#King's Counsel mini-series

[whumpspicelatte]

A Boy Named Juno: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Terry's POV to @echo-goes-mmm's Birthday Present

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: power imbalance, slavery, references to physical and sexual abuse, implied dubcon

This would be the third birthday to pass since the sudden assassination of Queen Catherine and King Ambrose, only a matter of months after the loss of their crown prince in the wake of the Gojuyeon civil war, when his wife, Princess Chaewon, was made to take the throne. A birthday Terrance had grown to dread.   

His head swam with the crowds of people filling the ballroom, corset drawn so tight he could barely get in a breath even with the frail mess of a body he hid beneath the silks dragging heavy down his shoulders. His skirts pooled around his feet where he sat on display in the ornate throne set up for him. 

Spectacle. Terrance had never been the Desrosiers son who did well with spectacle. 

The deceptively light crown resting upon his brow, sapphires dripping down his forehead, should have never touched his head. 

Fresh welts and bruising over the backs of his thighs and his ass ached with the weight of his own body pressing them into the cushioning of the throne. What was meant to be a reminder as to what was at stake should he screw up left his head spinning within the prison of his body. 

As he kept his gaze focused on General Adamantidis, long-time Oikophorean ambassador and vaunted retired military commander, as the older woman presented to him perfumes and foreign fruit trees and beautifully woven bolts of dyed linens of the highest quality for the summer months, just one of each gift worth enough to keep one of the servants who brought him his morning meal fed for a decade if sold to the right bidder, his thoughts strayed to the distinct, irrationally despairing anxiety that someone would be able to sense the ghost of his naval advisor’s seed curdling in his stomach from early this morning.

Nobody would be able to tell. Everyone had made sure of it, from his breakfast of fresh fruit afterwards to the meticulous morning cleansing to the light rose perfumes and the heavy silks hiding the truth from the world. Yet still his fingers curled in his lap in a subtle display of nerves. 

He played his role. Kept his composure. Said the right words. Didn’t let slip just how hollowed out he’d been left. 

General Adamantidis bowed, gifts taken aside with everything else, and left to join the crowds, replaced within moments by the current Timorsian representative. Beside him sat a covered crate, atop which laid rolls of fine lace and a jewelry set Terrance already knew he’d have to wear the next time he had any Timorsian nobility or royalty as guests. At least such visits would be rare indeed. 

At least the set should be on the understated side. Hopefully. 

“Your Majesty,” the representative announced himself. “I bring gifts from Timorsia, to celebrate your birth.” A loud, clear voice for such a wiry frame, soot-black curls over the scalp and around the jaw, silver-blue eyes glinting from narrowed eyes. Skin tanned copper-gold from the sun. 

Terrance was, fortunately or not, not expected expected to know this man’s name. Not with the frosty tensions lingering between his kingdom and their empire. 

The man opened the jewelry set to reveal a gleaming set of Timorsian jade pearls, each gleaming as if carved from the water of oceanside tropics. Ironic, considering their freezing cold origin, deep in watery depths near the capital of the empire. Simple. Understated. Even rather elegantly styled, rather than the grandiose overwrought monstrosity he’d been given on the year of his coronation. Hair ornaments, rings, earrings, brooches, strands to wrap around his wrists and neck. “A full set of seafoam green pearls, courtesy of His Grace, King Jason the Fifth. Collected from Timorsia Bay.”

It almost felt more appropriate for something to add to one of his nieces’ dowries than to accept for himself. 

From the half-appreciative murmur that ran through the crowd, he knew there would be rumours of the king sending over at least some of his daughters or younger female relatives with the next representative once Terrance eventually opened himself to marriage within the week. 

Just what he needed. 

Next, the extremely valuable rolls of lace where displayed, jewelry set handed off to the servants charged with the gifts. “Seven bolts of silk lace, from Lady Farthens.” She did have an uncommon habit of sending over beautiful gifts and actually sticking to the boundaries and limits of proper decorum. “Handmade.”

These were received better. Extremely valuable, but not presumptuous. Bolts of fabric were a favourite for a reason. 

Quietly, he wondered how much he’d be able to get away with regifting to his nieces and nephews. Some should be given to Jules, at the very least. She’d enjoy admiring and reverse-engineering the craftsmanship in her spare time. 

And then only the cloth-covered crate remained. The fabric flowed with air, slightly, revealing hints of bars about the bottom. Something live rested in there. Some kind of animal, perhaps. Some kind of beast. 

A quiet beast. Nothing so large as a steed. A well-trained hound or two, perhaps?

The representative whipped the cloth away, and the room went silent. Terrance’s own vocal cords withered in his throat. He binked at its contents. Focused on his icy composure. 

That was no beast in the crate. 

“A slave from Middle Timorsia, from Lord Aspen.”

A boy. 

Pale skin covered in jagged scars, dark hair cropped short. Clean-shaven beneath a brutish muzzle. Dressed only in a plain shift. Terrance couldn’t see the boy well from here, couldn’t even tell if the boy really were a boy or a young man, if not older. Not shadowed in the dark as he was, kneeling behind those bars. Looking down at his knees. 

“He responds to Juno,” the representative continued, “and is trained to utter obedience. He is mute, and guaranteed not to distract you from your work, Your Grace.”

As if distracting him from his work could ever be what might cross his mind right now.

The representative unlatched the door, and hissed something too quietly to hear; clearly at the boy- the man?- within that kennel. The boy being made- being made a gift. 

And it was a boy, Terrance could see in the light. Young. Achingly so; he could only be a bit older than Terrance’s own nieces and nephews at best.

The boy didn’t walk to Terrance. He crawled. 

The boy crawled on red and swollen knees and palms, dragged against the polished sheen of the marble floors. Terrance resisted the urge to leave his throne and go to the boy instead. He was shivering, the boy. No wonder; the castle marble was cold. Like ice. 

Juno- that was his name, Juno- came close. Closer than anyone but his guards and advisors had all night. Terrance watched those thighs and arms quiver. Watched one of those arms buckle beneath him. 

Watched the boy hide his little stumble by resting his cheek against the king’s thigh. 

Heat seeped through the layers of fine fabric, into Terrance’s skin. 

He hid his shiver at the quiet, unassuming warmth. 

His fingers ran through Juno’s hair. The boy’s hair was soft. Freshly washed. 

Only to still as the boy stiffened. Sniffled. Grimaced. 

Braced himself for a blow. 

Something in Terrance’s lungs ached. 

This wasn’t a gift that Terrance could refuse, not with how cold relations between Rhodantheia and Tismoria, even though, if he did, it would not be Terrance who would suffer. No, it would be the boy. 

The whip scars peeking out from under that shift…

“Timorsia has been as generous as ever,” he let his voice ring out, as cold and sharp and distant as ever. A slight edge to his tone that had the Timorsian representative wincing. “Please let our gratitude be known to His Grace and Her Ladyship.”

He said nothing of the lord who had sent a slave as a birthday present to a Rhodantheian king. He didn’t need to. 

The representative bowed and excused himself, but despite watching Pellinore, the Mirei diplomat, meekly present the gifts from Mire with a lingering anxiety that Terrance couldn’t help but sympathize with, all he could genuinely focus on was the warmth of the boy curling up against his legs, soft puffs of breath against his thigh. 

When the celebration moved on Terrance receiving his own piece of cake, the music was too loud for anyone but him to hear the empty gurgling of Juno’s stomach. He could barely stomach more the rich chocolate on his tongue. 

Nobody noticed anything amiss at Terrance proving unable to finish his slice. 

[...]

Terrance’s private study was too far from the great hall for him to feel comfortable taking Juno there just yet, especially as the boy remained on his knees. Instead he settled for a small, private room; one of the small parlours dotting the palace. Anais opened the door for them as they made their way inside, and he gave her a small nod as the door closed behind him and his new responsibility. 

She’d done well; a small, sparse tea service awaited them with crackers and cheese, the scent of honey ginger tea rising from the teapot. Beside the teapot and tray sat a small plate of cake. 

A good, rich slice, larger than the one Terrance had struggled to eat; hopefully Juno was not so starved as to make eating it uncomfortable, or worse. 

He sat down gingerly on one of the two plush seats, strangling a groan before it could escape his throat. His eyes fluttered shut. 

Much better than that throne he’d been perched on like a doll for hours on end, for all it made his tender backside sting. 

When he opened his eyes, Juno knelt on the floor, a few feet away from him. Hm. Yes, he should have expected this. His older brother had liked to torment him with horror stories of how the Tismorian aristocracy would treat their slaves back when they were young. Exaggerations, likely, but…

“Come here, Juno,” he murmured. If he let the cold edge to his voice melt completely, well, there was only him and this mute boy here to know. 

Juno crawled miserably up to him, lashes fluttering in a familiar way that had his stomach sinking. Terrance resisted the urge to pick the boy up off the floor, as if he were one of his nephews instead of- of- 

Whatever he was now, here with Terrance. 

Terrance reached forward, tapping the rough wire of the muzzle on the boy’s face. “If I take this off, will you promise not to bite?” He’d take it off either way; he just had to check his bases first. Figure out if he would need to hide injuries from his advisors. 

Juno’s head nodded vigorously. If he didn’t know any better, he might fear the boy’s skull would slip right off his head. He reached forward, unbuckled the leather straps and eased the metal wires off the boy’s face. Terrance’s stomach churned at the sight of friction burns framing Juno’s nose and jaw. 

The boy opened his mouth stretching his undoubtedly aching jaw, letting out a soft moan of relief. Then the boy looked up at him. 

Blue. 

Blue eyes, just a few shades darker than the cornflower shade that haunted Terrance’s nightmares. His own breath hitched. 

They were beautiful, of course. Large and vibrant with the same glow as expertly cut tanzanite. Especially framed by long, dark lashes. Altogether, if not for the scars cutting into the boy’s skin, he’d look almost like a doll. 

Iohannes’s eyes were beautiful too. 

So was the ocean that Terrance had drowned in, the summer before Iohannes had shoved him down a whole flight of stairs. 

He locked his expression down before he could let any hint of unease slip free. 

Juno’s stomach had grumbled, during the celebrations. He needed to eat. But Terrance never had much appetite after deeply stressful situations; would Juno? 

“Are you hungry?”

Apparently, Terrance just stuck his foot in his mouth, because that had Juno’s eyes swimming with tears. The look of desperation on his face- that whimper-

Terrance tore his gaze away to pour a cup of tea for the boy. He gripped the porcelain tight, to better steady his hands. The inside of his throat swelled.  

“Sit,” he murmured, waving his hand towards the opposing seat. Some comfort had to do the boy some good. 

Juno blinked up at him, radiating confusion. 

Only his own long years of conscious control over the minute muscles of his face kept his brows from furrowing. “Wouldn’t you like to sit on a chair rather than the floor?”

The boy shook his head. Terrance only recognized the helpless puff of air escaping his lungs at the sight of Juno’s expression dropping into dread. Of his face screwing up. 

Tears dribbled down those pale, hollow cheeks, clearly in spite of his best efforts, and a sickening sense of peering into a reflection flickered irrationally through the king’s mind. 

Damn it. Only a few hours into their��acquaintanceship, and Terrance was already making him cry. What should he-

He grabbed the plate of cake off the table and practically shoved it into the boy’s hands. 

“Eat.” Somehow, his panic didn’t leak into his voice. 

Distracting a toddler from tears with something they liked always worked when his nieces and nephews were little. Somehow, the same principle seemed to work here. 

Juno blinked down at the cake in his hands in disbelief. 

Terrance grabbed a fork, setting it on the boy’s plate. Would the boy like cake? He hoped so; he hadn’t prepared anything else. Maybe tea would work instead as a stopgap while sending out for something else for the boy if not.  “Go on.”

That was all that he seemed to have to do before Juno was gingerly picking up the fork and sliding a tiny piece of the cake into his mouth. For a moment, he froze. 

Tears dribbled down his cheeks. 

Were it not for the boy immediately beginning to work diligently on the slice of cake, taking his time to savour every bite, Terrance would have thought he’d just screwed up yet again. 

Terrance sat back in his chair, sipping at the cup of tea he’d just poured, and let himself relax. 

Juno liked chocolate cake. 

He’d have to remember that. 

[greenjacketwhitehatdocmui]

Dark Crisis Superman Special Doubts

MrOkay, so apparently, Tom King is writing an “imaginary story” where Jon Kent is a “Super-Robin” sidekick to his Dad.  I suppose that this is meant to be a conciliatory gesture to those who were not keen on what Brian Michael Bendis did with Jon (i.e., put Jon through years of trauma, aged him up, and have him be Just Fine).

https://www.gamesradar.com/dark-crisis-super-robin-superman/

I have thoughts about this, but they’re going underneath a cut.  I promise that I’ll try to keep from getting too salty.

Okay, first of all, why does Jon have to wear a mask?  I mean, yes, it’s a nice image, but Clark never needed a mask.  Superman never needed to hide his face.  He got along just fine with glasses and a change of body language.

And here’s a quote from Tom King:

Now, I grant you that yes, Mr. King CAN write positive, uplifting and thoughtful stories.  The “Superman:  Up in the Sky” mini-series and the Clark/Lois and Bruce/Selina double-date in Batman # 37 are proof of that.  But Mr. King has also taken knocks at Clark

In “Heroes in Crisis” (IMHO, one of his worst works), the counseling AI is supposedly a combination of the best traits of Superman, Wonder Woman and Batman.  What we see is what they call a “drill sergeant nasty” where vulnerable patients are constantly berated by said AI.  Also, there’s the infamous “Harley Quinn beats the Trinity” scene--one that I’m sure inspired many rolling of eyes.

In “Supergirl:  Woman of Tomorrow,” Kara takes a lot of shots at Clark.  Clark’s trapped on a planet with a Kryptonite (or pseudo-Kryptonite) sun for 45 agonizing minutes?  Well, Kara withstood 10 HOURS--and basically called him weak after she survived the ordeal.  She says that she’s tired of the shield becoming basically a call to attack her, all because others associate the shield with all the meddling that Clark’s done--i.e., saving lives.  Every alien with a grudge against Clark is eager to try to take her down because of the shield.

Mr. King is known for his tendency to deconstruct.  Under his pen, heroes aren’t quite as, well, heroic.  Adam Strange in Strange Adventures?  Oh, he’s a war criminal.  Michael Holt’s Mr. Terrific?  He never wanted to be a father and felt relieved.  Christopher Chance, the Human Target?  Well, he’s a self-loathing alcoholic.

(There is also the character assassination of Wally West in “Heroes in Crisis” and Guy Gardner in “The Human Target.”  His turning Wally into a murderer is understandable, giving Dan Didio’s dislike of the character.  Turning Guy Gardner into a stereotypical stalker ex-boyfriend with testosterone poisoning who snivels at a Hal Jordan impersonator asking for his ring?  Yeah, that was all Mr. King’s work.)

Honestly, Mr. King might as well have taken the reins of Jon Kent after Bendis got through with him.  But then, he probably would have taken it in a much darker direction than what people are seeing in “Son of Kal-El”.

So, I guess I’m saying that despite the bright colors and smiles you see on the cover of this book, I have my doubts.  If he manages to restrain himself from using one sadistic, edgy twist or a deconstruction of either Clark or Jon, I will be very surprised.

Then again, I’m not feeding DC any of that sweet, sweet “event book” money that the company seems so dependent on.  There’s a reason why J. Michael Straczynski refused to have Thor participate in the “event books”--they twist a story arc into a pretzel.  That good idea you had for a story?  Well, it has to be a crossover with the “event book.”  Why?  Well, they want to get paid.

Okay, I’m done now.  I may hope for the best, but given that this is 1) an imaginary story and 2) a one-shot, this isn’t so much of an olive branch as it is a distraction.  And I think that Jon Kent deserved better.

--Doc

[the-delta-42]

Rule of Precinct One Vol. 2

Rules of Precinct One Vol. 2

1. Detective Wilde has been authorized for use with all firearm ballistics, don’t ask how, we’re trying to figure that out ourselves.

2. Detective Wilde has been banned from use of all non-firearm weapons; we are running out of tail splints.

3. Detective Wilde is now required to wear a tail guard on duty, we really don’t need to go to hospital to get the damned thing reattached.

4. Do not underestimate Detective Wilde's ability to harm his own tail, seriously, don’t.

5. Detective Wilde is to stop stealing balls from the sports cupboard, we can’t get his wife to retrieve the balls every time.

6. Detective Wilde and Detective Hopps-Wilde are no longer allowed to take the nightshift together, I’m sure you can figure out why.

7. Whoever took the donuts from Clawhauser, well done, he’s supposed to be on a diet.

8. Do not make Box or Funny jokes with Detective Hopps-Wilde, we don’t need to find out that a Rabbit can actually go savage.

9. No stating Detective Wilde’s full name, there is a reason he dropped the John.

10. No asking why Detective Wilde’s father calls him Junior, at all.

11. Never, EVER suggest, imply, or otherwise insinuate that Officer Wilde is capable, or indeed, talented, at cheating at cards, in front of Officer Hoops. This will not end well.

12. Do not attempt to play cards with Officer Wilde. This includes Black Jack, Three Card Monty, and All forms of Poker

13. Amendment to the above: Cheat, Go Fish, and Snap are not excluded from this, on account of not traditionally being betting games. You may think that will prevent you from losing money. This will not prevent you from losing money.

14. A reminder to all Officers, Officers Schneider and Wilde are not to be in the same room together especially if they're both armed.

15. Whenever Detective Wilde is entering the station don't yell out "The British are coming!" Officer Fangmeyer is still recovering from broken ribs.

16. Reminder to all officers, trying to scare Detective’s Wilde and Hopps is generally a bad idea.

17. Reminder to all Officers, posting photos of new equipment on Furbook is now banned.

18. Don't EVER put a muzzle on Detective Wilde's office desk. Whoever did it, I hope you’re happy that he has to now spend a week in therapy. Seriously, we don’t need one of our best Detectives going into shock.

19. Do not, under any circumstance, show Detective Hopps anything Creepypasta related. The last time she saw Jeff the Kitty, she refused to let go of Detective Wilde until he passed out.

20. No one is allowed to use the Ion Cannon in storage. We don’t know what it does or why it’s there.

21. To all officers, stop trying to setup Chief Bogo with another mammal. Last time we had to rescue him from a cross dressing tiger and his friends.

22. Clawhauser is to stop playing matchmaker. It did well with Hopps and Wilde but not so good with others. See previous rule for proof.

23. Detective Wilde is not allowed to pick the movies on Movie Friday anymore. Many are still in trauma counselling.

24. Detective Wilde is not allowed to sing Happy, it caused every Officers in the station to break out dancing.

25. No one is allowed to play the Police Story Movie Series in the station, except on Movie Friday.

26. No one is to play the British Grenadiers within Detective Wilde's hearing distance, he may be an excellent singer, but it does get annoying.

27. All Officer patrolling the slums must wear a stab proof vest. We don’t need another incident where Detective Hopps-Wilde nearly became a Widow.

28. FOR THE LOVE OF ASLAN DON'T PLAY WITH Detective WILDE'S POISON CONTAINER FROM THE SAS.

29. Who played with Detective Wilde's EMP Grenades again? All the Police Cruiser's electronics are fried.

30. All Narcotics Operations are to be jointly operated with the ZDEA, not go out and do an Anti-Drug War with the Cartel, Detective Wilde was spotted wearing Combat Gear with an M4 during one of the Raids.

31. No matter what, Detective Wilde is not to be disturb during his investigation unless it's important.

32. Stop telling the Rookies that Detective Wilde is James Bond.

33. Who gave Wilde military grade super glue?! He somehow glued his tail to the ceiling of the station and it took a long time to get him down!

34. We all know you like Guns N Rodents, Detective Hopps, but whenever you're entering the Rainforest District don't play "Welcome to the Jungle" through the sirens. Same goes for any officers.

35. If you have a backstage pass to a Gazelle concert, make sure to hide it from Chief Bogo and Clawhauser. Officers Delgato and Wolford were nearly trampled to death last time.

36. Only Detective Wilde is allowed to use the Ion Cannon, it seems that he knows what it does and how to handle it. He also has yet to shoot his tail off with it.

37. Reminder to all Officers, Detective Wilde is only allowed to use a Baton in non-lethal situations.

38. Even though Wilde is British doesn't mean he's a stereotype, even if he does like drinking tea.

39. No one is to bet a Schneider vs Wilde fight, Schneider involved the GSG9 and Wilde involved the SAS.

40. No trying arrest a badger because he "stepped on your tail" this means you, Wilde.

41. Whoever keeps putting up bunny/fox adoption papers, please stop. Detective Wilde and Detective Hopps-Wilde become unavailable for the rest of the day when this happens.

42. Reminder to all Officers to not allow any more male bunnies to be in sight of Detective Wilde or Detective Hopps. We don't need another flirting incident.

43. It is now banned to arrest the driver of the ice-cream truck and "confiscate" all of the truck's merchandise because he wouldn't stop. (We're looking at you Officers Fangmeyer, Wilde, and Schneider.)

44. Whoever put up pictures of Detective Hopps getting changed around the station, be aware that none of us will subdue him when Detective Wilde finds you; he WILL find you.

45. Do not even joke that there is someone named Shere Kahn here to see Wilde about his time in the secret service. Last time this happened Detective Wilde disappeared for two weeks and Detective Hopps-Wilde was crying her eyes out.

46. Detective Wilde is to take home all of his personal gear immediately. We can't keep replacing every computer and electronic device in the precinct every time someone uses an EMP grenade.

47. Detective Wilde is no longer allowed to bring personal equipment to work without permission. A Stinger missile launcher isn't police gear.

48. Detective Wilde is allowed to use the ion cannon. He somehow knows how to use it.

49. Do not ask Detective Wilde about his time in the secret service. Last time this happened Detective Wilde freaked out and disappeared for a week, you know I’m starting to see a pattern here.

50. To all Officers, stop baiting Clawhauser to doing your paperwork through the use of donuts and cereals. Be responsible for your own work and Clawhauser is on a diet!

51. No one is to ever label fox repellent as Genuine Zooisiana hot sauce EVER again, Hopps is still crying in my office and Wilde is still being treated for the blindness that was caused by it.

52. Remember kids, fire hot. Someone should probably make a note on that.

53. Attention officers, attention, remember to work the shaft. Wilde we know this was you.

54. If it wasn’t clear before it is now, By no means are Wilde and Hopps allowed in the copy room together and apparently I need a new secretary.

55. Do not use the mini-gun. Half of our officers are still in the hospital.

56. Do not prank Officer Hopps with anything ghost related. Wilde took an hour to literally drag her out of her home because she believed there was a ghost at the station.

57. Reminder to all officers, do not pull pranks that involve any hot sauce or Ghost Peppers. Some of our officers still have ice packs on their tongue.

58. Don't ask why Wilde has the British Flag and a London Metropolitan Police Bobby Helmet on his desk.

59. New Patrol Cars maybe bulletproof, but that doesn't mean it's a target for target practice.

60. All Officers must use the code 10-8 if you’re on duty.

61. All detectives must have their badges on the at all times, I really don’t want another incident where the Mayor mistook Detective Wilde for some shady business man.

62. I don't care how, but Detective Wilde is forever banned from using TASERS so stop giving him TASERS. We really don’t want another ‘king’ incident again do we?

63. Yes, Detective Wilde, we get that you are a Doctor Who fan, especially Sir John Hurt.

64. We don’t need the constant thing of The United Kingdom leaving the EU, Detective Wilde is still trying to deal with the other British Citizens here who have started to break out in riots. This is quite possibly the first time Detective Wilde has used any standard Police equipment properly.

65. Please do not mention Gazelle in front of either Detective Hopps-Wilde or Clawhauser, it took us three hours to get them both to shut up.

66. Officer Cody, there are no contingency orders that tell you to kill/subdue any of the Detectives on the force.

67. Alright, which one of you lot petitioned for Detective Wilde to be removed from the Force?

68. Please, who ever brought the little Vixen into the precinct, bring her again, she’s adorable.

69. Alright, who gave Wilde (Both of them) Coffee? They’ve locked themselves in their Office and frankly I believe that you can all here them from where you are.

70. Detective Wilde, please call your mother, this is the seventeenth time she’s called in at the front desk. PS. We now know your actual first name.

71. Please refrain from commenting that Detective Wilde acts like Conan from the Anime Detective Conan when he finally solves a case.

72. Who created a real Phantom Thief, who is based off Magic Kaito 1412?

73. Could someone please explain to Detective Hopps-Wilde what the previous rule is?

74. Reminder to all Officers, Detective Wilde is an Authorized Firearms Officer, and his Unmarked Squad Car is a moving armoury.

75. Kevlar Vests are now Standard issue and must worn at all times.

76. This a warning to all racists Officers, you are outnumbered 100 to 1 and Wilde has a Pranking/Torture arsenal.

77. Detective Wilde: you may be a detective now, but that does not give you an excuse to dress up like Furlock Holmes on the job. That bubble-blowing Meerkatz pipe is simply ridiculous.

78. To all feline officers of Precinct One: having roaring contests at the station is expressly forbidden.

79. Officer McHorn: from now on when your office door is jammed please wait for a locksmith instead of charging at it with your horn. According to the contractor that was a supporting wall you nearly destroyed.

80. To whoever pumped helium into the chief's office before he passed out the morning assignments, your commanding officer is not amused.

81. To whoever told Detective Hopps-Wilde about Detective Wilde's Playbunny magazines, he has sworn vengeance.

82. Just because the chief is a Buffalo that does not mean that he is angered by the colour red like a bull gets. The fact that Bogo automatically gets aggravated at the sight of Detective Wilde (Wilde's fur being red and all) is purely a coincidence.

83. The hoses on armoured police vehicles are not to be used as showers. I don't care how clean you may get or how funny it is to see bald patches on Detective Wilde's fur we cannot afford the clean-up from flooding the garage... for the fifth time this month

84. When Detective Wilde warns you about someone conning you, listen to him. The ZPD budget is still recovering after the whole fake Gazelle autograph incident.

85. To the practical joker who subscribed Chief Bogo to the Gazelle Gossip magazine, the joke is on you: he's already a subscriber

86. No one is to mention the word "neuter" in the building. It took the whole day to find the male felines, lupines, and the vulpine.

87. NO VIXENS IN SIGHT OF DETECTIVE HOPPS-WILDE OR DETECTIVE WILDE!

88. Do NOT ask Judy's parents if they had vasectomy yet.

89. NEVER underestimate Detective Hopps-Wilde. We have now learned she can beat anybody to a pulp in a sparring match, including Chief Bogo.

90. Reminder to all officers: just because Wilde is a designated firearms officer, doesn’t mean he's a sniper. Also, don't request for any weapons for the armoury, we can't have a Barrett m107 .50 or an M240, we also can't have AT4's.

91. Detective Wilde is only allowed to sing at Karaoke Saturdays.

92. Please don't disturb Detective Wilde, both of them, when they are explaining their deductions.

93. Reminder to all Racists Officers Detective Wilde is armed for a reason.

94. The new Helicopters are for police work not Romantic Flights.

95. Detective Wilde is not Sherlock Holmes.

96. All officer in Precinct 1 must sign a pact to eat Clawhauser's donut everyday at least once. He was supposed to be 'weight reduced' to normal level of fitness.

97. To any officer out there who using police superbike as patrol vehicle, DO NOT give Detective Wilde and Detective Hopps YOUR SUPERBIKE KEY.

98. To any officer who think bringing Clawhauser's family to 'Bring Your Family To Work' day, DON'T. We can't have Clawhauser being scolded for being 'fat'. It reduces Clawhauser's work productivity. And there's a reason why he doesn't live with his family again.

99. - All officer must not pushes Chief Bogo to give you case. When there is no case, there is no case. I'm watching you, Hopps.

100. For the last time, who brings laser to Precinct 1? The productivity of Precinct 1 dropped to zero just because all officer chased after it.

101. ALRIGHT, WHO BROUGHT THE LASER HERE?

102. To all officers, Officer Moon Moon is to be supervised by at least one officer at all times. He's a new recruit and a walking hazard when left unsupervised. Just ask Grizzoli in the infirmary.

103. No more bringing of pets in the precinct, especially spiders. The giant huntsman spider Officer Fangton brought is still on the loose and a third of the force won't come in until it has been caught.

104. Detective Wilde, do not take advantage of Officer Moon Moon's gullibility. The poor guy lost his first pay check when you tricked him into playing cards with you.

105. If anyone, only Detective Wilde is allowed to refer to Detective Hopps-Wilde as "cute". Anyone else risks her fury.

106. WHY ARE THERE ZOMBIES IN THE PRECINCT?!

107. Whoever dressed up as those zombies, your commanding officer is not pleased.

108. NEVER say that you hate pop-star Gazelle in front of Clawhauser. Even though he is not physically fit, he is still a cheetah.

109. To whoever put the nude photo of gazelle in chief’s paperwork you have parking duty for a month. And I'm looking at you Wilde.

110. No one is to mention Detective Wilde’s ex-wife. It was hard enough to explain to Detective Hopps-Wilde.

111. Detective Garfield we don't care how much of a jerk you think your partner Lieut. Nirmal is, so stop spamming HR with requests to get him transferred to Abu Dhabi.

112. While we are on the subject of Detective Garfield, no one's to tell him when the cafeteria is serving Italian, last time he found out he barricade himself in there and by the time we broke down the door half the food was gone.

113. No Detective Wilde, you did not learn everything you need to know in kindergarten.

114. Notice to the motor pool, for now on all porcupine officers are on permanent motorcycle duty as we can afford to keep fixing car seats every time they come back from patrol.

115. Will you all stop harassing officer Bellwether, he had nothing to do with his insane cousin’s anti-predator plot.

116. Okay apparently you idiots disregarded the last note and now officer Bellwether got himself transferred to Los Santos, claiming he'd rather be shot than harass, so I hope you all enjoy the mandatory week long species tolerance seminar.

117. Don't let Detective Hopps-Wilde drink any form of energy drink (besides coffee). She already has plenty of energy, and doesn't need more.

118. Officer Mchorn is injured at the moment and Officer Moon Moon needs a new partner. Again, don't leave Moon Moon unsupervised.

119. To the one dressed as a Ninja, Detective Wilde and the rest of the Authorized Firearms Unit are hunting you.

120. Will someone catch that Phantom Thief!

121. Reminder to all Officers, if a Military tank got stolen like San Francisco, please do not ask Wilde for Anti-Tank Weapons.

122. Please do not use the Riot Armor to be RoboCop.

123. No, we will not add attack helicopters to our arsenal.

124. Whoever keeps playing those Hyena Gomez CDs please stop, her shrieking gives half the station a headache.

125. To whoever rigged up the riot tank speakers to play 'let the bodies hit the floor' whenever the water cannon is fired, the Chief is willing to overlook this offense if you help setup his home theatre system.

126. If some whacked job manages to steal a tank like that time in San Dingo, don't go asking detective wilde for a rocket launcher, besides that's what the secondary tank full of industrial adhesive attached to the riot tanks water cannon is for.

127. Lieut. Nokiayama the precincts head corner would like to remind everyone that just because he's a raccoon dog, he doesn't have mystical powers like in Japanese mythology, so please stop trying to grab his crotch thinking it will bring you good luck, he has his ancestor’s katana and he knows how to use it.

128. Do not ask Detective Wilde about his family. He does not want talk about. He had a break down last week. If this rule is broken you will be punished by the chief.

129. To all officers, firearms are supposed to be used in emergency situations only, not in trying to kill the giant huntsman spider Officer Fangton lost. It was last seen in the armoury.

130. Do not tempt Officer Schneider with beer, Detective Wilde with tea, and Hopps with carrots. They will find out where you live.

[stories-you-wont-hear]

– precedence. pt 1

hey everybody! it’s ya girl! back at it again! with a new story! in lieu of the final part of due process! i swear it is slowly coming together, but i want to be able to do justice to the characters in the story and give them an ending that’s neither cotton candy and butterflies nor... slushy snow and subway rats (does my idea of the bad end of things give away where i’m from lol).

 aNyWaY here is part one to what will mostly likely be a mini series/prequel to due process in which we find out why y/n is the way she is and how billy came into her life. 

bear in mind that this is the same reader from due process, but i don’t think you have to read due process to understand things here, however certain characters will cross over. i hope you all enjoy this, and please give me love! it is so difficult to find motivation to write things when no one pays any attention. i know i write for myself, and for the fun of it, but it can be tough TT enjoy! xoxo mira

   ___________________________________________________________

There was a special place in hell for the person who decided Latin would be so heavily incorporated into the American legal system. Was English not enough? You secretly figured the people who set up this whole shebang got into a pissing contest with each other and resorted to using fancy Latin phrases to try and one up each other, and as a result, you were sitting at your desk and poring over legal Latin phrases.

You were not about to be the next associate fired for fudging up Latin in a brief that ended up being presented in court by a senior partner, who got an earful from the judge and ended up losing the hearing on a matter of technical wording. That day had been about two weeks ago and since then, every single associate at your firm, Wesley King Randall, had been brushing up on terminology. 

Every free moment was spent scanning through reference books and a study guide someone had made, and all that was saying a lot since associates at any big law firm barely had time to breathe. From the corner of your eye, you saw one of the name partners making their way towards the area where the associates were situated and you quickly slipped the papers you had been studying from into your bag and turned to the papers on research about property law. Apparently not everyone had sensed the shift in the air as several other associates still had out their Latin books. 

“Didn’t you bumbling toddlers learn what mens rea means in whatever law school your daddies bought your way into?” the woman said as she walked through the playpen of associates, causing a wave of frazzled yuppies to quickly shut their books and turn towards the woman who would fire each and every one of them without a moment’s hesitation. 

“A guilty mind,” one particular young associate said. Big mistake. 

“Is that what your copy of Legalese for Dummies says?” she replied, eyes piercing through the man who had had the audacity to reply to her. The poor kid was now probably kicking himself for not interning at Landman and Zack. You sucked in your breath, unsure what his fate would be until another man walked towards the bullpen area.

 “Eva, you came to choose an associate, not to choose a lamb to slaughter,” Richard Wesley said, his teeth sparkling as he came in, shaking his head as if to admonish the woman with whom he shared the name of the firm. 

“It’s not my fault they’re all sheep,” she replied back bitterly, her mood seeming to worsen with the addition of her colleague.

 “How about Monty?” Richard suggested, gesturing towards William Montgomery Jr., who immediately stood up when his name was called. “I’d prefer someone who won’t call me a frigid bitch behind me back, Dick,” Eva deflected. Monty's face immediately reddened as Eva reiterated the words he had used to describe her last week at an associate's happy hour outing.

"The walls have ears, Mr. Montgomery," Eva cautioned, her eyes scanning the faces of the associates, who were all probably trying to hide either their fear or their contempt of the female third of the law firm.

Eva King was many things. She was poised, she was ruthless, and she did not give a shit what people thought of her. And now, Eva King was looking directly at you. "You," she said, and you immediately rose up, hand reaching for your bag without a word as she beckoned for you. Eva turned to leave without so much as another word, but you caught the look Richard Wesley was giving the rest of the associates, namely the male associates in front of him.

It was a look that was meant to pacify them. It wasn't that they weren’t worthy, Eva chose you because you were a woman. At least, that's what those man-babies would tell themselves as they nursed top shelf liquor tonight after work. It was the same reason why Richard Wesley doubted your ability even though you had just wrangled a property case for him just last month.

"I don't have time to coddle you," Eva said as you followed her through the firm, heading for the elevator. "I don't need you to," you replied, stepping into the enclosed space behind her. "That's what I like to hear," she said, granting you a look that was probably as close to warm as she could get.

"You were the one who figured out that clever little loophole in the Grant case will, weren't you?" she asked after a moment of silence. You attempted to pull back at the grin that wanted to pop up on your face, it was the very case Richard Wesley had taken as a favor for an old family friend, making sure that man would get every pretty penny from his grandmother's will. It was also the case that some second year associate had gotten the credit for just because he was being groomed for Wesley's good old boy club. Yet, Eva King knew what you had done. You had barely had a conversation since you started here three years ago, but she knew about you.

"Yes," you replied, hoping your faux indifferent tone was masking the fact that you were internally jumping for joy. "Don't be humble," Eva insisted, "Every goddamn thing you do here, you write your name in big bold letters on. You don't do that and some ass with a trust fund is going to write his own name on it." You attempted to take in her words as the elevator dinged, marking your arrival to the third and most prestigious floor of the firm.

The desk at reception was marked with the names of the partners in silver lettering and the woman behind it stood up as the both of you stepped off the elevator. "Mr. Russo from Anvil is already waiting in your office, Ms. King," the receptionist called as Eva brushed past her. "Of course he is," Eva muttered under her breath, heading towards her office.

"Stay sharp," was all that Eva supplied before she stepped into her office to find the man you presumed to be Mr. Russo going through the books she had arranged on the bookshelf behind her couch. You could've sworn that her office was probably just as big as your apartment, her desk facing away from the lounge area each name partner had in their office. Eva's was tastefully done, and was as chic as she was. "I think this Camus guy is pretty bleak, don't ya think?" were his first words as he turned towards the two of you, holding up a copy of The Stranger. "Sorry, I'll have Forrest Gump playing for you the next time you visit, Mr. Russo," Eva responded.

The man, who you couldn't help but ogle, was dressed impeccably in a suit you had worked long enough at this firm to know was worth your entire month's paycheck. "Billy Russo," he said, putting the book back on the shelf to step towards you, his movements precise as he offered his hand to you. You shook it, hoping you weren't still ogling him. "Y/N Y/L/N," you supplied.

"Have a seat, Mr. Russo, Y/N," Eva chimed, waiting until the both of you sat before she took a seat a few feet from you on the couch. "What's going on, Russo?" she asked almost immediately. Eva certainly did not beat around the bush, even with clients. "How I love your hospitality," Billy commented with a chuckle. "Can I get you anything?" Eva said exasperatedly.

"Just some fine legal counsel," Billy quipped back as you looked between the two of them. You had always seen Eva as a powerhouse, not taking shit from anyone, but this kind of exchange was almost like banter. You were seeing a new side of her.

"Well, it's a good thing you came to a law firm, isn't it?" Eva shot back, but this time with the tiniest of smiles. "I hear you lot are pretty decent, any truth to that?" he said, this time directing his playful quip at you. "That suit you're wearing isn't cheap, and neither are we," you responded.

"I like her," Billy said, turning to face Eva, who was nodding at you with a look of approval. "So do I," she began, avoiding eye contact with you as she said so, "And she's right. So we can keep making small talk for as long as you want, Billy." Billy smirked, and you knew he had the pockets to keep you and Eva here all day if he wanted. You certainly didn't mind the view.

"What was that joke?" Billy began, "What's the difference between a good lawyer and a bad lawyer? A bad lawyer can drag a case out for a year and a good lawyer..." "A good lawyer can make it last even longer," you offered. "Bingo!" Billy grinned. Eva's expression turned to one of weariness, and you cleared your throat, not wanting her to regret her choice.

"Sorry, Eva," Billy sighed, "I just can't help myself around beautiful women." His grin was wide as he leaned back against the arm chair he had chosen to sit in, and suddenly his face clicked. You had seen him in the papers and perhaps once or twice in the office on the rare occasion you had to visit the third floor. He was the CEO of some private military firm and had deep enough pockets to keep Wesley King Randall on as legal counsel. "Try," Eva replied dryly.

Billy's entire demeanor changed within seconds, sitting up and dropping the grin in exchange for an intense look as he pointed towards the file on the coffee table. "This is a contract that I made with a domestic company to provide accommodations to my men out in Iraq. They're set to go weeks from now, and then this son of-" Eva cleared her throat, raising her brow at him as she leafed through the papers. "Sorry," Billy mumbled, before shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts.

"Now they're telling me they can't provide me the service, and I've got men going out there with no place to go," he continued. "They called you and told you that?" Eva asked, her eyes scanning the pages in front of her. "Yeah, the guy didn't even have the balls to tell it to my face. Let me tell you what I would've done if he had had the gall to walk into my office and tell me that." "Please," Eva cut in again, "If it's not legal, don't tell me." Billy sighed, shrugging his shoulders a bit. He looked tense, his concern for the people who worked for him apparent.

"Fair enough," he sighed. "I just don't want my men out in the cold." You nodded sympathetically, eyes turning to Eva who had set the contract back down on the table. "Does this have anything to do with the fact that the wife of this company's CEO was the one you were laying it on at the gala last weekend? she asked coolly. Billy froze, the epiphany he was having drawing a a slow nod as Eva spoke. "I didn't know that was her!" he cried, "And I can't help it if my natural state of being is pure charm." Eva scoffed, and even you couldn't help but chuckle in reply to that comment.

"What am I supposed to do now? Wait until my men are out there without so much as a roof over their heads?" he said, turning back into serious Billy.

"It's an anticipatory breach," you spoke up, looking up at Billy. Eva nodded in agreement, her eyes on you as you spoke. "You don't have to wait to take legal action until they actually breach the contract. He already told you that they can't honor their part of the agreement. That in turn will affect your ability to complete the job your company was hired for. They could be held liable not just for what you paid them, but for the entire contract."

Billy turned to look back at Eva, who sat up straight, her expression unable to hide the fact that she was pleased with you. "That's right," she agreed, "We can hold them as liable before they actually breach. Do you have proof that he called and stated that on the phone?" Billy nodded, explaining that he'd need to get the recording of the call from the secretary who kept those sort of logs.

"Great," Eva said, standing up to follow Billy's movements as you did the same. "Get that to me and I'll have his head on a platter for you," she said as she began to walk him out. "Thank you, Eva," Billy said, tipping his head in thanks. "And thank you, Y/N," he said with one of those smiles. "It's my job, Mr. Russo," you replied. With that, he was off and you wondered if Eva wanted you in her office as she had taken a seat at her desk.

"Should I-" you began until she gestured for you to take a seat across from her. "You did good," she praised, and for a moment, you wondered if you were in a dream. Eva King, the woman who all the associates called an ice queen, was praising you while you sat in her office. "But you have to be the best," she continued, her eyes set on you. You tried to maintain eye contact, but her gaze was too intense and your eyes dropped to your lap. "I'm serious, Y/N, you have potential," she said, a bit gentler this time. You nodded, thanking her for the opportunity as you sensed it was time for you to return to your regular old cubicle three floors down. "And," Eva called as you got to the door, "Next time don't make it so obvious that you're ogling him."

  ___________________________________________________________

and boom! so that was mainly to introduce the story and the characters and of course, billy. let me know what you think and i hope to have the next part of this as well as the last part to due process out soon. much love, mira

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Late (20.4)

Chapter Warning: Blood, death, supernatural/paranormal ideas, plot, MAJOR BP deviation

 Word Count: 6111K (Y’all did say that there was no such thing as too many words)

 Note: Okay so here we go. Sh*t is about to get interesting and trippy. Roll with it please. I know the last chapter is stretching out like a mini-series within a chapter LOL, I definitely keep coming up with alternates and wanting to incorporate them ALL, like a crazy scientist. LOL. It’s coming to an end I promise. Bear with me.

 As always, thank you ALL for reading! I appreciate each and every one of you and your comments, likes, questions/asks, words of encouragement and even criticism in disguise as kindness. LOL.

***Loosely edited/proofread***

***Interactive Chapter***

Thank you guys for reading. I appreciate it. If you enjoyed this, please LIKE, drop a COMMENT, REBLOG. ❤️  ❤️  

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

T’Challa stood back and watched his talented medical team work on Y/N. After finding you in your bathroom and registering the horror that had transpired his grief washed over him like a tidal wave and almost made him give up, but the panther in him refused. Somehow, he found the strength and will to leap into action. He wasted no time gathering your lifeless body and running through the halls to the medical wing. He knew that the brain had about ten minutes of viable activity. He had a ten-minute window and last chance. As he ran through the hall, he left a long trail of her blood behind him. Those who were in the palace watched in horror and shock.

 “She has no pulse; we need to increase the electrical charge. Charging to one hundred and fifty,” informed one of the doctors.

 The sound of the machine charging up rang out loudly in a high-pitched whirring. T’Challa watched the doctor touch the paddles to your bare chest. Your body arched off the table from the power of the electrical current coursing through your body. When they removed the paddles, you dropped back to the bed. Everyone looked to the heart rate monitor, but nothing changed.

 “Again, charge to two hundred and fifty.”

 Within seconds the paddle touched your skin again repeating the same actions as before. T’Challa hopefully looked at the monitor silently praying for some improvement. His prayers remained unanswered. The doctors looked to each other clearly reluctant to increase the charge any higher.

 “Why have you stopped, do it again, go higher,” T’Challa shouted.

 “My king, if we go any higher, we could do more harm than good,” a doctor warned.

 “She is dying; you need to do something for her!”

 “With all due respect my king, the little activity we see is not enough to render she is still living,” a second doctor apprehensively informed as if he were afraid to say the words.

 T’Challa looked horrified and quickly grabbed the doctor by the lapels of his white coat.

 “You will save her. Now!”

 “T’Challa release him,” Ramonda firmly ordered. He reluctantly listened and slowly released the doctor back to his feet. The doctor quickly scurried away from him and stood close to the window in the room, the furthest location from T’Challa.

 “Mother, they cannot give up. She has to live; she cannot die!”

 Ramonda looked to your lifeless body on the table and looked around at all the other doctors quickly trying to try any and everything to restart your heart. As she looked at the machines, she knew the wonders of Wakanda’s medical team, but she also knew reality.

 “How long she been like this?”

 “Practically since she was brought in, almost twelve minutes Queen Mother,” one of the doctors informed.

 Ramonda took a deep breath in before she looked down.

 “T’Challa––, “ Ramonda began before he interrupted her.

 “No, no umama, no! do not say the words. Help her! What kind of doctors just give up? Help her!” T’Challa shouted, his voice booming off the walls. The floors unexpectedly shook. All eyes in the room widened and looked around.

 “Calm yourself, my son,” Ramonda uttered placing her hand on his forearm.

 “Calm? How can I be calm? I just walked into the most gruesome scene I’d ever seen in my life all because of Nakia. She is like this because of her; she is like this because of me. Just when things were becoming easier and clearer, this happened. We were finally in the clear mother, finally. No, I cannot lose her. I cannot, I refuse!” T’Challa ranted.

 He moved to the side of the bed next to you and stared at your chest as if he were looking through you. The doctors that were near you stepped back once they saw his eyes change in color to the intense yellow of the panther. T’Challa closed his eyes and focused on the shape of your heart before he scanned your body. He saw the blood barely flowing through your body; he saw the trauma to your kidney and small intestines because of the large shard protruding from your abdomen. He focused more intensely and scanned higher to your neck where he saw the fatal puncture to not only your carotid but also your jugular. He released a low growl in his chest. He honed his senses in to dig deeper, he did not hear the steady beating of her heart, but he heard some sort of murmur. He placed his hand atop her chest and willed his senses to stretch further. He’d never done this on anyone but himself since he’d discovered he could do it. This was a challenge, one he would not shy away from. He felt a faint electrical charge through his fingers; he felt the electrical charge of a life force. When he felt his own, it felt as if it were sucking inward, feeling hers, it was seeping out. He heard the murmur again, it was ever so slight, but it was there.

 He opened his eyes and reached for the paddled of the defibrillator and geared the charge to three hundred before he brought them close to your chest. The doctors leaped forward.

 “No, my king, you cannot, a charge of three hundred will cause irreparable damage.”

 “I can hear her heart; she needs a higher charge than the one you’ve administered.”

 “T’Challa, I know that you do not want to face it, neither do I. If you do this, if you somehow brought her back, you will have damaged her heart. She has been without oxygen for too long, brother she will not be the same. Look at the wavelengths of her brain,” Shuri counseled through her own tears.

 T’Challa looked to the monitor Shuri pushed toward him. He saw no activity, none, not even a blip. He looked to Shuri.

 “I’m sorry brother. She is far from our advances,” Shuri finished.

 T’Challa scrunched his face with the painful reality creeping on him. He felt the tears prick his eyes.

 “Shuri, help her, please!”

 Shuri’s tears streamed down her cheeks like waterfalls; her heart hurt with this reality.

 “Brother, I wish more than anything I could. She is far from my advances. uxholo!”

 She put her hand on his calmly leading him to put the paddles down.

 Just then Zuri hurried into the room.

 “There is another way!” Zuri rushed out. All eyes fell to him.

 “She may be far from Wakanda’s technological advances, but she is not far from the ancestors’,” Zuri confessed.

 Everyone stood in confusion of his riddle.

 “Zuri I have no times for your riddles, what are you talking about?” T’Challa inquired.

 “The heart-shaped herb T’Challa,” Zuri enlightened.

 T’Challa looked to him confusion shining through his eyes as he contemplated what he meant. He couldn’t mean giving her the herb, the herb that was only meant for the kings of Wakanda, those of Wakandan blood. He could not mean this. As he and Zuri exchanged looks, he was becoming more and more confident that this was what he meant.

 “Zuri, you don’t mean––“

 “I do mean it, my king; we give Y/N the heart-shaped herb. We perform the same ritual that was done on you.”

 “Zuri,” Ramonda began with wide eyes.

 “While I love Y/N, the herb is meant for the kings of Wakanda, it is meant for those who have Wakandan blood flowing through them. Those without the blood—” Ramonda trailed off.

 “This would kill her Zuri,” T’Challa groaned.

 “No my king, it could kill her, if we do nothing, that will kill her.”

 “Pardon me, but she is already dead, medically she is dead,” the doctor closest to Zuri reasoned.

 “Life and death are all but words. T’Challa I’ve taught you this. You should not be able to be The Black Panther, you should not be stronger than one hundred men, you should not have knowledge past your own life yet you possess all the knowledge from the kings before you, you should not be able to smell, or hear everything, nor should you be able to see in the dark or see heat signatures. You should not be relatively unbreakable or have super healing, and you definitely should not have any hypercosmic awareness. None of this should have any of this, medically you cannot, yet you do,” Zuri schooled.

 T’Challa knew what he spoke was true. When he was a child Zuri was in charge of his panther studies, the lessons every future king had to endure. He taught him all about the balance of the land and man; he taught him about the delicate dance of life and death and that which lied in-between.

 “Zuri, the in-between.”

 “Yes, T’Challa.”

 T’Challa looked to your lifeless body again and quickly thought of all the ramifications of the decision he was about to make. He touched your blood smeared cheek leading a path to your lips. Your skin was beginning to cool; the cool of death. He clenched his jaw tightly.

 “Let’s go.”

 Within seconds T’Challa scooped you within his strong arms and hurried out the door with a line that comprised of Shuri, Ramonda, the Dora, Zuri and a handful of doctors following closely behind him.

 “Stay with me Y/N, stay with me,” he whispered into your ear praying to Bast herself he wasn’t about to not only cause you harm but disrupt that balance or upset the ancestors. He gripped your tighter and pushed the thoughts from his mind. He’d given you up for Wakanda once before; he refused to do it again!

 With the Dora clearing a path for T’Challa to freely run he ran into the temple covered in blood, carrying your lifeless body. The Dora stationed at the doors attempting to keep the group of Wakanda citizens from entering. They also did their best to clam their worries about your health.

 T’Challa followed Zuri into the catacombs of the City of The Dead, trying hard not to feel the irony of it all. He glanced down to your face; he almost couldn’t feel the electrical surge through you.

 “We must hurry Zuri, I barely feel her anymore.”

Just then they turned into the alcove where the plant was grown and harvested. He passed several temple workers. Once they saw him, they rose to their feet and presented him with the traditional Wakandan salute. Zuri bent to pluck a fragrant purple bud and turned right. Once they stepped into another alcove that held the rust-colored earth, T’Challa rushed toward it.

 “Put her atop the earth.”

 T’Challa abided as the rest of his entourage filled into the small space.

 “Transfuse me,” T’Challa ordered as he began to unbutton his shirt.

 His voice didn’t speak of a debate to begin it spoke of authority, authority that he expected to be recognized. As soon as he spoke the words one of the doctors approached with the necessary tools and began finding his vein. T’Challa didn’t pay any attention to the doctor all he did was stare at Y/N. as he stared, he pushed his senses trying desperately to find any remnants of life within you. His search was becoming futile; there was no more within you.

 “She cannot wait anymore Zuri!” T’Challa rumbled as the doctor punctured his vein with the vibranium crafted needle, he watched his blood ooze through the winding tube until it went into her arm.

 He was not happy with the speed of the transfusion.

 “More.”

 The doctor adjusted the valve on the side of the needle allowing the flow to slightly increase. T’Challa felt the slight change of pressure, but he still knew it was not enough.

 “More.”

 The doctor looked to Zuri and then to Ramonda to see if no one was going to object. When no one did, he obeyed, increasing the flow yet again. This increase he felt. He rolled his shoulders back and straightened his posture allowing himself to adjust to the outflow of blood.

 “More.”

 “T’Challa, if you go any higher you will be compromised,” Ramonda warned.

 “I do not care mother. The only thing I care about is lying right in front of me. She needs my blood if she has any hope of surviving this.”

 He looked to Zuri and nodded permitting him to proceed. Zuri approached your body. T’Challa saw Shuri crouch down and hold open your mouth. She gave him a reassuring smile, one that spoke of her undying support and loyalty. T’Challa nodded his gratitude. Zuri poured the purple liquid into your mouth. As the fluid traveled through your body, it illuminated you from within giving your skin the familiar purple glow T’Challa expected. The entire room was suspended in an anxious state. Each held anxiety for their own reasons; for the doctors it was their vow to do no harm, Okoye with the wellbeing of her king the man she’d sworn to protect and help to the best of her ability. She knew that if this did not work, he would never be the same. Shuri and Ramonda also held the same anxieties, Shuri for the sister she never had, the sister she loved deeply.

 Once your entire being was glowing purple, your body lurched off the rust earth and began seizing. The doctors lept forward beginning to attempt to intervene.

 “No,” Zuri interjected holding out a hand to keep them at bay.

 “Whatever happens now has to happen. We cannot intervene.”

 Everyone watched in anguish as your body violently convulsed of its own volition. T’Challa clenched his fists allowing the surge of blood to increase into you. He zeroed in his senses in on you and tried to sense whatever he could. He picked up on your distress and wanted to help. He looked to Zuri who shook his head.

 “This is the difficult part.”

 T’Challa closed his eyes and centered himself and calmed his emotions and instead used his connection to the earth and to Bast to pray for guidance and her favor. No king was above prayer. After a few minutes, your body dropped still, and everyone watched as the earth sucked you beneath its surface.

 “Bast has allowed it, the earth has accepted her, the rest is up to her and the ancestors. If she is meant the earth must choose to release her, but Bast has to bless her to return,” Zuri informed. T’Challa closed his eyes once more, but he could not feel you, nor sense you. You were on your own, and the thought of that terrified him. He was helpless, he held no power here, no control.

  -Y/N-

Darkness swallowed you whole. What was worse was there was no air, you began to gasp for air unable to find any. Every inhale you took you felt dirt fill your mouth. You tried to cough it up, but even that was useless because it only pushed more into your mouth. You began to flail your arms and legs around trying to push yourself out of whatever you wer either submerged or entangled in. After a few minutes of struggle, your circumstances remained the same. You began to panic unable to see any escape.

 “Calm yourself.”

 You heard from some distance away. You turned in every direction trying to see, but there was nothing but darkness. You continued your futile efforts to escape; your failure was increasing your panic.

 “Calm yourself now!”

 Your movements stopped, and you remained still, everything in you screamed panic, but you no longer had control over your extremities. You were forced to remain still.

 “First the body, but only you can calm from within. Calm yourself.”

 You willed yourself to find some calm, normally it would be a quick feat, but this time it was one of the most challenging things you’d ever done. Slowly you felt yourself begin to relax. You felt your heart slowing. Just above you, you could see some glimmer of light.

 “Calm is the first step. Now you must believe.”

 You had no idea what the hell was going on, no idea who was talking, no idea what the hell they meant. What’s more, you had no idea where the hell you were.

 “Believe Y/N.”

 You stared at the twinkle of light and tried to focus on it. You tried to remember your meditation teachings from T’Challa. T’Challa. At the thought of him, it all came back to you. The last seven years flashed by in a whirlwind and ended on your death.

 “I’m dead,” you thought.

 “Not dead per se.”

 “If not dead then what am I? Please don’t say I’m a ghost and stuck in limbo,” you thought

 “That comes later. now all you have to do is believe.”

 “Believe in what?” you thought.

 “Wakanda.”

 You contemplated the words and what they meant. You’d always believed in Wakanda, always believed in everything it stood for, everything it wanted, you believed in Wakanda so much you’ve given the last seven years of your life to it and given your heart to its king.

 “Do you believe?”

 “Yes,” you thought.

 Suddenly, you felt as if you were being pulled toward the light, as you got closer it the brighter it became. On the final tug, you gasped and felt the cooling sensation of air. You violently coughed taking in the breath you felt as if you’d been deprived of. After several minutes your coughing subsided, and you looked to the side and saw tall grass. You reached your hand out and threaded your fingers through the smooth blades. You dropped your hand down and it sunk into the dirt. You balled your fist and gathered a handful of the soil. As your vision cleared, you peered up into the purple-hued sky. It was then common sense took over. You sprang up to a sitting position and took in all that as before you.

You looked over the aurora borealis tinted sky, the rolling hills, and the trees. It was beautiful. You slowly stood up and stared out into the horizon. Further out the sky looked thunderous, and it slowly approached. You looked directly over your head and marveled at the sight before you. You knew there was no way this could be.

 “I’m dead.”

 “Not dead,” came a voice from behind you.

 You spun around to come face to face with a black panther who was standing in front of a massive tree filled with tens of other panthers.

 “Holy shit!” you staggered backward a few steps and braced yourself preparing to run.

 “Calm yourself,” came the voice from your head again. Only this time it looked like it came from the panther itself.

 “What the actual fuck is this?”

 The panther took two steps toward you, and it was two too many. You turned and took off across the field toward a smaller tree. Once you reached it, you hid behind it pressing your back to the bark. You panted trying to catch your breath. You peeped from the side of the tree to see the panther sitting a few feet from the tree you were hiding behind. You pressed your back to the bark once again preparing to run when you recalled the conversation; you’d had with T’challa after he was crowned king. He spoke of his experience seeing his father, his experience in the ancestral plane. You slowly looked around at the sight before you. Everything was a replica of what T’Challa had described. Everything.

 “Oh my god, this can’t be,” you marveled.

  “Do you believe?”

 Your spine went stiff; the voice sounded like T’Chaka’s. You took a deep breath unsure what you’d find, too terrified to expect anything. You slowly peeped from behind the tree again and saw the panther still sitting there. Just as you were about to draw back behind the tree, you watched the panther transform from animal to man. Your eyes bugged out in panic as you stared at T’Chaka.

 “T’Chaka?”

He held out his hand to you, offering it to you. You slowly walked from behind the tree to him, taking in his figure. Once you stood before him, you placed your hand in his outstretched one. He was a solid figure; he was real.

 “Oh fuck,” you uttered before you passed out cold on the ground before him.

 When your vision returned to you, the sky remained the same purple hue. You sat up and saw T’Chaka standing there still.

 “You are not imagining this; this is not a dream. It is real; you are here,” he explained.

 “Here? Here is where exactly?”

 “Y/N, you know where. All that remains is for you to speak the words.”

 He calmly stood there waiting for you to accept it. Most of you welcomed the acceptance but a small part of you refused, it must have been the American part, the part that could not believe as all of Wakanda could. You took a deep breath in and slowly released it. Looking around once again the evidence pointed to the facts of what he was saying. You looked back to him and let go of that part of refusal.

 “The ancestral plane.”

 T’Chaka smiled.

 “The final resting place of all of Wakanda’s kings.”

 “King T’Chaka—” you began.

 “Here we are all kings, call me T’Chaka,”

 “The rightful king is not here. Why are you here?”

 You sighed and rolled your eyes at the long sorted tale.

 “You don’t know?”

 “Of course I know, we see all. he spread out his arms as if to emphasize we.

 You looked behind him again at all the other Panthers still watching you. Except now they were all on the ground lined in front of the tree.

 “Do not worry about them. Come, walk with me,” T’Chaka encouraged as he walked off toward the horizon. You fell in next to him.

 “I knew when I first met you that there was something formidable within you. Something that kings and queens are made of. Something that would serve you well in whatever path you chose. As the years passed, I saw it was something that would serve you when you became queen.”

 “What? Me, queen?”

 “Tell me you had never thought about it?”

 “Never, it was not something that I thought would ever be possible. The council had their wishes, and I am not Wakandan. I knew my place and my role,” you informed. T’Chaka studied you with a look of admiration on his face.

 “The day I realized how you felt about T’Challa and that he felt the same way and had for a long time I spoke to Ramonda, my wise, beautiful queen and told her. She merely laughed because she had long seen it. she told me I was a blind man and all I had to do was watch the width of T’Challa’s smile when he spoke of you.”

 You smiled, but also saw longing on T’Chaka’s face as he mentioned Ramonda’s name. You recognized pain, longing, and love when you saw it.

 “She misses you also, her and Shuri do,” you voiced. He nodded and released the breath he took in.

 “I shall see her again, one day. That thought comforts me. Our love is eternal,” T’Chaka expressed. You smiled, you’d always admired their love, their marriage. Admired how T’Chaka put her above all else and never went a single day without showing her just how much she was loved.

 “Tell me Y/N, do you love my son?”

 The unexpected question shocked you and caught you off guard.

 “Uh—” was the only thing you could muster.

 “In this place, while I have all the time in the world, you do not. You are dying Y/N. You are already dead. T’Challa and Zuri have decided to give you the herb in hopes of some miracle. Part of that miracle has been accomplished; you are here. So tell me.”

 You took a deep breath and felt nervousness. You’d never said these words aloud, and the thought of actually doing it scared you. You were admitting the power one man had over you, the power he had over you to make you happy or break your heart. That thought alone was more terrifying than the to the death combat you just had with Nakia. Because it was terrifying was what had always kept you from saying the words to T’challa. Through all his declarations of love, you’d never spoken the words. You regretted that now, now that you would not see him, and would never be able to tell him. You looked down to your hands and out to the thunderous horizon.

 “Yes,” you whispered realizing it was now or never. You dared a look at T’Chaka and saw him looking expectantly at you.

 “Yes, I love him.”

 T’Chaka smiled and continued walking, you followed.

 “Why?”

 “Why?” you echoed in confusion.

 “Yes, why do you love him? Is it because he the king, or because he is a handsome man? Why?” T’Chaka demanded.

 “Because he is my sunrise and sunset, because he is full of hope and dreams because he has never believed he was worthy, because he is stronger than he ever know, and wiser too. Because he is kind and gentle and incredibly compassionate, I love him because my heart chose him long before my head did,” you finished. While speaking you felt all the hope and giddiness, but reality crept in to replace it with remorse and regret, the twins of unhappiness.

 “I was too scared to tell him before, too afraid to admit how much I needed him, afraid to tell him the power he held over me, afraid he would break my heart, I was afraid loving him would make me weak,” you further admitted.

 You felt T’Chaka’s hand on your shoulder, and you looked back to him.

 “Loving does not make you weak; it is the opposite. Loving gives you all the power in the world. It enables you to do what others can not–believe. Love is power.”

 You slowly nodded now seeing it clearly.

 “Wakanda owes you a debt,” T’Chaka continued as he turns in another direction continuing to walk, you absentmindedly follow.

 “Wakanda owes me nothing.”

 “Then it is I who owes you this debt,” T’Chaka finished as you stop in front of the enormous tree from before. You didn’t even realize you’ve come face to face with panthers.

 “Oh god,”

 “Calm yourself. Hold your resolve. These are the past kings of Wakanda,” T’Chaka explained.

You slowly looked over all the panthers standing before you. They each looked identical except for slight differences, either it was the prominence of the spots in their coat, of the color of their eyes, or even scars upon their body that shone in different colors. Nonetheless, they were all majestic, commanding respect. You had no idea what to do so you did what you thought and presented the traditional Wakandan salute. The panthers didn’t move; they merely stood there never taking their eyes off of you, it was as if they were sizing you up, trying to see if you were worthy of what you didn’t know.

 “The second part of the miracle has to be granted; you must pass the test.”

 “Test? What test?”

 “Since it is I who owes you this debt, I will help you.”

 In the blink of an eye, you feel the slice of a sharp object along your wrist.

“Ouch!”

 T’Chaka swipes his fingers across the flowing blood and steps in front of you pressing his thumbs over your forehead just above your nose bridge leaving two prints of blood on you.

 “T’Chaka what is this? what are you doing?”

 “The contents of your heart will be judged; the contents of your soul will be put on trial. You must be deemed worthy,” T’Chaka explained.

 “How? Worthy of what?” you questioned.

 “Worthy of your life, worthy of Wakanda, worthy of being queen,” he filled in. you felt fear, and your eyes shifted around trying to keep the panthers in sight.

 “Remain calm, the blood and the mark will help,” he explained before he stepped back to join the panthers before you. In a second, he transformed back to his panther form.

 It was just you now, standing before them, you must have looked like the sacrificial lamb, you sure felt like it. You fought the urge to back up instead of remaining where you stood. The panthers broke the line and began to encircle you.

 “Oh shit, shit, shit, shit!”

 You tried to remain calm as T’Chaka had instructed, but your grip on that calm was quickly slipping. You lifted your foot to take a step back but heard several growls. Instead, you planted your feet back into the dirt and straightened your spin raising your head holding it high. You felt the tongue of one of the panthers across your wrist, and you hissed but did not move. Long moments passed with you in the center of the circle the panthers had created with them sniffing, licking and snarling at you. You felt as if they were trying to scare you, trying to unnerve you. The defiance in you refused to be a punk.

 You raised your hands from your side out to stretch out; the growling became louder, so loud it was all you could hear. You looked up to the sky and saw the thunder and lightning from the horizon had made it’s way to you. The sky looked violent and dangerous, but you remained still. You raised your hands higher to the sky, and that was when a loud crack split through it revealing the brightest strike of lighting you’d ever seen. With the lightning came the monsoon. You angled your head up to the sky allowing the rain to wash over you. The crescendo of growls rose to a loud climax as the light blinded you.

All was still and silent. Slowly you saw something stepping to you through the haze of light. You shielded your face trying to make out what it was. The lights dimmed slightly, and you saw the most beautiful panther you’d ever seen. It was covered in purple and blue tribal markings that looked to be glowing. You stood there mouth wide as the animal gracefully approached you. It was triple the size of the panthers you knew still surrounded you. You looked around you, but they were gone, vanished. It was just you and the intimidating panther. When you looked back it stood in front of you it was easily your height. You were speechless.

You continued to admire its beauty, the beauty all Wakandan books spoke of, the beauty of Bast herself. You looked into its eyes. You stood there transfixed as you felt as if your head was on fire. You felt as if you were being shaken as if a fire trailed a path throughout your body. As it traveled it set your entire being ablaze. The fire went to your heart, and the sheer pain of it made you drop to your knees before the panther. You gripped your chest and panted trying to overcome the pain. The panther’s eyes never left you. You slowly lifted your head to look back into the panther’s eyes. The panther tilted it’s head to the side but intensified its stare. You screamed out loudly, your scream echoed. In the seconds you saw your entire life flash through your head, every single thing you’d ever been through, preschool, your high school fights, college boyfriends, the one time you stole something and felt so bad you returned it and gave the cashier the money for it and then some without taking the item.

 You saw all the decisions you’d ever made, the times you had opportunities to be underhanded but choose to rise above. You saw every path you took to Wakanda, and every decision you’d made since. The pain intensified and you screamed again. The images slowed whenever it came to T’Challa, only to speed up again. When the images came to Tandra, it froze on her dead body. The pain radiated through you; it was so intense you were sure you were going to pass out. You screamed again but did not look away. You fixed your face in a way trying to absorb the pain and push through it. You slowly rose to your feet as the images shifted to Nakia’s dead body. You screamed again but did not look away, did not falter, you refused.

 Tandra was not your fault, but Nakia was. You chose to kill Nakia, although her death was the only way to end it. You regretted what happened to Tandra even through what she put you through, but Nakia you didn’t regret, you only regret that it had to happen that you could not find another way. You wished it could be different, wished there was a different outcome, but you’d accepted it.

 “I-am-worthy!” you loudly shouted. Once you said the words, you regretted it because it was then the pain rose to a level you could not take, so you did the only feasible thing. You touched the panther. Once you did your hand illuminated a plethora of colors. Your skin transitioned between blues, greens, purples, oranges, and reds, the surge of the electrical current coursing through you only made you scream louder.

 “I am worthy!” you shouted again.

 As quickly as the pain began it ended and with it the bright light. You dropped to your knees panting for breath trying to recover. You looked around you; the panthers stood back watching you, you watched as each of them rose one paw into the air. It was as if they were saluting you. You looked around the circle until your eyes rested on T’Chaka before you. He smiled.

 “I’d always known you were worthy. Always known that Bast herself brought you to Wakanda not just for T’challa but for Wakanda. You are the future,” T’Chaka voiced.

 “What?” you asked in full confusion.

 He pointed to the ground. You saw a small pool of water before you. You rose up to peer into the water and immediately drew back to look back at T’Chaka who merely smiled. You looked back into the water at your reflection. Only it was not you as you’d been before instead you were a panther, not just a regular panther, but a panther with swirls and patches along you all in different colors. You sat there completely in disbelief.

 “Impossible.”

 You heard T’Chaka laugh.

 “Impossibility is simply possible in Wakanda; you are not nearly small minded enough to believe in impossibility.”

 You sat there staring at your face, complete marveling at how you were now a panther.

“How did this happen? What does this mean?” you listed off.

 “You’ve passed the test, Bast has deemed your worthy, the old kings have deemed you worthy. Bast herself has blessed you, given you a gift even, a gift never before given to any other than the king. Bast has given you the gift of the panther,” T’Chaka informed.

 You marveled at his words, marveled at everything that had happened. Never in your wildest dreams did you ever think this was possible, not just possible but that you would ever be in this position. You still didn’t understand how, or why.

 “It’s best not to try to understand why or how. Bast does what she pleases when and how she pleases. It is not for us mere humans to understand. All we can do is live up to whatever expectations the gift decrees and you Y/N have been truly gifted; I am sure you will do amazing things for Wakanda and T’Challa. He is lucky to have you, as I’ve been lucky to know you,” T’Chaka informed. As soon as the words were spoken, he bows his head down to you.

 At the moment you watch on in the water as the panther disappears. You’re left staring at your true reflection. He holds out his hands for you, you take them, and he helps you to your feet.

 “It is time for you to go.”

 “Go where?”

 “Where you belong Y/N,” T’Chaka finishes.

 Before you could say another word, T’Chaka puts his hand to your forehead and once again the darkness engulfs you, this time you can smell the dirt around you. This time everything was different you knew what to do, you knew how to get out. It was easier. You clawed above your head, clawed through the darkness until you leaped up gasping for air.

 To Be Continued…

Rights to panther image # 2: Artist is Mariah Tato

Rights to panther image #1: Unknown, found on Pinterest DOES NOT BELONG TO ME

Glossery of Terms (As According to Google)

 -Uxholo: I’m Sorry

-Umama: mother

Tag List:

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[dccomicsnews]

Fun. No matter genre or style, comics should always be fun. Unfortunately, sometimes, comics fail on this point either through content or execution. While it’s true that “fun” may be a quickly moving target for audiences generation to generation, it shouldn’t be too hard to point out comics that miss this. Even the most progressive and innovative comics have a “fun” quotient. Currently, DC Comics seems to be struggling with this notion in a significant segment of their line. However, there are some titles which have no problem exuding “fun!” It’s telling that the company that would be known as DC launched their first title in 1935, New Fun: The Big Comic Magazine. It’s even more telling, that this title evolved into More Fun Comics. From the very beginning, there’s been a notion of “fun.”

It may be easy to say that the element of “fun” is elusive and subjective. However, there are some classic titles that due to mature themes may seem to contradict this notion. Let’s look at Watchmen. While this comic is full of mature elements, it never eliminates the aspect of fun. The use of the Charlton Comics characters as analogs is an instant indicator of “fun.” It’s clear that Alan Moore is tying in to the history of comics, not only Charlton’s history, but the very history of comics as his backstory evokes the Golden Age of DC’s history. While Nite Owl, Silk Spectre and the rest are more or less original creations, it’s clear that they echo characters like the Golden Age Flash, Green Lantern and Atom that were in use in the DC Universe at the time. Any contemporary reader would be aware of this. It’s not hard to imagine that reader understanding that Moore was creating a sort of synergy with the legacies in the DC Universe.  While not an analog for the Justice Society of America, the Minutemen are that world’s first team of mystery men like the JSA in the traditional DC Universe. Evoking legacy is one of the primal elements of comic book “fun.” This is what made the reintroduction of the Justice Society of America in Justice League of America #21 and #22 such a hit in 1963.

  If something as highly acclaimed and serious as Watchmen can contain “fun,” what’s going on with today’s books? There’s no shortage of fun in the current Hawkman, and The Terrifics as well as the recent Plastic Man mini-series. However, the Heroes in Crisis mini-series/event is anything but fun. Issue #1 was essentially a bloodbath with 1/2 the issue devoted to Harley Quinn stabbing Booster Gold, repeatedly and unrelentingly.  There’s no fun here.  The tone is somber and the action mired in gratuitous violence.  The basic premise of the series is that sometimes super-heroes need some mental and emotional counseling.  At Sanctuary, the heroes hope to receive that assistance, but there’s a mass murder at the facility that takes the lives of some fan favorite characters, Wally West and Roy Harper.  The premise is about as far from fun as could be imagined.  While it has the potential to be a truly moving story, so far it has felt more like spectacle with little substance.  It would’ve been much more effective to have created an emotional connection with the victims before dispatching them.

Even a moment that could be perceived as fun in issue #2, when Harley Quinn takes out the Trinity, feels awkward and incongruous. Perhaps, one needs to be a full on Harley fanatic to appreciate this moment. To the average reader, it feels incredibly bizarre and absurd considering the accepted portrayal of Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman. Perhaps, there is more going on, but on the surface, it appears to be quite ridiculous considering Harley Quinn’s power set. In the end, it feels out of place and damning of the Trinity. It’s hard to smile with such an indictment of DC’s big three.

The fallout from Heroes in Crisis naturally extends over to Titans.  The team has lost Roy Harper and Wally West, Arsenal and the Flash respectively to the events at Sanctuary.  Additionally, Donna Troy seems to be struggling with alcohol.  And, to add insult to injury (pun intended), Nightwing their leader suffered a gunshot to the head in Batman #55 that has left him with amnesia.  He only remembers his life before his parents were killed.  Dick Grayson has no memory of his life as the original Robin or Nightwing, nor of Bruce Wayne as his adoptive father.  This whole storyline plays like an attempt to remold Dick Grayson’s personality and affect a name change to “Ric” in order the pacify the perpetually immature that can’t handle the traditional nickname for Richard, Dick.  All this trauma leaves very little fun in the Titans book, which is 180 degree turn from where it started out with the pre-Rebirth mini-series, Titans Hunt, and the first story arcs during the Rebirth branding of the DC line.  These stories relied on the nostalgia for the return of the original Teen Titans to the history of the DC Universe and featured friends rediscovering friendships.  Nostalgia is a major fun factor, as is friends reconnecting, either in real life or between beloved fictional characters.

   Looking at the recent Plastic Man mini-series by Gail Simone and Adriana Melo, it’s not hard to see the fun in it. While the character may lend itself to something more humorous, there’s a fun in exploring Plas’s character. Addressing Pado Swakatoon’s identity issues is just as serious as what Tom King is attempting in Heroes in Crisis. The difference seems to be that Simone and Melo find an element of fun embedded in the themes. King appears to have lost this in his Batman run as well. His lead up to the “non-wedding” included some great character moments and “fun”, most significantly the double date with Lois and Clark at the carnival. However, with Batman #50, the “non-wedding” issue, was a great disappointment. Weddings are generally considered to be fun events, even if just in the moment. However, Bruce and Selina never got that far. There’s nothing fun about a wedding that doesn’t happen. Ask any guest….

Let’s look at Hawkman and The Terrifics, two DC Comics series that both exude “fun.” Hawkman not only presents an interesting plot, but builds on the main character, Carter Hall. There’s a lot going on with this character as his history is explored and yet not destroyed. Robert Venditti has managed to build on Hawkman’s past in an interesting way which doesn’t eliminate any aspect of his history. Instead, it embraces it. This is a real triumph! It exudes “fun.” It doesn’t necessarily require previous knowledge and it doesn’t eliminate ANYTHING that’s come before.

The Terrifics channels the fun and themes that the Fantastic Four originally produced back in 1961 for Marvel Comics. It’s no secret that The Terrifics draws on the chemistry of the Fantastic Four, but more importantly it manages to remain “fun” utilizing the unique personalities of Plastic Man and Metamorpho contrasted against the Mr. Fantastic intellectual analog, Mr. Terrific.

It’s prescient to look at Marvel’s The Immortal Hulk, a series which is not only doing well and receiving positive response, but also serious, somewhat scary and definitely mature. Despite all of these attributes going against it, this series manages to remain “fun.” It is able to channel the original horror element of the basic concept while maintaining a modern sensibility. There is no doubt, however, that Immortal Hulk is fun. Most recently issue #8 has featured a dismembered Hulk still able to provide succor for Bruce Banner. Perhaps, it is the relationship between the two that remains most salient element in the book.

Maybe, the most damning titles in DC’s stable are the Superman books by Brian Michael Bendis. What should be fun is not, and what’s left is sometimes boring and mostly depressing. The Rogol Zaar storyline is progressing too slowly and quite underwhelmingly while the Lois Lane subplot in Action Comics feels completely wrong. The solicits for February’s comics seem to project a future for Jon Kent (Lois and Clark’s son) that has robbed the reader of Jon’s growth and development. Bendis seems to be robbing the reader of understanding how Jon matures and grows, as well as robbing Lois and Clark of raising their child. Not only is this not fun, it is disturbing. If you haven’t dropped Bendis’ Superman books, go ahead and do it now so there may be a chance of salvaging the Kent family. “Fun” is watching the Kent’s raising their son. Depriving them of this opportunity shows a complete lack of respect for the characters, and an agenda of spectacle over character development. There’s enough inherent conflict and story ideas in raising a child with superpowers that Bendis’s contrived plot are not only unnecessary, but uninteresting and depressing- the opposite of “fun.”  Not mention, a status quo that absolutely no one asked for.  There’s an ominous cloud hanging over Superman’s head as Bendis seems to be purposely breaking down the Man of Steel instead of writing legitimately interesting character development.  A mopey, sad Superman is just depressing, and it doesn’t feel genuine when the conflict is so clearly contrived.

It’s not as if there is just one title or character that seems to be suffering from a lack of fun.  The widely reaching Heroes in Crisis event sort of permeates the tenor of the DC Universe.  Interestingly, this atmosphere isn’t isolated in the books that are dealing with the repercussions of Heroes in Crisis directly.  Superman and Nightwing both have some very somber elements that tinge the overall tone of their current storylines and suck the fun out of the drama.  At some point, if the comics you are reading aren’t fun and enjoyable you should drop them. Superman, Action, Titans, Heroes in Crisis, maybe Batman…. Send a message, read what you like…buy what you want to read…don’t be afraid of change….

Editorial: Comics Should Be Fun Fun. No matter genre or style, comics should always be fun. Unfortunately, sometimes, comics fail on this point either through content or execution.

[bill-the-baker]

Before this year is out, I figured we should give a final hurrah to those who died this year:

Delores O’Riordan (6 September 1971 - 15 January 2018): Vocalist for Irish rock band, The Cranberries, best known for their powerful songs “Zombie” and “Linger”.

Henrik, Prince Consort of Denmark (11 June 1934 - 13 February 2018): Husband of Queen Margrethe II of Denmark.

Billy Graham (7 November 1918 - 21 February 2018): Famous Evangelical minister, spiritual counsel to various US Presidents and long-running television personality.

Stephen Hawking (8 January 1942 - 14 March 2018): Perhaps the most intelligent man of our time, helping us to further understand the universe, whilst carrying a hilarious sense of humour and a charming personality.

Winnie Mandela (26 September 1936 - 2 April 2018): Ex-wife of Nelson Mandela, who held a major role in the end of Apartheid.

Barbara Bush (8 June 1925 - 17 April 2018): First-Lady of the United States, with her own unique personality.

Avicii (Tim Bergling) (8 September 1989 - 20 April 2018): World-famous DJ, best known for songs such as “Levels”, “Hey Brother” and “Wake Me Up”.

Verne Troyer (1 January 1969 - 21 April 2018): Hilarious actor, best known for his role as “Mini Me” in the “Austin Powers” series.

XXXTentacion (Jaseh Onfroy) (23 January 1998 - 18 June 2018): Whether you were interested in his music or not, you can agree that this man was gone too soon.

Richard Harrison (4 March 1941 - 25 June 2018): Affectionately known as “The Old Man”, his demeanor in the reality show “Pawn Stars” made him loved among the show’s viewers, and across the US.

Joe Jackson (26 July 1928 - 27 June 2018): Father of Michael Jackson, and the man who launched the careers of his children.

Aretha Franklin (25 March 1942 - 16 August 2018): Often titled the “Queen of Soul”, her songs “Respect” and “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman”, among many others have rightfully earned their spot in music history.

Kofi Annan (8 April 1938 - 18 August 2018): Former Secretary-General of the United Nations, who dealt with many major issues affecting our world with great success in his efforts.

Stefan Karl Stefansson (10 July 1975 - 21 August 2018): The man who gave many children the character of “Robbie Rotten” in “LazyTown”, who would later grow up to assist the man in his dying days, as he opened up to the world with his inspiring words.

John McCain (29 August 1936 - 25 August 2018): US Congressman and Vietnam War Veteran, who offered his own unique stances on various issues, outside of his party’s viewpoint.

Burt Reynolds (11 February 1936 - 6 September 2018): Charming Actor, best known for his roles in the films “Deliverance” and “Smokey and the Bandit”.

Paul Allen (21 January 1953 - 15 October 2018): Co-Founder of Microsoft, which would go on to shape the modern computer industry, whilst also performing many works of philanthropy.

Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha (4 April/5 June 1958 - 27 October 2018): CEO of the King Power duty-free chain and owner of the Leicester City football team, who died in a helicopter crash that shook the United Kingdom.

Stan Lee (28 December 1922 - 12 November 2018): Legendary comic book writer, who created numerous characters, such as Spider Man, The Incredible Hulk and Iron Man among many others, whilst also becoming a celebrity through his out-there personality.

Stephen Hillenburg (21 August 1961 - 26 November 2018): Creator of SpongeBob SquarePants, a show that inspired and entertained both kids and adults alike, with his show becoming a cultural icon, whilst his impact as a creator is also remembered.

George H.W. Bush (12 June 1924 - 30 November 2018): 41st President of the United States, who held a major role in ending the Cold War, whilst maintaining the freedom of nations in need.

And for two honourable mentions for those who died in 2017, but I never truly dedicated:

Stanislav Petrov (7 September 1939 - 19 May 2017): A man who single-handedly saved the world from nuclear destruction in 1983, as Soviet technologies yelled a false alarm. I deeply regret not knowing of his death sooner.

Nicholas “Nicky” Hunt (2 September 1938 - 28 December 2017): My great-uncle; a man who was truly joyous throughout his life, whilst filling the hole left for a grandfather. Rest in peace, Uncle Nick.

[sheikah]

A Lion in the Wolf’s Den

Hey, everyone! First and foremost, I want to wish a happy birthday to my wonderful friend Jenn, @sweetorganza!!!! I love you, Jenn, and hope this day and weekend are full of fun and friends and love

Nothing can top the amazing gift Jenn made for me, but a while back she asked for a fic featuring jealous Jon. This is a plot point that a lot of other, lovely fics have featured! But instead of Jorah or Daario, I’ve decided to throw Jaime into the mix to add some drama surrounding one of my favorite characters and maybe offer something a little new/different >;) This fic is only the first part of what will be a 3 or 5-part mini-series, but I just wanted to post a small taste in honor of Jenn’s birthday today. This is completely unbeta’d and super angsty but I hope you guys like this opening bit! Let me know whatcha think. Enjoy!

It was not long after the meeting at the Dragonpit that Jaime Lannister made the long journey up the Kingsroad alone to pledge himself to Queen Daenerys. Everyone had been surprised at his arrival, but the real shock came when Dany accepted his pledge and welcomed the Kingslayer into her service.

After getting settled in, he had shared the ill tidings of his sister’s treachery, and the claim that he was loyal to her no longer. Jon was a forgiving man, but even he could not look Jaime in the eye and take him at his word. No, this man was not only Cersei’s twin brother but her lover, the father of her children. It was unimaginable to Jon that he had abandoned her to join Dany instead, regardless of his testimony about keeping his word to aid them against the Army of the Dead.

But Jon’s reservations did not prevent Tyrion from accepting his older brother with open arms. And in his usual fashion, the Hand of the Queen had slowly brought Dany around to his side as well. So, weeks later, here he was—a man whose disloyalty was well-known throughout the realm, the partner of their enemy, and he lived beneath Jon’s roof, ate at his table, and now, apparently, was permitted his own weapons with which to run drills in the yard.

Jon eyed Jaime critically from his place on the balcony above. The older man was formidable, even with only one hand. He wielded a Valyrian steel broadsword not unlike that of his current opponent, Lady Brienne of Tarth.

It was her word, too, that worked to sway Dany, for the two women had taken a swift liking to one another the moment they’d met. Brienne was an old friend of Jaime’s, it seemed; though one wouldn’t know it from watching them fight.

They were vicious, neither holding back, and almost equally matched. Brienne had the strength to challenge any man, and she utilized it with a lady’s grace. But Jaime’s footwork was precise, and he carried himself with the courage of a younger man, a man with both hands intact. It gave him an edge in a fight—he was aggressive, always on the offensive.

Today he was doing well, holding his ground even against his adversary’s merciless assault, and his gaudy, golden hand proved an effective tool for parrying attacks. Jon watched him catch another of Brienne’s swings against the sturdy metal, the force of the blow emitting a loud clang that reverberated throughout the yard. Without missing a beat, Jaime shoved forward with a grunt of effort, sending Brienne toppling backward into the snow.

A small gasp sounded from his right, and Jon turned warily to look at Dany where she watched the fray at his side. Her gloved fingers were clinched tightly on the balcony railing as she stared down at the fighters below, rivetted.

She was lovely today, as she was every day to Jon’s eye. But today she wore the smart new dress that Sansa had made for her. It was thick velvet to ward off the cold, and a royal purple that brought out her eyes. Over it she was wrapped in her black sable cape. The dark, shiny fur only accentuated the pale perfection of her skin, the bright glow of her hair. She felt Jon looking and her violet eyes flicked up to him for a moment, her lips curling in a shy smile at his attention. But it was only a moment before she turned back to observe the combatants on the ground again.

This wasn’t the first time Dany had come out to watch the Lannister lord. It made Jon uneasy.

He knew he had no right to think this way, to wonder if there was more to her interest in Jaime Lannister. It was none of his business who his queen fancied. So Jon told himself that he only worried out of concern for her safety, because he distrusted Jaime’s motives. But it was more than that, and deep down, he knew it was jealousy.

The voyage from King’s Landing to White Harbor had taken a little over a fortnight, but to Jon it had felt like the blink of an eye. Dany had spent every single evening aboard the ship in his bed, in his arms. Jon had fought to stay awake in the evenings after they’d made love, afraid to sleep for fear he would wake again to find it had all been some wild, wonderful dream.

But it had been real, every bit of it, and Jon had felt happiness those nights that he never dreamed he’d find again. Dany understood him—his responsibilities, his convictions, even his fears. With her he felt neither a king nor a bastard, just a man. A man in love with a woman.

He’d known he loved her from the moment she arrived to save them on their ill-fated trek beyond The Wall, all bravery and ethereal beauty, her eyes burning brighter than Drogon’s flames.

But also from that day, Dany had been sad and listless. The loss of her dragon and the reminder of her own apparent inability to bear a child of her own to fill its void weighed heavily on her gentle heart. Jon hated to see her like that, deflated and hopeless. Worst of all, she’d seemed to blame herself.

“If I’d trusted you, everything would be different,” she’d told him, her voice thick with unshed tears.

So from then on Jon had done everything he could to make her see that they’d both been fools in the beginning. They’d both made mistakes along the way, but together they could set things right. Jon knew it. He wanted her to know it, too.

He’d been desperate to show her that it wasn’t her fault, and that it didn’t matter to him if she could give him a dozen babies or none at all. He loved her, exactly as she was. Loved her in a way he’d never loved anyone before because she accepted him, too.

Jon had been convinced that Dany cared for him despite his bastard name, despite the ugly scars that marred his body—a constant reminder of his failures and betrayals. In spite of all that, she’d fought for him and sacrificed for him. She’d risked her own life and lost her dragon to save him. No one had ever done anything like that for him before.

So Jon spent the next month lavishing Dany with every ounce of affection his weary heart had to give. Gradually she let her guard down, something she only did with him. It made Jon fiercely proud to have earned her trust. When she had finally shared the pains of her past with him, he was glad to wipe the tears from her reddened cheeks with his own hands. And when he told her of his own mistakes and betrayals, she lovingly kissed the bad memories away from every scar he bore.

After that, Jon dedicated every night to her pleasure, hungry for the low, involuntary sounds she made when he put his mouth on her, for the scratches her long fingernails left down his back, for the tang of her sweat and arousal on his tongue. And he craved the way she made him feel, too. He loved how she laced her fingers through his to hold herself steady when she rode him, teasing him with every rough thrust of her hips. The way she glanced up to see him watching every time she took him into her mouth, her plush lips sealing around the root of his cock. Dany made him feel things he didn’t even know existed, made him cum so many times in so many ways that he was sore the next day. But it was a pleasant, aching soreness. A secret they shared, and a mark she left on him like a signature.

What they had between them was so deep and different and unexpected. The tenderness Jon felt when he looked into her eyes, the way his heart wrenched in his chest to see her smile, it frightened him. But he knew he’d face any fear for the privilege of holding her.

It was when they’d reached White Harbor that everything changed. It turned out their secret wasn’t so secret after all. And Tyrion’s warning that their liaison put them both at risk had shaken Dany. He told them that if the Northerners knew they were lovers, they would believe Jon bent the knee for love instead of loyalty. And besides, Tyrion had argued, their feelings made them reckless and put them both in danger.

Jon knew he was right, knew that love had sent Dany on her dangerous flight to Eastwatch where she was more likely to die than to save them. It was a miracle they had escaped the Night King alive. And Jon also knew that it was love that compelled his own foolhardy decision to swear to Dany in front of everyone gathered at the dragonpit in King’s Landing.

Tyrion’s warnings had shocked Dany out of her giddy intimacy with Jon and back into the detached, regal, and altogether unreachable posture she’d assumed when they first met. Jon could see through her mask, though. And underneath her hard exterior was the same hopeless dejection he’d seen in her after Viserion’s death. Ending things between them hurt her just as much as it did him.

“I won’t jeopardize everything we’ve worked for. And I won’t endanger another person I love,” she’d proclaimed to Jon, fleeing his tent before he could muster a response. He’d been struck dumb by her words; it was the first time she’d ever said anything about love in his presence. And then she’d gone before he could tell her that he loved her, too. That no amount of counsel from Tyrion could change that, and that denying their love wouldn’t make them any safer.

But Jon’s own doubt took over again and he’d let her go. His feelings remained unspoken, and he supposed that was for the best. Just like that, their weeks of bliss became a surreal sort of memory.

Ever since that day, Dany had been nothing more than polite to Jon. For his part, he’d never been especially good at hiding his feelings, so he was constantly reminding himself to stop gawking at her beauty from across the room. He would often catch himself mid-step walking to her quarters at night before bed, as if nothing had changed, as if the end of the day still meant time with her instead of the lonely quiet of his own chamber.

He had to hold himself back from shouting at anyone who disagreed with her in council meetings, and to resist the urge to take her hand any time he saw her looking sad. It was torture, being so close to her day after day. The memory of what they’d had and the notion of what still could be was fresh and painful like a wound that wouldn’t close.

And now Jon watched her watch Jaime, watched her marvel at another man, a man who could offer her a valuable alliance. Logic told him that Dany would never involve herself with a man like Jaime—a dishonorable man, the man who had slaughtered her father. But Jon also knew Dany well enough to know that she would do almost anything for the good of her people and for the realm.

Jaime was the eldest male Lannister, the heir to Casterly Rock. His sister now sat on the Iron Throne, and Lannister forces held King’s Landing—forces rumored to be far more loyal to Jaime himself than to Cersei. If they survived the Winter and defeated the White Walkers at last, Dany could marry Jaime, and her path to the throne would be all the simpler. Solidifying a Lannister alliance would avoid a lot of bloodshed. Dany had to know that.

And even if Jaime wasn’t such a powerful lord, Jon had no illusions about the other qualities Jaime had to offer a potential wife. It hardly mattered that he was old enough to be Dany’s father. He certainly didn’t look it. Jaime Lannister’s looks were almost famous as his duplicitous murder of the Mad King.

Eight years prior, Jaime had accompanied King Robert to Winterfell, and Jon had been impressed by his confidence. That’s what a king ought to look like, Jon had thought back then, seeing in Jaime all the vigor and majesty that Robert Baratheon lacked. Young and naïve though he was, Jon had been right. And it was still true now. Even in his forties, Jaime was fit and muscled. The short-cropped hair on his head was still thick, the dark Lannister gold color still holding. Only the ever-present stubble on his jaw hinted at his age, spotted here and there with grey.

Anyone would agree that Jaime was handsome. Handsome, a skilled fighter, wealthy, and from a noble, influential family. And increasingly seen by Dany’s side.

For a while Jon had borne this development in private despair. But the closer the Lannister lord got to Dany the more it started to work Jon’s patience. The man wasn’t to be trusted. If Dany wasn’t Jon’s to love, so be it. He’d gladly spend the rest of his life fighting at her side, even if that meant watching her with another man. But he wouldn’t see her in the arms of her enemy. He wouldn’t abide her with Jaime Lannister.

Down below, Jaime offered a hand to help Brienne, the picture of chivalry. She reached up and accepted his assistance, clambering to her feet with a chuckle that steamed in the chilly air.

“I yield,” she exclaimed, shaking her head at him.

Jaime bowed slightly in acknowledgment of Brienne’s forfeit. Then he turned to face his audience, and Jon stiffened as Jaime’s green eyes swept straight up to the balcony, to Dany.

Jon fought the impulse to step in front of her, instead keeping his eyes focused straight ahead. But out of the corner of his eye he saw Dany return Jaime’s gaze, nodding politely. It was only when Jaime winked up at her that she broke into a grin.

Jon swallowed hard, his mouth twitching with disgust as Jaime bowed to them deferentially before following Brienne out of the yard and out of sight.

After that, Dany turned to him impassively, dropping into a formal curtsy, a gesture befitting a noble stranger. It felt like a knife in Jon’s heart.

“Your Grace,” she said in parting. And with that she disappeared inside, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

To be continued! Thanks for reading, my loves :D

[whumpspicelatte]

Two Steps Back: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Terry's POV to @echo-goes-mmm's Regress

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: sickness (fever from magic poisoning), delirium, Terry's canonically horrible self-esteem

Something was wrong. 

Magic inebriation, Wright had told him in private. A seemingly harmless name for a potentially deadly phenomenon. There was too much magic in Juno’s system. While Juno had grown accustomed to trace amounts in his system from the ointments and the curse in Terrance’s blood that had been used to ink that tattoo into Juno’s skin, not to mention atmospheric magic in the air, he still could in no way handle the high saturation needed to save his life. It had become poison to him. Any further magic in his system could prove fatal. 

Terrance had to…sit down, after that. Rest his head in his hands. His puffy eyes still watered. 

The court mage had sealed off Juno’s room so that no magic could get inside and drained it of all atmospheric magic. A week of bedrest would allow Terrance’s boy to drain of the magic in his system thanks to the enchantments, while also letting him recover from the exhaustion of his body being forced into overdrive to so thoroughly heal those injuries in such a short amount of time. 

None of this was told to Juno. The young man was of Timorsia, born and raised; there, magic was all but reserved solely for war and conquest. It would only make him panic.

…Terrance probably should have taken that into consideration before bringing in his court mage along with his medics. 

Damn it. 

At least, so long as they were careful, Juno should be safe by the end of the week. He just needed rest, and to stay in that room. No magic. None at all. 

So Terrance had to wear gloves when he went in to take care of Juno. 

As petty as it was, he didn’t like them. Even though he knew it was for the best. Even though he still made himself wear them, because they were for the best. He wouldn’t put Juno’s health in danger just because he didn’t like wearing these gloves while touching Juno. 

He didn’t like the distance they imposed between the two of them. 

But if this would make sure Juno could rise back to full form from that body on the bed, hollowed out by exhaustion, sweat clinging to those flushed cheeks…

The fever had started only two days in. “A natural reaction,” Wright had told him. “Just the body cycling out the excess magic. Burning through it, as it were.” An unfortunate metaphor; now all Terrance could think of was fire burning his boy from the inside out, eating away at everything until all that would be left was a hollow husk of paper-thin skin and charred ashes and bones, tanzanite stones resting in empty eye sockets. 

“Food and water,” Wright reminded him. “He’s going to need plenty of food and water to sweat this out.”

Food and water. He could do that. 

Juno whimpered, face scrunching up, and Terrance’s heart squeezed. He paused mid-feeding to gently run his knuckles over Juno’s cheek, the way that always had made his boy’s lashes flutter and body melt before. Had always helped his boy relax. Help his boy know he was safe. 

Instead, Juno flinched. 

Terrance’s knuckles hovered over that pale, clammy skin. 

Slowly, he drew away, and his boy relaxed, throat bobbing beneath a delicate, unenchanted collar of ribbons and lace, the pearls dripping from it rising and falling with the Adam’s apple. It had been the only clothing-adjacent thing they’d been able to purify of all magic contamination. Just the blankets alone had been a struggle. 

It took everything he had not to yank his gloves off and throw them into the nearby wall. 

He quietly fed Juno a mulberry, and did his best not to pay attention to the claws spearing his lungs as those ocean-slits filled with tears. A whimper trickled free, and Terrance’s fingertips flinched, unnoticed. 

When his boy began to cry, little hiccups struggling to stay as silent as they could, he closed his eyes before they could blur. 

Food and water. 

He picked up the waterskin and gently began to trickle water down his boy’s throat. 

He could do that. 

<><><>

The fever worsened. Wright had warned him of delirium. Of how Juno might be unable to recognize anyone. How his boy may behave somewhat erratically. How he might not be able to think clearly. 

Such as trying to get off the bed when he couldn’t even hold a feather between his fingers. 

Terrance set the tray of fresh fruit and fish and warm honey-ginger tea, all prepared the Tismorian way, down on the bedside table harder than he should have, making the glass shiver. “Juno,” he rasped, head already pounding from the even heavier duties that came with getting rid of most his council for thinly veiled treason under other pretenses. His remaining Minister and the Duchess did their best to help, but they could only do so much. Already, the court was jockeying to fill the power vaccuum left in the wake of the six removed advisors. 

It was almost enough to make him regret his decision to have them taken from their posts, warded off with the reminder of why he’d done it every time he saw his boy like… like this. 

His boy, who was on the verge of tipping right out of the bed and cracking open his skull. 

“Juno, no!” Terrance shot forward, gloved hand pushing his boy down as gently as possible. Regret shot through him at the young man promptly bursting into tears. His boy…

Why was it that all Terrance seemed able to do was make his boy cry?

“Juno,” he croaked, shaky fingers coming up to brush away those tears with dabs of his gloved knuckles as he propped his boy up on the pillows, making sure Juno was as comfortable as he could make him. “Please, don’t cry. What do you need?”

Before now, Juno and him had figured out ways to understand each other through actions for them both as much as words and hums from Terrance and soft little noises and gestures from Juno. But now, all the feverish boy could do was sob into his pillows, unable to even lift his own head. 

“I think I should teach you some sign,” Terrance mumbled, feeling stupid for not thinking of that beforehand, just because they had seemed not to need it. How isolated had Juno felt for the lack of it? “Or some writing. Or something.”

Terrance didn’t know what the fever had warped his words into, because then Juno began to thrash. 

All he could do was gently hold his boy still enough to not crack his skull open against the headboard or bedside table. Until Juno sank back against the pillows, hollowed out and empty all over again. Dull eyes looked off into distance. Terrance swallowed around the lump in his throat, head pounding. 

He deserved the pain. Deserved the throbbing ache. Deserved how it hurt.

He knew it was a likely useless endeavour with Juno left in this state, but Terrance still busied himself with trying to talk through the alphabet and simple flash cards he’d once used with his niece when Florence had a hard time remembering words as a toddler, all drained of all echos of magic still otherwise clinging to the paper. All Juno did was make his head loll away. Terrance hoped that the white noise of his voice, at least, might help. Somehow. 

When Juno’s eyes fluttered shut, breathing evening out in sleep, Terrance let himself fall silent. Let himself set down the flashcards, rest his face in his hands and weep. Let himself be weak. 

Terrance was a selfish, impatient, useless man. And it burned. 

He wanted his boy back.

[transcending-chaos]

Mind if I ask for some opinions and headcanons on some popular creatures? Like, Maxxor and whatnot. I find your character analysis stuff really fun to read.

Sure thing :3 Since you mentioned Maxxor, I’ll make this post about him (mostly because I’ve got a ton of headcanons about this guy and if I tried to add on more characters, this post would be incredibly long).

(Under a cut because of length)

Headcanons supported by Canon evidence:

Maxxor doesn’t think of himself as ‘King’

Throughout the series, Maxxor never really lords his position of power over anyone, in fact, he seems to just act as if he was a general. He almost always counsels before he makes large decisions -even considering a human’s input (Castle Bodhran or Bust part 2), he has an advisory counsel that we see/hear from (Najarin is a constant in this, as well as the others we see in the M’Arillian Arc, along with known and valued ambassadors like Raznus) and he does not abuse this position. He does not force his warriors or allies to do anything, they just follow his orders; perhaps this is because of the unspoken rule of conduct in the OverWorld that they have strong communal values and will do what’s best for many (most of the time) so they have no real issue following instructions, but even if that’s the case, it’s strange to notice that Maxxor himself doesn’t seem to have an issue with changing his ways of thinking or following another’s suggestion. We see him do this readily upon meeting Tom and Kaz once they show resilience and that they’re not as cowardly as he’d assumed, and again in the Fallen Hero arc where Tom helps him recover what he’s lost. 

To him, being a leader seems to mean that he must be someone worthy of it, of setting a good example and making it so that others will trust him enough to follow, not because he puts them in a position where they have to. For him, being a king is more a formality and job, like how other people are everything from diplomats, to scholars, to bakers, what have you. This isn’t to say that he takes the position lightly, far from it -we see him late into the night going over documents, so we can also assume that this is a regular occurrence- but he’s definitely not one for luxury or standing. He probably skips out on events that are supposed to centered around nobility or the like because he could be using that time more productively elsewhere -like going around to see villages and see if they need assistance or other forms of aid. 

He just wants to protect his people, be it through achieving peace or personally fighting to reach that goal. 

The only time we really see him use his station as a threat is in Dangers of Diplomacy, where he’s depicted as a hot-blooded, young warrior who still has a lot to learn. (On that note, here’s an old drawing I did like a year ago for @firebird963 of a young Maxxor because I despise his canon one -teens are not mini adults:

I also tried making his relation to Accato more apparent.)

Maxxor does not actually hate the UnderWorld, he just hates Chaor and Von Bloot

This might take some explaining, but Maxxor does not demonize the UnderWorlders. He disagrees with them, sure, but he’s not too quick to judge a group of scouts. His mind usually goes to “I bet Chaor/Von Bloot planned this” and that’s when he gets mad; this is probably both due in part to how Maxxor conducts himself as a king versus how the others lead their respective factions, but also because of clashing values and ideologies.

To him, there’s a huge disconnect between an everyday UW soldier and their leaders; they might have some overlap in their beliefs and actions, but Maxxor differentiates between the layman and their authority figures. One is someone clearly (at least in Maxxor’s opinion) not taking care of their people, and the other’s actions are just a consequence. 

You can also see this with his interaction with the Danians and Mipedians. When faced with hostility from soldiers, he mostly has an annoyed attitude because they’re preventing him from taking down the larger threat (their leaders) or being a general nuisance. When faced with their leaders, that’s when he becomes hostile, because they are responsible for their followers and influencing them. 

This way of thinking is not always good, as it can make him paranoid that there’s always going to be a bigger threat coming, and causes Maxxor to be over protective of those around him. 

Maxxor is a diplomat first, and a fighter second

This one isn’t too complicated, but it’s shown that he’s more willing to solve things peacefully than the other leaders and just wants the fighting to stop because it’d be mutually beneficial. Why struggle constantly when they could find some Cothica-forsaken way of coexisting without fighting a war on three fronts?

Maxxor would have made a good parent

This might be a weird statement, but Maxxor is one of the most compassionate people in the show, if not the most. While he’s unafraid of being harsh or disciplinary when it’s necessary, his willingness to change his opinions and let people learn/solve problems by themselves (as long as they’re doing it safely) shows that he’d probably be pretty good at being a parent. 

Heck, look at his relationship with Tom and tell me he’s not already being a dad. This behavior is evident in most of the episode dedicated to their interactions (Bodhran or Bust part 2, Fallen Hero, Maze of Menace, and even a little bit in A Rare Hazard). It’s a good dynamic to have -especially considering the need for it that Tom has, but it’s also giving Maxxor a chance to be ‘normal’ (for lack of a better term) as it’s not like the typical relations he has due to his standing within his own people. It’s also a lot less stressful for the king because Tom is not only a human (meaning he is not much of a physical threat, and can be picked up easily by one hand if he needed to be) but he’s also a well-intentioned kid that doesn’t have ulterior motives. Tom’s just not really much of a negative presence, and while he can be annoying, he has his heart in the right place -just like many OW youth would. 

It’s why in the published version of Transcending Perim, I said this:

“Tom was an important outlet in ways that most Creatures could not be…most of the interactions that Maxxor had with his people and friends were respectful; if not almost curtly so…

“Surprisingly, that was something that the raven-locked boy did not do. If anything at all, he was more relaxed around the king than his own people. The child still viewed him as someone of importance, yes, but it was more of a genuine respect than a wish to not be trouble. The king had found an friend in Thomas, something that he’d definitely never expected…the blue eyed human was truly more of a comfort than he’d first, or ever, had tried to foresee. And times like the current one, such a presence was greatly appreciated.”

Maxxor values his citizens as individuals, not just as countrymen

This is a noticeable distinction between he and Chaor, most prominently shown on Chaor’s Commandos part 2, but Maxxor doesn’t really view the general populace as ‘masses’ or his allies as ‘soldiers’. They have names, they have stories, they all have abilities and weaknesses, they all matter. If he can save or help them, then Maxxor is obligated to not only because he knows they trust and rely on him, but also because they have his trust and thanks. It’s why he didn’t risk hitting Gespedan with a laser ballistae, he is someone who is valued.

Knowing this, it’s no wonder why so many of the OW Creatures we meet will follow Maxxor’s orders: their respect is returned, their trust is validated, and their leader cares for them as much as anyone else.

I have a few more, but I should probably move onto another category.

Headcanons not supported by Canon evidence

Maxxor had a complicated relationship with his father

I don’t know why, but I love the idea that Maxxor constatly feels the shadow of his father over him, and kind of resents his father for it. As great as a king the former ruler was, I’d like to think that he and Maxxor didn’t get along (ie. “you’re great at your job but you are a terrible person/father” kind of relationship), and that it pushes Maxxor to be great in ways his predecessor was not -hence a focus on diplomacy, and why he actively tries to be less severe and more understanding. 

However, that won’t stop people comparing the two kings, and it hurts the current ruler. People seem to revel in his father’s memory, but they do not know what he was really like; Maxxor is ashamed for feeling the way he does, so he buries these thoughts deep down underneath all of his other worries. 

This is (unknowingly) a parallel shared by Accato -who is compared to his cousin often, and a personal issue he was supposed to revisit and conquer in TP with Tera. There was going to be a scene where the pair fought, ending with Maxxor actually blasting Tera and burning him on his left leg. It was a moment meant to snap him into re-evaluating himself and essentially starting over when faced with both his younger cousin and Tera.

Maxxor is a picky eater

I don’t know why I have this one. Simply put, the different Gherix clans have different diets, some featuring foods that are poisonous to the others. He’s used to people thinking ‘oh, I heard that ‘____’ is a dish they prepare/like’ and trying to be respectful when in fact it turns out that he’d get sick from eating said food. 

He’s terrible at banquets or formal dinners because of this, so he prefers to eat alone beforehand to avoid conflict. 

This was supposed to be an ongoing joke in TP, with him constantly teasing ‘don’t eat that, you’ll die’ to a very easily misled Tera. 

Money/wealth has no value to Maxxor

In the sense that he personally doesn’t care for money because his early life began in a place where ‘coin isn’t important when you’re living in the woods’ and thus he just never got accustomed to it. Even now, the only reason he has a jewel on his belt is because people expected him to. If it were up to him, he’d much rather go without anything like it. 

Don’t get me wrong, he understands why and how it’s important, as well as understanding the commerce system/has the treasury properly managed by the right people, he himself just doesn’t find pleasure in wealth.

Maxxor is demisexual

He doesn’t seem to show much interest in anyone besides Intress, but what struck me is that it’s really underplayed. So that lead me to some theorizing, and then to this conclusion. 

Maxxor and his father are exiles from their clan

I wanted an explanation as to why we never really see/hear anything about his relations (like his dad is mentioned once, while Accato and Prantix’s ties to his family tree are only implied) so I made one.

Long story short: Maxxor’s clan thought he was a disappointment and kicked him out while his father just left because he didn’t like being removed from the rest of the OverWorld. Eventually, Maxxor convinces himself that he left like his dad had, and not that his own mother chased him off.

Learning Mugic was insanely hard for him

I like the idea of him struggling with something like this, if only to share as a story with others who have the same issue.

Najarin took him on at the request of his father, and thus, Maxxor was unknowingly a way for Najarin to cope with losing his own kid

I just thought this was a cute idea, as well as helping to explain why the pair trusted each other so much

Maxxor’s underbite is common among most of his clan

Braxels tend to have this key trait, while others have things like softer hair, one variant is notorious for having claws, and the last one still has retained the trait of being furred (like Vlar was). 

Hopefully these were good (or at least fun to read) and even though I still have a quite a lot more that I didn’t put on this post, it’s already long enough.

[toldnews-blog]

New Post has been published on https://toldnews.com/world/united-states-of-america/joe-biden-facebook-n-f-l-draft-your-thursday-briefing/

Joe Biden, Facebook, N.F.L. Draft: Your Thursday Briefing

(Want to get this briefing by email? Here’s the sign-up.)

Good morning,

We’re covering Joe Biden’s long-awaited campaign announcement, the brewing fight between the White House and Congress, and a potential $5 billion fine for Facebook.

Mr. Biden, 76, is set to offer himself as a moderate and a trustee of former President Barack Obama’s legacy, which he will hope can attract a broad cross-section of voters who want to move on from President Trump. But his long political record is expected to face intense scrutiny, particularly from younger, more progressive Democrats.

The details: We examined where Mr. Biden stands on the issues, and how his views have changed over nearly 50 years in Washington.

Closer look: The Democratic Party has grown increasingly progressive and diverse since Mr. Biden first ran for the Senate in 1972.

President Trump vows to fight “all the subpoenas”

The Trump administration has made a series of moves this week to block multiple investigations, which could redefine Congress’s power to conduct oversight of the executive branch as well as presidents’ power to keep government affairs secret.

Citing the end of the special counsel’s investigation, Mr. Trump said on Wednesday that he had been investigated enough. “These aren’t, like, impartial people,” he said. “The Democrats are trying to win 2020.”

Closer look: Past administrations have also been reluctant to comply with congressional requests, but Mr. Trump’s actions are unusual, our chief Washington correspondent writes.

News analysis: The president once welcomed the special counsel’s report as a “total exoneration,” but he has shifted to calling it a “total ‘hit job’” produced by “true Trump haters.” Our chief White House correspondent examines Mr. Trump’s increasingly incongruous messaging about the findings.

Another angle: The special counsel’s report also revealed that Mr. Trump repeatedly sought to have the Justice Department reopen an investigation into Hillary Clinton and her use of a private email server.

The timing of a potential fine was unclear. Facebook has been in negotiations with the F.T.C. over a financial penalty for claims that the company violated a 2011 privacy consent decree.

American regulators have been criticized as lacking scrutiny of tech giants, even as their European counterparts have moved aggressively against the companies.

Quotable: “This would be a joke of a fine — a two-weeks-of-revenue, parking-ticket-level penalty for destroying democracy,” said Matt Stoller, a fellow at the Open Markets Institute, a think tank that is critical of tech companies’ powers. Facebook had $56 billion in revenue last year.

Sri Lanka faces new threats

Imams in the country are being encouraged to cancel Friday Prayer services after the police said that they had information that Sufi Muslims could be attacked by Islamist extremists. Cardinal Malcolm Ranjith of Colombo, the capital, has suspended services for Roman Catholic worshipers through the weekend.

The American ambassador to Sri Lanka, Alaina Teplitz, said on Wednesday that there were “ongoing terrorist plots,” days after suicide bombers killed more than 350 people at churches and hotels across the country.

Another angle: After the Easter Sunday attacks, Muslims in some areas of Sri Lanka are facing a backlash from gangs of Christians. The two faiths are small minorities in the country, which is predominantly Buddhist.

If you have 5 minutes, this is worth it

Working in the weed industry

While cannabis is still illegal on a federal level, it’s allowed at least for medical purposes in 33 states. And that’s creating hundreds of thousands of jobs, ranging from farm work to executive positions to “budtenders,” who help customers decide what kind of cannabis they want.

But working in the industry comes with caveats, including stigma and a pay cut.

Here’s what else is happening

North Korea-Russia meeting: The North’s leader, Kim Jong-un, met with President Vladimir Putin in Russia today. Mr. Kim is seeking support for sanctions relief and a gradual approach to nuclear disarmament that the Trump administration opposes.

Measles outbreak: The number of cases has risen to 695 — the highest annual number recorded since 2000, when the disease was declared eliminated in the U.S. The virus mostly has affected families that do not vaccinate their children.

White supremacist’s execution: John William King was put to death in Texas on Wednesday for the murder of James Byrd Jr., who was chained to the back of a pickup truck and dragged to his death in 1998.

Snapshot: Above, the Grand Organ at Notre-Dame in Paris last year. The cathedral’s three primary organists initially feared that the instrument — which has five keyboards and almost 8,000 pipes — had been destroyed in the fire that devastated the building last week, but technicians have confirmed that it is safe.

N.F.L. draft: Here’s a preview of the first round tonight. A talented class of rookies is led by the Heisman Trophy-winning quarterback Kyler Murray.

“Jeopardy!” champion: James Holzhauer has won more than $1 million in just 15 games, putting him second on the all-time earnings list. The Times spoke to him about his aggressive strategy.

Late-night comedy: Several of the hosts noted a meeting in which President Trump reportedly asked Twitter’s chief executive why he had been losing followers. “It’s like breaking the news to a child that Santa isn’t real,” Trevor Noah said. “It’s like, ‘Sir, you’re 72 now, so I think you’re old enough to know the truth: @MIKHAIL_62875 isn’t a real person.’”

What we’re watching: This TED Talk by Mariah Gladstone, a member of the Blackfeet Nation. “She’s also a cook with a degree from Columbia,” says our national food correspondent, Kim Severson, “who started a cooking show called ‘Indigikitchen’ to help people remember what food was like before colonization: locavore paleo.”

Now, a break from the news

Cook: Korean barbecue flavors inspire this easy meatball recipe.

Listen: In his “Ring” cycle, Wagner uses musical themes to create a world of gods, heroes, dwarves and giants. Here’s how.

Go: With few exceptions, musical comedies today are comedic only in the sense that the protagonist doesn’t croak, and musical only in the sense that he does. The new “Tootsie” is an exception, one of our critics writes.

Read: The humorist Dave Barry describes emulating his dog’s grace in “Lessons From Lucy,” which is new this week on our hardcover nonfiction and combined print and e-book nonfiction best-seller lists.

Smarter Living: Apologies are complicated. The urge to be polite undermines your confidence, critics say, and underscores your own insecurity. But context matters, and saying sorry isn’t always a bad thing.

And eating better can change your mood.

And now for the Back Story on …

He-he-helium

This is the International Year of the Periodic Table, so named by the United Nations to honor what is considered the 150th anniversary of a crucial discovery by a Russian chemist, Dmitri Mendeleev.

In 1869, he published the first recognizable periodic table, arranging the 63 elements then known by increasing atomic number — the total number of protons in an atomic nucleus — and in vertical stacks that corresponded to recurring patterns or properties.

That concise organization revealed and predicted many elemental dynamics, and the table became the foundation for chemistry, nuclear physics and other sciences. The periodic system is considered one of modern science’s most important achievements.

But it can also help to explain the chemistry behind a popular party trick: inhaling helium from a balloon to make your voice sound funny.

Helium is lighter than oxygen, enabling the vibrations of your vocal cords to travel more quickly, which shifts the resonant frequencies in your vocal tract to the higher end.

That’s it for this briefing. See you next time.

— Chris

Thank you To Mark Josephson, Eleanor Stanford, Chris Harcum and Kenneth R. Rosen for the break from the news. Katie Van Syckle wrote today’s Back Story. You can reach the team at briefing@nytimes.com.

P.S. • We’re listening to “The Daily.” Today’s episode is about accusations against a Navy SEAL leader. • Here’s today’s mini crossword puzzle, and a clue: Operator of the world’s largest cargo airline (5 letters). You can find all our puzzles here. • “Caliphate,” a Times podcast series that followed our reporter Rukmini Callimachi’s work on the Islamic State, won a 2018 Peabody Award.

[roslinadama-sinequanon]

Major Crimes Re-Watch-Medical Causes

What I loved best about this episode is how Andy/Sharon centric it really is. Though I’m not sure the writers were even thinking in this vein yet or not, we get some major foreshadowing of the future Raydor/Flynn/Beck family with Sharon relying heavily on Andy to help her in dealing with Rusty and his mom.

The case-Jumping to conclusions. The crowd outside the club jumps on Lesley and nearly beats her to death assuming she was drunk when she plowed into the crowd. Later, after finding out how her boyfriend had drugged her Lesley is tormented by the idea that he made her a murderer and it is something that she will have to deal with for the rest of her life. Imagine how those people would feel if they’d killed Lesley and then found out that she was innocent. This is why we let the law deal with things, because in the heat of the moment no one is thinking rationally.

“Oh, you’re through already, cause that was hilarious“-Andy’s got the dad thing down. Rusty is pissed that he got dragged out of bed to follow Sharon to work and Andy gets another glimpse into what Sharon is dealing with—and sympathizes with her.  After Rusty’s sarcastic rant, typically Sharon just ignores him and lets it all roll off her back. In her profession and because she is a mom she is used to this kind of stuff and doesn’t let it get to her, it is Andy in dad mode who gives it back to him.

“Maybe now you can get rid of the little psycho”-The look on Sharon’s face when Andy says this and the way that she speaks shows us that however much of a pain in the ass Rusty is, Sharon has already become attached to him and isn’t completely relishing the idea of letting him go. Also, I think she is understandably wary about Sharon Beck and handing Rusty back over to her given her history of abuse.

“You did get a warrant to search that purse?” “Come on, do you think I’m new at this?” The look that Sharon gives him is actually quite sexy and his cocky sexy grin in response is really  the first—and only time—we get anything resembling a sexual vibe between them. Yes, we get a lot of sweet puppy dog eyes and tender smiles—but evidently, James Duff does not believe people over 50 can be sexy—just sweet and tender. And it is a real shame because Mary and Tony do it very well and there could have been some great sexual tension in the relationship that was never developed. These re-watch’s can be extremely frustrating because of all the “what could have, and should have beens.” So many missed opportunities.

“She’s agreed to return to LA and resume her role as Rusty’s mother as long as we wire her $500.00 cash.” OMFG, really? How BIG of her. This is a woman who should not be allowed to have a pet, let alone be responsible for a child. Personally, I think she should be arrested for child abandonment and gross neglect but Sharon Beck’s treatment of Rusty growing up is quite often glossed over on MC.

“Cough it up”- Interesting again that it is Andy who takes it upon himself to get contributions for Rusty’s mother’s bus. For Andy I think it is a combination of trying to help Rusty along with getting him off all their backs, while for Buzz it’s all about not having to baby-sit the little pain in the ass anymore. If he’d had the money, I think Buzz would have paid it in full to get rid of him. If that scene happened today, I think many MC fans would contribute to the “say bye bye to Rusty fund”. But, at this point in the series, the Rusty/Sharon condo mother ship scenes were my favorites. It’s only later when it becomes apparent that the TPTB aren’t interested in any other insight into Sharon’s life other than her job and as Rusty’s mother and the Rusty show started overshadowing and interrupting the Sharon storylines I really wanted to see developed, that I was ready for him to be gone--or at least cut back recurring status.

“Everyone is putting money in to buy a bus ticket.” “Everyone put money in?”

Kind of sad. Rusty’s never had people doing things for him before and he’s not sure how to respond to kindness other than to promise he’ll pay everyone back.

“Lt. Flynn has offered to take the two of you out to dinner.” It was only in the re-watch that I noticed the “offered”. I wonder if Andy offered because of his knowledge of addiction. Having spent so many years in AA and counseling Andy would probably be the one who could easily size Sharon Beck up--and also be the one to offer insight and assistance in getting her into a rehab situation should she be open to that. Having said that I think there was a real missed opportunity for a great scene here between Andy and Sharon. Sharon could have opened up to him about why she didn’t want to be the one to meet Sharon Beck, first because she didn’t want the woman to be ill at ease from the start and wanted this meeting to go well for Rusty,  but also I think because she is angry with the way this woman treated Rusty and she doesn’t want Sharon B. to get that sense of judgment right from the start. I don’t think we get nearly enough of Sharon being frustrated or angry at the way Sharon B. treated Rusty. Understandably, she isn’t going to vent to Rusty because that isn’t appropriate, but I would like to have seen her vent a little “mama bear” to Andy or Provenza or anyone really. And then Andy would offer to take him to the bus station and take them out to dinner, that way he can size Sharon B. up and also offer assistance to get her on the path to regaining custody of Rusty.

“People have bad days.“ Good God, this just shows us the world Rusty inhabited. Yes, people have bad days, they say things they shouldn’t say etc. but a bad day is NOT abandoning your child at the zoo. No, that is criminal. In this scene with Sharon, we see Rusty the child and Rusty the enabler completely emerge. He makes every excuse in the book for his mother’s inexcusable behavior, especially blaming it all on Gary. Because it is easier to believe that someone made her dump him than it is to accept that his own mother left him of her own volition. He is trying to convince Sharon, and himself, that once Gary is out of the picture things will be perfect between them again, conveniently forgetting that they were not perfect before Gary was in the picture.

“I cannot release you into her custody right away.” I should think not. I’m surprised that Rusty didn’t think there would be any repercussions for what his mother did. It just shows how neglected he was his entire life for him not to realize what a terrible thing she did and that she would have to prove she could be a better mother to get him back.

“They’re not rules, they’re laws” Of course Rusty immediately turns on Sharon when she tells him she can‘t just hand him over to his mother, that‘s for a judge to decide, and, just like with Andy in episode 1, Sharon remains calm and rational in the face of his outburst. Rusty responds to this by immediately calming down, just as Andy did, which proves how good Sharon is at de-escalating angry confrontations.

“Concentrate on the positive”-Sharon is training Rusty on the way she deals with life. You can’t dwell on the negative; you have to try to take the best out of every situation.

“I wanna make this up to you, and I will. “ “You don’t have to make anything up to me. I was perfectly happy to help you.”

This is beyond Rusty’s comprehension; in his world, nobody does anything for anybody just out of the kindness of their heart. There is always the expectation of reciprocity. This is the start of Rusty continually feeling like he owes Sharon--no matter how many times she tells him he doesn’t owe her anything but to be safe and be kind.

“I guess I don’t have to fill out these school forms anymore.” “I guess not.”

There is almost a little sadness and a tinge of regret that shows us that Sharon does mean a little something to Rusty and that he is giving something up to regain his mother.

“Flynn can take Rusty’s mother to dinner, but if you would like to go with Rusty yourself?” “I would but I don’t think his mother would appreciate me being there and I want this to be as easy on Rusty as possible.”

Two things here--Provenza has just put out his own olive branch. He sees Sharon now as a person with feelings, not just the Captain who took away the job he wanted. And he can see how trying this whole situation is on her and tries to help. From this moment on the anger is gone, acceptance given. Of course, there is still a little friction occasionally, but it is more grudging and/or humorous than laced with rancor.  It happened much faster for Sharon than for Brenda.

And, again, we see that Sharon is always trying to do the right thing, always trying to do what is best for others, not necessarily what is best for her. Provenza sees that and starts to respect that she is one of the “good guys”. But, at times, this isn’t always a good thing; it is this character trait that kept her in an unhappy marriage.

“Does it have a mini- bar? She doesn’t like mini-bars.” Rusty is obviously very nervous. Nervous about seeing his mother again, nervous about Andy judging her and nervous about his mother displaying her addictions in front of Andy. This is a great fatherly scene here for Andy. This is the Andy I love. He is kind, compassionate and understanding and does not make any derogatory comments about Sharon B. or what she‘s done, instead he humors Rusty‘s nerves and tries to make things easier for him. This is important because Andy is the dirt bag king; criminals only bring out disgust in him. So, for him to tell Rusty he got a nice hotel room for Sharon B. and then offering to cancel dinner when Rusty seems uncomfortable with it all, is quite revealing of the man beneath the cynical shield Andy surrounds himself with as a coping mechanism to deal with the ugliness of the world he inhabits in his work.

“Hold on…” Rusty is not oblivious to who his mother is. He knows Sharon B is not on that bus well before Andy turns his back on him to question the bus driver. Disappointed and devastated, his world crashing in, Rusty flees before bursting into tears in front of Andy.

“What do you mean Rusty ran off?” Andy feels so horrible about the situation. You can read it all over his face. And it’s personal. He truly feels like he let Sharon down, not just as his boss, but also as a friend. The fact that Sharon is trying so hard to be brave, assuring him that it’s not his fault only makes Andy feel even worse. And, like Rusty before her, Sharon has to turn to leave the murder room before she cries in front of her colleagues--though they can all tell by her sort of quivering voice.  

It is interesting that at this point they are so convinced that Rusty just wants to escape they never bothered checking Sharon’s condo to see if he’d returned there.

It’s the end of another exhausting day--this time Sharon needs a glass of wine.

“Why did you run away from Lt. Flynn?” “I don’t cry in front of people and I started to cry, so I left.”

Sharon nods, she gets it. She doesn’t cry in front of people either. But more than that, Rusty has opened up to her for the first time, has allowed her to see his vulnerability. When Rusty offers to pay everyone back the money his mother stole from them Sharon makes up the idea that their bosses will cover it--yet again allowing someone to save face.

Rusty tells her he is filling out the forms for school, tacitly admitting that he has given up on his mother and will be staying with her.  

“Your mother is the one who is losing out. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.“ I have a feeling this is probably something she’s had to tell her own children in regards to Jack’s disappearance from their lives. Rusty tells her it’s hard to let go and Sharon responds that holding on to someone when they’re gone is even harder. Again, speaking from her experience. This is something they have in common.

“Rusty is home.” For good. Sharon has become home to Rusty. His rose colored glasses have come off and he’s finally seen his mother for who she is, and, unlike his mother, Rusty learned in this episode that he could trust Sharon. She said she would find his mother and she did. So when his world came crashing down, he rushed back to Sharon’s condo, to his home, where he is safe and ready to build a new life with a mother who truly cares about his well being.

[historyandclassicactors]

George Washington

After much discussion, we decided that the next feature we should add is mini biographies about presidents, generals, and other important historical figures. And who better to start off with than our first President!? [Note: the formatting looks way cooler on my page, where the text actually wraps around the images!]

George Washington was born in 1732 in Wakefield, Virginia. “His birthplace at Wakefield is commemorated with a reconstructed brick mansion on the original plantation site in Westmoreland County. It is now a national monument” (12).

In school, Washington schooled in manners, morals, as well as the proper texts of the day. His interests? Military arts and western expansion. Appropriate for the man who would lead the revolution. Before joining the military, though, he spent his youth surveying land (no other president would hold this job until Hoover).

[Below: Washington’s birthplace. It has been reconstructed and is now a national monument.]

In 1754, at 22, Washington was commissioned into the army as a lieutenant colonel, where he would fight in the first skirmishes of the French and Indian War, losing some 300 men. The following year, he would face the British. He was surrounded, but managed to walk away uninjured, despite having two horses shot out from under him and having four bullets go through his coat.

From 1759 until the outbreak of the Revolution, Washington spent most of his time away from military life, choosing, instead, to work the lands around his beloved Mount Vernon and spend time with his wife, Martha, and stepchildren. In between these activities, he spent time fox hunting and entertaining.

Being both a planter and a military man, put Washington amongst the dissatisfied with British ruling. He was increasingly more worried about what would happen to his country, as Britain was taking away more and more liberty from the colonies.

Then, in 1775, he was appointed to the Second Continental Congress. The Congress was after choosing a southern leader to unite all the colonies in this struggle against England. Washington, imposing in his blue military uniform, seemed the perfect choice for the job. And, of course, he was.

Only July 3, 1775 (almost exactly one year before the signing of the Declaration of Independence), Washington took full command of the army. It was his job to pull together the ragtag-looking army. However, as it becoming increasingly clear that England was not willing to budge one iota, Washington became convinced that the war would be not for less taxation and better representation, but for independence itself.

But, even with the signing of the Declaration, Washington still faced numerous obstacles, mostly from Congress (go figure). They refused to believe that he was a capable leader, so refused him even the most basic of necessities, such as supplies and men.

Despite the rank he know holds, Washington may not have been considered the greatest general ever to be seen by the American army. However, he was still a capable commander, and knew how to use his army to the best of their ability. Knowing that the British were far more experienced than his men, Washington discovered that it was far safer to rely on harassment of the enemy, rather than all-out battle – of course, we know they still saw plenty of that. Washington was known to let his men fall back during battles, only to have his men form a surprise attack later. This seemed to work well. Perhaps, one of Washington’s greatest assets as commander of the army was his organizational skills. It would be these skills that would get his men through the darkest of days, such as the winter of 1777-1778.

As the war came to a close, instead of accepting the role of king offered him, Washington preferred retirement and Mount Vernon, with his wife and, now, grandchildren. But then, back at Mount Vernon, Washington realized that the Confederation Government was not functioning well at all. They newly founded government didn’t yet have the authority and respect it needed from other countries to stand strong at sea, against merchants of other countries, or even “marauding Indians” (17). Worse yet, riots were breaking out over heavy taxation, and in Massachusetts, some farmers even began to take up arms.

Washington seemed to have no choice but to surrender. As a result, in the summer of 1787, he helped form the Constitutional Convention of Philadelphia. Washington took little part in their debates. But, as was predicted, once the Convention began to operate smoothly, and finally voted on their first president, Washington was elected. Washington wasn’t thrilled about their decision. Nevertheless, he agreed.

And, on April 30, 1789, Washington was sworn in as the first President of the United States, standing on the balcony of the Federal Hall on Wall Street in New York.

It was a grave man who gave the first Presidential address before Congress. But, he had every reason to be grave. The fledgling country of America was week in more than one area; the treasury and military being just a few of those areas.

Thus, the job fell to our first President. He, however, was insistent on abiding by the Congress. He was convinced that the law-making job fell to Congress and that he should leave well enough alone. He even appeared before the Senate with a list of inquiries, believing whole-heartedly in the Constitutional dictate that he should seek their advice and counsel. When they refused to give him instant answers, however, he never made that mistake again. Instead, he wrote out treaties to the best of his judgment, sending them to the Senate to ratify or reject. Despite his disappointment with the Senate’s ability to offer up suggestions, he found that the members of his cabinet were much more reliable – if not rather bent on disagreeing with one another. Even given their constant bickering, Washington usually sided with the majority. That being said, no one ever doubted that Washington was President and that the authority rested with him.

Wanting a strong central government – to make sure the “executive authority was independent from total legislative control,” Washington appointed his own heads for Treasury, State, War, and Justice (Source). Congress only had the authority to accept or reject these appointments. He appointed Alexander Hamilton to Treasury, Thomas Jefferson to State, Henry Knox to War, and Edmund Randolph to Justice, while John Adams served as Vice President. These men created the very first Presidential cabinet.

And the method worked. Until the bickering between Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson grew so great that a separate party emerged: the Democratic-Republican party.

After serving two terms as President, Washington had grown weary of politics and was ready to retire to Mount Vernon, for good this time. So, in 1796, he settled down to write his Farewell Address, leaving a precedent of Presidential Warnings. He told the country to unite in heart, spirit, and mind.

Despite his call for unity, the 1796 election would be the first two-party election: John Adams vs. Thomas Jefferson. While this has long since been normal protocol, at the time “Washington and many others perceived organized opposition to the government as treasonous” (Source). (People of today should take note of this.)

Back at Mount Vernon, Washington barely enjoy three years of real retirement. On December 14, 1799, he died of throat infection. In his will, he mandated that all his slaves should be set free.

The first President was dead and the nation would spend months mourning his passing.

[Below: Mount Vernon]

Mini-Series: George Washington (84) & The Forging of a Nation (86)

Freidel, Frank. “George Washington: First President (1789-1797).” Our Country’s Presidents. New York: National Geographic Society, 1981, pp. 12-23.

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Bedside Vigil: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Terry's POV to @echo-goes-mmm's Aftermath (set just before)

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: implied self-harm, mention of suicidal ideation, aftermath of near-death experience from caretaker's POV

The room’s silence weighed down on Terrance’s shoulders, broken only by unsteady breathing. Juno’s fingers laid limp between the king’s hands. Long lines of smooth, perfectly untouched skin snaked down his boy’s scarred back where he had watched blood bubble and drool over skin and silks alike only hours before. 

Now, Terrance’s hair hung down his back, only a simple seafoam green robe over his bare skin, bare soles flat against cold marble. No makeup hid his split lip or black eye. No jewels gleamed over his skin. No crown weighed down his head. 

The sickening stench of freshly spilled blood still flooded his senses, despite having already allowed himself to be pried away to wash off every sticky drop staining his skin. 

He had nearly let himself drown in the bathwater. 

All of his advisors but elderly Duchess Delphine Valentin and Minister Edgard Thomas, the only ones who hadn’t been active, willing participants in his myriad punishments and backroom dealings, had been forced out of the castle with an ease that still left his head spinning. Perhaps the blood and bruises had been enough to shock his guards into action. Maybe not. He didn’t know. 

According to Court Mage Wright, the shock and blood loss was what kept Juno from stirring yet; that it may take an hour or two before he was up again. The potion for replenishing lost blood could only work so fast. 

And Terrance had first hand experience on how draining quickened healing could be on the body. Had felt his head spin as he swallowed down a healing potion aimed at the skeletal system himself, fractured bones in his wrists knitting back together. He hadn’t accepted any others. He didn’t deserve the others. 

So now it was just…a waiting game. Waiting for Juno to wake up. To come back to him. 

Waiting. 

Terrance stared down at Juno’s hand, gently curling and splaying out his boy’s fingers. Those lashes never even fluttered. There, amidst the pillows and blankets, Juno laid bare. Even if it felt…wrong. 

A proper pair of sleeping trousers waited, neatly folded, on the bedside table. Next to a tall glass of water and a plate of orange slices from the royal greenhouses and candied spiced nuts and freshly steamed clams. The food laid under a glass cover enchanted to keep everything fresh. 

Steam had coated the inside of the glass hours ago. 

Juno still hadn’t woken up. 

Terrance closed his eyes and did his best to breathe, slow and deep. Even though nobody else was here. Nobody but Juno. Nobody but his boy. 

Nobody but his boy, who still hadn’t woken up. 

His breath hitched, fingers shaking. His vision blurred. 

Here, there was only Juno. 

Nobody else was there to see the tears begin to dribble down his cheeks, shoulders shaking as they hunched. Nobody was there to hear him cry into Juno’s limp palm clutched between his hands. Nobody was there to watch as Terrance let himself dissolve into hitching sobs. 

Nobody was there to hear him beg. 

“Wake up.” His voice wobbled around the aching lump in his throat. “Please. Please wake up.”

If Juno didn’t wake up within the day, Wright had told him that meant something had gone wrong, and they’d need immediate magical-medical assistance. That if Juno’s breathing or heartbeat ever stopped, to immediately start emergency resuscitation magics while ringing for help to arrive. 

Juno���s heartbeat fluttered against Terrance’s thumb. 

The king’s tears slicked Juno’s skin, and all he could do was pray to gods he’d long since stopped believing in. 

He was overreacting. He knew he was overreacting. But seeing Juno like this was- wrong. On such a visceral level that made it feel like someone was tearing his heart out of his ribcage. 

It was just sleep. It wasn’t even a coma. It was sleep.

Wright had told him that Juno’s lack of magic, lack of that seed inherent in everyone born of Rhodantheian roots or on Rhodantheian soil, could lead to…complications. 

Juno’s breathing whistled in and out past his lips, and Terrance hid his face against that limp hand and quietly begged. 

“Wake up, Juno,” he pleaded, and his voice cracked. “Please just wake up. Wake up. Please, wake up, please.”

His boy didn’t stir. 

Terrance surrendered to the darkness once his sobs petered out, resting his head in his arms, cheek cushioned on his boy’s hand. That sluggish heartbeat pitter-pattered on, a faint fluttering against his skin. A reminder that his boy still lived. 

When that hand slipped out to pet his hair, a wounded noise slipped free as he melted into the gentle touch. 

He didn’t wake up. 

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The Last Straw: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Terry's POV to @echo-goes-mmm's King's Counsel pt.2

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: power imbalance, physical abuse, implied child abuse, implied sexual abuse, whipping, near-death of a major character

Unlike what most might expect of someone of his station, Terrance had been whipped before, in the past. By his mother’s hand, in the quiet of her private chambers during that year she took care to break him bit by bit for trying so foolishly to turn his back on their family; their kingdom. From Admiral Victoria Wethoras, the only one of his advisors experienced enough with a cat ‘o nine tails to put it to use to punish her wayward king, leaving him to bleed over the council table in deep rivulets. 

Every time, his deep weeping wounds knitted back together under the spell of the healing potions fed to him. As if he’d never been touched by a whip before at all. But the pain lingered. In his muscles. His skin. His bones. 

His chamberlain had no such experience in properly wielding a whip for the sake of correction. 

And Terry had never yet been torn apart by a bullwhip. 

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” his chamberlain murmured. An iron rivet glinted at the end of the heavy leather rope. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of it. From the faint hint of a smile on his advisor’s face, the older man knew that very well. 

Listening to his advisors was difficult, with the whip on the table in plain view. His stomach churned, shaky hands folded together in his lap under the table, where only Juno might be able to see. How had he let this get so far?

Everyone here knew what this was about, save for maybe the boy standing at Terrance’s side. 

The marriage proposal of Lady Genevieve. Or, rather, of the young noblewoman to Terrance, as proposed by her mother, the Duchess of Heloise. She was of marriageable age, it was agreed. Twenty-four years of age, only a decade the king’s junior. Fresh in her prime of life. Already having proven herself in terms of politics, charity and governance. Beautiful, bright, beloved. Fertile. 

Terrance had refused the offer. As well as the next dozen his advisors tried to sneak past him. 

If Terrance believed this was genuinely done in good faith, he likely would have allowed himself to be all but sold off as stud to whatever worthy future queen was decided upon as best suited for the role by his advisors and court. His reservations didn’t lie in the act of procreation necessary for the union; his dignity there had been carefully stripped from him, slice by slice, behind closed doors. All for the sake of the kingdom. 

No matter how the filth clung to his skin and filled him with rot, hours after being washed out, washed away. Hours after being hidden. 

But he’d seen the looks being traded between his advisors. Heard the whispers. 

Rhodantheia needed at least one son of the rose to survive. Needed its Desrosiers king to prevent the cataclysm the bloodline’s curse held back. 

Nothing said that king had to be Terrance, so long as there was a viable substitute. A more…malleable substitute. 

He couldn’t risk leaving a vulnerable child open to be ground into dust and groomed into an empty, silent, helpless little puppet king for the council to rule through. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t put his kingdom through that. 

He couldn’t put his future son through that.

So he refused. And refused. And refused. And refused. And refused. And refused.

And, like with everything else, he was going to pay for it. 

The only advisors in the room with him and Juno right now were Ser Beauchene, his chamberlain Antoine, his spymaster Elodie and First Magistrate Telesphore. A violent combination. 

This was going to hurt. 

“You have shirked your duty long enough, Your Grace,” Magistrate Telesphore murmured, setting his hand on the whip. Terrance’s breath caught in his throat, blood draining from his face. Nobody had potions on hand. What were his advisors thinking? “Your throne needs an heir.”

Elodie’s eyes trailed consideringly over to Juno, then flicked to Terrance’s face. Her gaze sharpened. 

No.

Before he could pry himself up, Juno took the bait. 

No. 

Laughter erupted as Juno knelt before his advisors, silks pooling to the floor by his side, ornate choker glimmering around his neck. Terrance’s gaze traced the tattoo binding them together trailing down the back of Juno’s neck and spine, peeking out under silky black hair. He had finally begun to fill out after a small eternity deprived of enough to eat. 

All Terrance could see while looking at him, now, was a lamb prostrating itself at the altar.  

No. 

They were never intending on using that on Terrance. 

“Let go of him.” He surged off his chair as the spymaster’s hand twisted in Juno’s hair, gaze sharp and cold and so, so full of hate. Elodie had always looked the least favourably upon Terrance’s decision to keep Juno by his side. Had always been the most vindictive towards Timorsia for reasons she never told anyone but the late Queen Catherine. 

Broad arms snatched him back, a calloused hand gripping his wrists above his head as the other fist sank into his stomach, choking a broken wheeze out of his lungs. Beauchene hooked Terrance’s legs over his knees, trapping him spread open. His chest tightened. 

On instinct, he went limp at the hand around his neck, the image of Juno being bent over the council table barely visibly through crooked glasses past the blurring of tears. 

“Stop,” he begged. Shame felt a distant whistle on the wind as his chamberlain lifted the whip. “Enough! Stop!”

“To think,” Antoine murmured with a sharp grin. “That this is all you now need to beg.”

The whip cracked down, and only the fingers shoved down his throat turned his scream to gagging as fingertips shoved right into his gag reflex. 

Juno’s skin split open like an overripe peach. 

Blood burbled like a fresh spring, trickling down from the long, open wound down his boy’s spine. Juno’s shriek shattered the entire room. 

The hand around Terrance’s wrists squeezed, and his bird-frail bones groaned. 

Antoine’s arm lifted. 

Thunder cracked in the distance, and Terrance felt something in his chest crack with it. 

The hand around his throat tightened, and he gasped for air to the sight of the two long, jagged edges of Juno’s skin cut apart down his boy’s back. Distantly, Terrance remembered how it had taken ten lashes for the cat o’ nines to break his skin. 

They were going to kill him. 

The whip cracked, metal rivet tearing open flesh. 

They were going to kill his boy. 

Blood drooled down to pool over the varnished wood. Juno’s thighs quivered the same way Terrance’s did whenever an advisor pushed up his skirts. 

They were going to kill Juno. 

He could barely feel the bruises blossoming over his skin as Beauchene struggled to hold him down, pain splintering through his wrists behind his commander’s skull. Could barely sense the rasp of his own wheezing as a meaty hand gripped his throat to squeeze, then release, squeeze, and release. Could barely hear his own words breaking past the gagging of fingers angled to keep his jaw from clamping shut on them.

All he could do was watch, as they tore his boy apart piece by bloody piece. 

He was barely aware of his own body when he finally managed to slam his thigh into Beauchene’s clothed cock and launch himself at Antoine, teeth sinking into the man’s hand. 

That ugly, bloody glint skittered across the room as Terrance cracked his chamberlain’s skull against the side of the table. 

Only Elodie’s nails dragged him back in time to keep him from leaving nothing but a mess of blood and gore where Antoine’s face should be, and it cost her a bite deep enough in her own wrist for her to let him go. 

He staggered for a moment, gaze falling to the limp, half-dead mess they’d left of the only person to genuinely give a damn about him in this entire bloody damned castle. Collapsed. 

His advisors watched him like an unchained mountain lion as he gathered Juno up into his arms, fingers shaking. Hot liquid trickled down his cheeks, iron soaking his tongue and teeth. Juno’s lashes fluttered up at him. His skin felt cold and clammy as Terrance painted his cheeks red with sticky, cooling blood. 

His voice cracked. “Juno?”

Thin ocean-blue slits blinked, then fell closed. Breath just barely whistled out of his boy’s lungs. Juno’s blood stained Terrance’s skirts, and he could all but feel the ragged edges of where his boy had been torn open.  

Something in him hung on the verge of snapping. 

Terrance’s gaze rose to find four advisors staring back at him, bloodless faces wide-eyed with shock, and his lips peeled back in a half-feral snarl. 

“The moment he dies, I tear out your throats with my teeth.”

And the rats infesting his council rightfully turned tail and ran.

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A Mouth Filled With Blood: Terry in "King's Counsel"

Set about four days(?) after Two Steps Back

Juno belongs to @echo-goes-aaa / @echo-goes-mmm

Warnings: Depression, suicidal ideation, implied past dubcon/noncon, implied past abuse, fear of future noncon, mild accidental self injury (twice), fear of becoming like past whumpers?

Time passed. The week ended. Juno healed enough to return to his crate that he still preferred to sleep in when not in their now-shared bed in his eight-months-new king’s room. Terrance finally, finally got to take off the gloves. The court was even finally beginning to cool down a bit from their thwarted feeding frenzy. 

Juno watched Terrance like he was going to tear his throat out with his teeth, and that wary gaze had banished Terrance from his own rooms like he had four ravenous, white-faced ghosts nipping at his heels. 

What had he done to earn that? What had he done to make Juno fear him? 

….had Juno seen what he’d done to his advisors? Had he scared his boy? Was that why Juno seemed to think Terrance was going to hurt him? Why Juno was looking at him the way Terrance might have once looked at-

No. No. He wasn’t his mother, he wasn’t his father, he wasn’t his older brother. 

He wasn’t. He wasn’t. 

…was he? 

Terrance rested his head in his hands, elbows braced against his desk. Nothing felt quite real since he’d settled Juno back into his rooms. As if he were walking through pearly white mist and everything he touched were made of solid smoke. 

He should be happy, shouldn’t he? Juno was alright. He didn’t have to deal with his advisors anymore. The ensuing ripples through court had finally begun to calm down. For the first time in years, he didn’t have fresh bruising to layer upon the yellowing and purpling flesh hidden under his robes. He no longer had to wear silks and fabrics which could fall off his body with just the tug of a hidden ribbon. 

Nobody touched him. Nobody hurt him. 

…nobody touched him, not since he’d emerged from the council room with Juno half-dead in his arms. Nobody. 

Nobody at all. 

He closed his eyes, trying his best to banish the burning threatening to make him tear up. The inner lining of his throat began to swell. 

What was wrong with him? Something had to be wrong with him. Nobody else seemed to struggle with just getting up in the morning. Nobody else seemed to spend hours in the bathtub, trying to even gather the resolve to get up and dry themself off. Nobody else had to spend an entire day unable to get out of bed not out of pain, but simply from the mental exhaustion of doing his duty the rest of the week. Not that he knew of. 

Something was wrong with him. So very, very wrong. But what was it? 

Did anyone else ever fantasize of going under the bathwater and never coming back up? Of a punishment having gone too far, having dug too deep, having hit something vital, of bleeding out on wood and stone? Of one day falling asleep and never having to wake up? 

He shouldn’t be entertaining these thoughts. If he died, with no viable candidate to inherit the curse and the kingdom, Rhodantheia would implode at the breaking of the curse. Not quite literally, but with the resulting wave of cataclysms…

Terrance couldn’t be a second King Raphael II, no matter if the vile man were his namesake. He couldn’t let himself be the last of his line. 

Even if it eventually meant marrying, now that it was unlikely to end in his death. 

He… he should get on with that, shouldn’t he? Finding a bride. A mother to his children who could raise them well. Who was…was fertile. Willing. Capable. Who would… would use him…

Terrance choked down bile, hands cupping his mouth. 

Later. Yes, later. He could do that- later. 

Plenty of paperwork he still had to do now. The prospect of marriage could wait for another day. 

He groped around for pen and paper and threw himself into his paperwork in the hopes it would help him flee from his own thoughts. Deaden his mind. Allow him to be useful. To be worth something beyond his blood and bones and flesh and-

And- 

His fingers shook too hard for him to properly scrawl his signature, forcing him to set the inkwell pen down and press his open hands against the wood of his desk. 

Enough. He was fine. He was fine. 

Maybe, if he repeated it enough times, he would begin to believe it. 

He was safe. Juno was safe. Everyone was safe. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, tilting his head back against his seat. His hands clutched the edge of his desk, knuckles white. And yet still tremors ran up his hands. At any moment, someone was going to come through those doors. Antoine or Ser Beauchene or Elodie or Wethoras or- or one of the others. Someone was going to slip inside, see his state, grab him by the shoulder, twist him over their lap and- 

What was wrong with him? 

They were gone. They were gone, and they weren’t coming back. None of them were going to hurt Terrance again. None of them were going to get even a chance at hurting Juno again. 

Juno…

…Juno, who feared him, now. 

It took a moment for him to realize that the blood filing his mouth behind his thinly pressed limbs leaked out from his tongue instead of another person’s flesh, that the ache in his teeth was from him grinding them together instead of his canines and molars breaking another person’s bones. 

It took a moment after that for the sting to hit his senses. 

Ow. 

He breathed in, breathed out. Inhaled, exhaled. In, and out. In, and out. 

Shaky fingers pried themselves off varnished wood to knead at silk-covered knees instead. Terrance lowered his chin to protect his barred neck. Focused on the air whistling in and out of his nose.

He pried his eyes open to stare down at ink printed over paper. 

Right. Work. 

He…he had to work. 

Terrance picked up the pen, set it to paper, and did his best not to cry. 

His mother would be so very angry with him to know how much he had cried these past few years, after all her work to yank such an undignified habit out of his skull like a loose tooth. 

She would have never let things get so bad with the council. 

The council had respected her. In a way they never had him. In a way that they might never respect him. Especially now. 

The door creaked open, and Terrance couldn’t help but flinch, sending a sharp jagged scrawl across the paper he was signing. Damn it all. Why had he done that? Why did he keep on ruining whatever he touched-

A soft, wrinkled hand glinting with rings laid itself on his fist, and only then did he notice the sharp sting of his nail digging into his palm. When he set his hand flat on the table, he spotted blood under his nails. 

Damn it. 

His gaze drifted up to meet the Duchess’s own eyes, lined with subtle makeup to hide the tired shadows beneath. Dread pooled in his gut. The wetness along his lashes felt like the first symptoms of poison in an empty cup. 

A king does not cry. A king does not let others know that he had cried-

Delphine Valentin’s hand cupped his cheek, and Terrance couldn’t help but flinch at the graze of her soft skin, skin prickling for the sting of a slap. But all she did was let his head rest in her hold. Let his thoughts fizzle in his head, empty out of his skull. Let him melt. 

Quiet. 

Finally, finally quiet. 

Her thumb ran beneath his eye and drew away wet. Distantly, he recognized the heat trickling down his cheeks. But all he could focus on was touch. 

It had been a little over a week since anyone had touched him. Anyone at all. Nobody had touched him since he’d brought Juno for healing. His hand hadn’t brushed against another’s skin since Juno had first woken up. 

He’d gotten spoiled, having his boy press into his side to sleep every night, having Juno’s calloused hands wrap his fingers around a warm mug on the daily. 

Gods, he missed it. 

And he didn’t know if he’d ever get that back. 

If he’d ever get back the one person in over a year to touch him without ill intent-

His vision blurred, a rough sob leaving his throat mangled and bruised. Soft lips pressed against his forehead. The Duchess’s voice rippled through the air like water, but he couldn’t make the slightest sense of it, burned out by the warmth of her hand bleeding into his skin. 

His eyes fluttered shut as he was hauled up into someone’s side, glove slipped off for a gentle, wrinkled hand to take its place. Leading him somewhere. He didn’t know where. He just knew he was being touched. 

He didn’t know when would be the next time he’d get to be touched.