his help, he stumbled towards the man, blind to the battle as it began to reached its climax around him. He reached Danny just as the monster took its final fall, drawing him into his arms and begging him to wake, to move, say something, do anything. His chest shuddered between ragged, gasping breaths, stomach threatening to spill as he saw the bloody scrapes where he had been hit. Danny’s costume had been torn to shreds where the impact had been worst, and there were bloodstains blooming like flowers on his legs and stomach. His head lolled back when Luke moved his arm, lips parted and eyes shut gently. If it weren’t for the gravel-encrusted wounds on his cheeks and neck, anyone would swear he was just sleeping peacefully.

           The thirty seconds it took Luke to find a pulse and a sign that Danny was breathing felt like a lifetime. The beating pressure against Luke’s fingers pressed desperately to Danny’s neck was weak, thready, and his breathing was shallow and ragged. But it was something, and enough for Luke to channel his terror into determination. With movements tender and careful, he drew Danny into his arms, picking him off the ground and cradling him against his chest. His first thought was to take him to the hospital, but that idea was quickly banished: not only was the nearest clinic too far to run with Danny in such a condition, but it would also mean the end of the secret identity Danny had worked hard to maintain. That only left him with one option, and Luke was off and running before Matthew or Jessica could even get close enough to ask what had happened. He took off as fast as his legs would take him, leaving the other half of his team to deal with the city block that had been destroyed in the fight. It wasn’t far at all to his destination, but Luke still found himself running faster than he’d ever run before, until he reached the stairs, the stoop, the door he’d been aiming for.

           Claire didn’t seem surprised when she opened the door to find Luke laden with a bloodied and beaten teammate. In truth, this had become far too regular an occurrence for her. Wordlessly, she stepped aside to let Luke in and moved to set up a space to check Danny over, gathering the supplies she’d “borrowed” from her workplace.

“What’d he do to himself?” she asked calmly, though her insides were churning at the thought of how quickly the man was losing blood. Her movements were quick, precise, and yet every part of her wanted to throw it all down and scream. Luke struggled to speak, still gaping for air after his sprint.

“Big—thing—threw him against—a building,” he sputtered, leaning against the wall of Claire’s kitchen. He watched her work, cleaning and checking and sealing Danny’s wounds methodically, almost rhythmically, not daring to ask whether Danny would be okay. It was an eternity until she finally set down her equipment, sighing heavily and shrugging her shoulders diffidently.

“I think he should be stable like this. I think,” she intoned. “He’ll still need close observation for the next twelve to twenty-four hours, far as I can tell there are a couple of fractured ribs, his arm might need a sling. If anything changes, he’ll definitely need a hospital visit, but as he is now… I’ll give you this one, Luke, your friends are really fucking lucky.”

Luke didn’t even try to hide how relieved he was, virtually falling apart there and then. It made his knees weak, forced a breathless smile onto his face, a disbelieving laugh leaving his throat.

“Do you have to go?” he asked finally. Claire nodded.

“Got work in—” she paused, stripping off a blood-stained glove and checking her watch—“twenty-three minutes.”

“Can I stay here with him?” Luke asked softly.

“Sure. Just don’t invite any other super-weirdos over.”

           Luke waited until Claire had left before moving Danny to the living room. He had first laid Danny out on the couch while he took the armchair, but he soon found that this wasn’t enough to soothe his worries. That was how he ended up sitting on the couch with Danny laid on top of him, his back across Luke’s legs with his head against the couch’s arm. The TV blared softly away in the background, showing shaky phone footage of the very battle the two of them had been part of only hours before, but Luke couldn’t have been paying less attention. Instead, he let himself get lost in the details of Danny’s face, brushing his honey-blond hair, still matted with dry blood, out of his eyes. He couldn’t know how long it was until Danny’s eyes began to flicker, a faint groan escaping his lips. Luke held his breath as Danny’s brow drew together, squirming slightly before he finally came to. The pain was the first thing that hit him, every muscle in his body searing with agony. He tried to sit up, but quickly found that the stabbing pain in his chest was far too much. Even when he tried to breathe, he felt knives of pain drive through him. He was almost lost to the terror of the situation, until he felt arms around him, gentle but firm, strong and warm. When he realised that it was Luke holding him, soothing him, he felt not anger, not confusion, but a total and wonderful relief.

           “It’s okay,” Luke breathed, and Danny believed it. He let out the breath he’d been holding, and though he still felt a sting in his ribs, it was dulled by the fact that he was safe, he was held, he was cared for. Exhaustion soon set in on him, and Danny quickly decided that questions could wait. He could wait to know what had happened with the battle, why Luke wasn’t still angry, how he’d ended up so hurt, where Matt and Jessica were.

For now, all there was, all that mattered, all that existed was he and Luke.

[ba2astoryadaptation]

Chapter Summaries: 8-10

The Last Night

Poole goes to visit Utterson, he’s terrified and has been afraid for ‘about a week’. He neglects the drink given to him by Utterson and doesn’t look into Uttersons eyes. Poole claims “foul play” and wants to show Utterson. They head to Jekyll’s - “Wild, cold, seasonable night of march” “Pale moon lying on her back, as though the wind had tilted her “Most diphonous and lawny texture” “The wind made talking difficult and flecked the blood into the face” “bare of passengers” “Never in his life had he been concious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow creatures” “Crushing anticipation of calamity” - all of this building tension and scene setting: pathetic fallacy. Arrive at Jekyll’s and meet the other servants. Utterson and Poole knock on Jekyll’s cabinet door - determine that the voice that calls out wasn’t Jekyll’s - they assume Jekyll has been murdered. Poole says Jekyll has been after medicine, communicating with Poole through notes, Utterson wants to check the handwriting. Poole says he’s seen someone in the cabinet - a man in a mask, who screeched at Poole. Poole describes the man as a “dwarf”. Poole and Utterson conclude that it was Hyde and go to get an axe, to break into the cabinet. Poole remarks pacing behind the door of the cabinet - saying it’s been constant pacing and weeping for a while. They break down the door “The blow shook the building” - taking five swings of the axe. Hyde screeches from within while they knock the door down. When they enter the room is fairly unremarkable - the kettle is on (whistling, ominous, tense) Hyde lays dead in the middle of the room “a self destroyer” - dressed in clothes of “the doctors bigness” - drank something “crushed phial.” Poole an Utterson search for Jekyll, find a broken key, find pious works annotated in Hyde’s hand - “startling blasphemies.”. They find a letter addressed to Utterson, another will, this time for in case Hyde disappears. Another note tells Jekyll to read Lanyons note - Utterson leaves to read the notes before talking to the police.

Dr Lanyons Narrative

This passage is from the perspective of Dr. Lanyon. He recieved a letter from Jekyll written on the 10th of December. It asks Lanyone to go to his house with a locksmith and break into his cabinet. He gives instructions to take phials, powders and a book to Cavendish square. He prefaces that with his appreciation for Lanyons friendship, despite their academic disagreements. Asks Lanyon to meet with a man who will introduce himself as Jekyll and to give that man the items requested. Jekyll states this is of upmost importance and that if he neglects the instructions he believes Lanyone will have “Seen the last of Henry Jekyll.” Lanyon follows the orders and retrieves the items, Lanyon meets the man mentioned in the letter, bringing a revolver with him just in case. He describes the man similarly to how Hyde has been described previously “small” “revolting” etc. dressed in clothes too big for him (Jekyll’s) and seems distressed “so lively was his impatience.”. Lanyone is curious about Hyde. Hyde seems unwell, retrieves the items and mixes together some of the ingredients “the mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small fumes of vapour.” Hyde asks Lanyon if he wants to watch him drink the concotion - “your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of satan” Hyde reminds Lanyone to adhere to professional voiws not to tell anyone. Begins to transform back to Jekyll - “He seemed to swell - his fae became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter” Lanyon is traumatised - confirms man was Hyde to Utterson, dies from the absolute horror “I shall die incredulous” “my life is shaken to it’s roots.”

Henry Jekyll’s full statement of the case

Jekyll recounting the experience, says he’s born to wealth, endwoed with “excellent parts” (health)  his worst failt a “certain impatient gueity of disposition” “concealed my pleasures” “when I reached years of reflection...I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of me” “morbid sense of shame”. Jekyll felt in two parts “both sides of me were in dead earnest: I was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and plunged in shame than when I laboured, in the eye of the day, at the futherance of knowledge.” “advanced infallibly in one direction” Jekyll talks of duality of man - that he strove to improve his decent side - “I was radically both” - says he isn’t really one or the other - but both the same. “The thought of the seperation of these elements” “If each could be housed in seperate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable” “It was the curse of mankind that these incongrous faggots were thus bound together - that in the agonised womb of conciousness, these polar twins should be continuously struggling. How then were they dissociated” - talks about creating poweders, attemptnig to seperate the two sides of men “even as a wind might toss the curtains of a pavillion’s” - he failed “managed to compound a drug by which these powers should be dethroned” - talks about making the drug and becoming Hyde “A grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death.” “Felt younger, lighter, happier” “tenfold more wicked” “sold a slave to my original evil” “the though in that moment, braced and delighted me like win”. Jekyll believes Hyde is smaller as he hasn’t ‘exercised’ that part of him very much. Believes Hyde is deformed because he is evil - but didn’t think him ugly, only as a part of himself (”a leap of welcome”). “because all human beings, as we meet them, are comingled out of good and evil; and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil.” “The drug has no discriminating action...it but shook the doors of the prisonhouse of my disposition” “assume, like a thick cloak, that of Edward Hyde”. Jekyll talks about reverting back to himself, realises the potential of a second identity, about setting up Hyde’s second residence, writing the will and making him known to the servants. Jekyll talks about Hydes actions “undignified” “monstorous” “depravity” “malign and villainous” “drinking” “bestial” “torture” - Jekyll attempted to right some of Hyde’s wrongs. Talks of the incident with the little girl, spotting Enfield and setting up a seperate bank account of Hyde afterwards. Jekyll talks of waking up and being Hyde rather than himself. “Terror work up in my breast as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals” “The body of Edward Hyde had grown in stature” “If this were more prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanentll overthrown”. “The character of Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine.” “To cast my lot in with Jekyll, was to die those appetites which I had long secretly indulged.” “To cast it in with Hyde was to die to a thousand interest and aspirations, and become at a blow and foerever, despised and friendless.” “The terms of this debate are as old and commplace as man.” - Talks about being just Jekyll for two months, before giving in to Hyde once more. “My devil had long been caged, he came out roaring” “More unbridled, a maore furious propensity to ill”. “Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged” - murders carew, “I mauled the unresisting body, tasting delight from every blow” “My lust of evil gratified and stimulated” - Hyde runs, removing evidence from his Soho house, turns back to Jekyll terrified. “Jekyll was now my city of refuge” Tries to redeem himself “still cursed with duality of purpose” “the fall seemed natural”. - went to park as Jekyll, transformed into Hyde there, in daylight without medicine (reveal of true self) - Jekyll aware of himself as Hyde (as they are one) draws up plan to get his supplies through Lanyon. Hyde is fearing for his life/secret identity. Doesn’t remember 100% what happened with Lanyone - locks himself in cabinet - unable to control his transformations - needing drug to be Jekyll rather than needing it to be Hyde. “now seen to the full deformity of the creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of conciousness.” think Hyde “Not only hellish, but inorganic.” “the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned, that what was dead and had no shape, should usurp the orifices of life”. Jekyll became weaker as Hyde gre stronger, eventually succumbing to Hyde and his letter is effectively as suciced note.

[ovulationtracker]

Infant feeding the second, third or nth time around

by Stephanie Maia

  In the time that I have been lucky enough to be a Mother, nine years to date, I have learnt two important things:

It doesn’t always go to plan

When you think you know what to do, it all changes

The first one of those I learnt bitterly in August 2008 when my nipples turned to meatballs and my baby wasn’t the only one in tears.  Breastfeeding.

Despite going to all the classes, reading all the books and trying my absolute hardest, my nipples almost immediately disintegrated before my eyes and I felt the burning shame of inadequate motherhood.  Or so I believed, given the amount of lactivist (can I swear?) ‘literature’ I had hungrily consumed during the nine month incubation period.  None of the books told me what to do if you accidentally gave birth to a cute, pink, starving but gummy piranha, they only talked about babies who softly do breast crawl until they bring their Cupid’s bow lips bouncing to a perfectly aligned nipple. Le sigh.

As it turned out, despite horrible treatment from cruel midwives who unceremoniously ditched me at the fist whiff of a bottle (it’s a ‘slippery slope so I may as well as not bother’ apparently). Working my own way through agonising thrush (‘If it hurts you’re doing it wrong’, no, if it hurts something IS wrong and you need support and love), I ended up combo feeding for well over a year.  The hurt and shame from those early weeks stayed with me though and over time they turned to anger and the anger to bona fide keyboard warrior status. No woman will be shamed by a lactivist on my watch.  I found my home as a Fearless Formula Feeder.

Roll on 2013 and I was there again with baby number two, still angry, still ready for the fight.  There was absolutely no way on this earth that I was putting myself, or my baby, through that again.  My beautiful little piranha had turned into an incredible four and a half year old and that was in part thanks to amazing science milk.  I had the bottles and I was not afraid to use them.

What happened this time then?  Well, this is where I got to lesson two, when you think you know what to do, it all changes.  This baby arrived and was that baby that I’d read about. She did the breast crawl and then latched with all of the elegance something that’s just emerged from the unmentionables under a spotlight possibly can.  Within five minutes of birth she became the ‘enthusiastic feeder’, clunky nickname but it’s stuck I’m afraid, that we know and love.  I’m not even going to get into the arrival of number three, but you can guess that we get a very different story again.

So, after an emotionally draining first feeding experience, and knowing that babies are more fickle than even politicians, how can you plan for a smoother ride next time?

Tip #1: Find your tribe

If you’re reading this, you’re online and you’re on a parenting-related forum so this definitely relates to you.  Find your tribe.  There are hundreds and hundreds of social media groups, birth boards and twitter feeds that you can follow out there.

Okay, maybe not THIS tribe, but you get the point…

Find one that speaks to you, like-minded people, people who support you and your parenting style.  Don’t waste your emotional energy worrying about that sanctimom who pops up at 2am to remind everyone of how great she is tandem feeding her kids AND her kittens whilst donating to the local goat bank, running a marathon and making banana bread (organic, for-the-win).  Not worth it.  Maybe you don’t need an echo chamber either, what you DO need though is supportive and helpful advice that fits with your parenting style.

Tip #2: Talk it out

Get to grips with what went on last time. Find a doctor, psychiatrist, counselor, therapist, friendly ear, plant or whatever you need.  Just talk out what happened last time.  You went from being responsible for finding at least one Maccy D a day to maintain life yourself (I’m working on minimums here) to being solely responsible for the nutrition of a temperamental and dangerously teeny tiny and beautiful creature, it was always going to be emotional.  You owe it to yourself to go through that and understand what happened. It’s valid and you’re worth it, and you have to do it all over again so get that emotional spring clean.

Tip #3: Make a Plan

Ask yourself what you want to do and put lines in the sand.  If you have absolutely no desire at all to dip your toe into breastfeeding ever again then proudly write that down.  If you don’t know yet, but you’ll see how you feel on the big day, pop it into your notes.  If you decide that you do want to try again, then absolutely try again but absolutely draw some lines in the sand.  Mine were that if I reached for the pump because it was too painful to feed or I found myself dreading her little eyes opening because it would mean the pain of feeding, formula.  If your plan is that you’re not ready to make a plan yet, go to step numbers one and two and wait until you’re ready.  Get your partner on board and prepare those laser eye daggers for any stray lactivists; you are informed and ready and it’s your body.

Tip #4: Remember your body is not a symbol

This is a really tough one because what we do and how we parent is, or becomes, a marker of our identity in many ways, see point one.  However, you need to remember that what you do with your body is not a political statement of any kind, it’s not a symbol or your moral worth, it is your body.

I am a Fearless Formula Feeder even though I haven’t formula fed in eight years and breastfed two subsequent children. What I do with my breasts is nothing to do with how I feel about a woman’s right to choose what she does with her body. You can be an environmentally aware vegan and formula feeder and so on and so forth. The way in which we use our reproductive organs on an individual basis is personal, our bodies are our own, not symbols.

Tip #5: Draw a timeline

Imagine your bump as baby and beyond. Go to thirty two years old if you feel, wild.  Then divide the line into months, then plot on what six months looks like or even four and a half.  Tiny. We don’t sweat the small stuff here at parents HQ, feed the baby with love, that’s it.

Tip #6: Look at what you’ve already achieved

Look at you soon-to-be eldest, look how healthy and happy and loved they are.  Think about all the times you’ve looked down on their sleeping faces and flushed cheeks. You can do this, you don’t need some person on the internet to tell you otherwise.

In case yours aren’t at school age yet, by the way, guess what isn’t number one topic in the playground? Oh yeah, breastfeeding.  Whether you’ve managed to build a nativity themed puppet theatre from a shoebox with ten hours’ notice and made pastéis de nata for thirty-eight plus parents along with Portuguese national dress costume, another matter. 

Tip #7: Repeat the Mantra

My body; my choice.  

My body; my choice.

My body; my choice.

My body; my choice.

Tip #8: Use your experience

You’re about to go from Bambi in the woods to Merida from Brave in the feeding world, very soon you will have aced it with keeping two small and demanding creature nourished. You’re an expert.  Harness the power of the SuperMum by looking out for that first timer struggling on their first outing to a café, a friendly word and knowing look could make the world of difference. There could be some Mum on a forum, somewhere in the world, crying into her dressing gown about something some emotional amoeba has said about infant feeding on the internet.  Be that Mum who says “been there, got that, tear free dressing gown now. You’re a star”.

You might feel like this, but it’s not forever.

Let’s be powerful about this, build each other up and get the message out there.

Tip #9: Enjoy your baby

How not to cliché 101 but….‘it goes quickly/time flies’. There, I did it.  

Whatever happens next, however that baby reaches your arms, savour and treasure those days for yourself. When I look back on those first few confusing days I have one single regret, that’s the names that I called myself and the tears that I cried over feeding.  Don’t go there, especially not twice and especially not over something like feeding.

You’re amazing, you’re informed, you’ve done it before and this is YOUR time, enjoy it.

  The post Infant feeding the second, third or nth time around appeared first on Fearless Formula Feeder.

from Fearless Formula Feeder http://ift.tt/2jNDFVI via IFTTT