#Medusa Unit

[narizentupidocartazes]

[2022] 02 de Março | Rescaldo 2022 | Clothilde | Carlos Zíngaro | DAMAS - Lisboa

03 de Março | Rescaldo 2022 | Vasco Alves | Toda Matéria | O Carro de Fogo de Sei Miguel | CCB - Lisboa

04 de Março | Rescaldo 2022 | Má Estrela | Máquina Magnética | CCB - Lisboa

05 de Março | Rescaldo 2022 | OndaXoque | Medusa Unit | Hetta | Rodrigo Amado + Tó Trips | ZDB - Lisboa 06 de Março Rescaldo 2022 | Banha da Cobra | Pedro Carneiro | Igeja St. George - Lisboa

Cartaz [Travassos]

Co-organização [Nariz Entupido]

[acornminiatureslog]

And the deathwatch RPG character is finished! Someday, Kheres Vox shall wage war in the name of the deathwatch, but until then, this was a fun project.

[haveyouseenthishorrormovie]

SUMMARY: After being bitten by a lethal snake, a young woman experiences changes in her senses and appearance, as she sheds her old self and slowly turns into a deadly weapon.

[filmap]

Medusa Deluxe Thomas Hardiman. 2022

Hairdressing Contest Preston Guild Hall, Lancaster Rd, Preston PR1 1HT, UK See in map

See in imdb

[benji-cheung]

Medusa, Masha Athanasiadi || 30 units (7.50 x 7.50, square) || Instructions

it's like neptune by valentina minayeva except with a 60 degree(?) angle. however the intended angle is unclear because the folding method is super sloppy/incoherent and the proper alignment points aren't actually shown.

halfway through i ended up completely changing it up and just directly making a 60 degree angle through the center of the paper as the reference, just because the precision issues got to be too much and the units wouldn't fit well. I think the method as shown would work out to exactly 60 degrees if 3√3:5 was a square, but it's not. Overall L model + L diagram + L instructions, exercise caution. At least it's stable now.

[the-daily-male]

Today's daily male is Orpheus from Greek mythology!

for @basil-the-bulbasaur

[coldilikeit]

Yandere Batfam x Camp half-blood (Neglected reader)

DC x Pjo

Part 12

______________________________

Present

"is that a ferry?" I ask, the hippocampus got closer and we saw something that said "Princess Andromeda", and the figurehead is a wooden woman tied to it

Princess Andromeda... Who?

Ah..

The wife of Perseus son of Zeus, she was to be sacrificed to Poseidon but Perseus saved her

How weird of her to have a ship, you personally, certainly won't step foot into the ocean after you were about to be sacrificed to it

A middle aged man scolds his three kids for jumping in the pool and points at a sign, a dog that looks somewhat human that looks like it belongs in the deepest pits of hell is in line for the buffet

You freeze up, is that an empousa?? A monster playing poker with a mortal human?

You look around and see variations of monsters and humans, seemingly happy in the cruise

What is this? Monster human united nations?

Don't get me wrong, you're not racist, it's just that monsters typically eat humans, so it's okay that you find it weird that a snake haired monster with poison blood is gambling with Jeff

(not Medusa, but gorgons)

"Is this a trap? A knockoff Lotus Hotel & Casino?" Percy scoffs

Annabeth holds your hand in a tight grip "Could be... But we don't know what it does, no one eat anything here"

"Lotus Hotel...?" You ask

Percy looks at you "Yeah... It's some magic hotel where time passes really slowly, like so slow, it's different for everyone, I met a guy there from the 70's and when I asked he said he'd only been there for two days, we felt we were only there for a couple of hours but it's actually been five days"

Oh shit.

"is... Is this hotel in Vegas?" You look nervous, Annabeth furrowed her brows "Yes, have you encountered it? It's dangerous and normal people wouldn't know how to get out"

"oh fuck... I may have been, no definitely, I should be older than I am right now, when my family and I were on a mi- vacation, I went inside this hotel, I was only there for like 20 minutes but they claimed I was gone for two years... I- holy shit. I was stuck in a hotel for two years" you exclaim

"how did you not know that was a trap? Have you not read the Odyssey? The lotus island and the lotus eaters?? I thought you were a fan of Greek mythology?" Annabeth asked

You roll your eyes "Well I'm sorry I didn't think a hotel was going to be related to a magical lotus island"

Tyson's face got sad "that scary... How you got out?"

"I don't know... All I remember was a pageant in the hotel, it was an event and- Oh." You stop

______________________________

Past

"Wow... This place is actually kind of nice" you look around the glistening chandeliers and observe the clamoring people

A servant smiles at you, seemingly ignoring your vigilante costume "Would you like a lotus flower? They're complementary"

It won't hurt you to take one right?

So you did.

"hey.. um where's the way out?" You ask

The smile on the servant's face doesn't drop "Miss it's so late out at night, you should return to your room"

"but I don't have a room-" you feel a key card in your pocket, you did have a room

So you go there, you enter the gigantic room, it was like for royalty, the sheets were so silky, the pillows were so soft, you opened the cabinet to find a set of clothes

Your suit is beginning to feel itchy anyways, you take a shower and put on the clothes, you find on the night stand a platinum card

What were you here for again?

You get out of the room, you hear people laughing

"you should go down there young lady! There is a pageant! There is this beautiful maiden, more beautiful compared to the others!" A man says, he was wearing clothing so old fashioned you'd thought he was from the regency era

Well, a pageant sounds fun!

In the hotel ballroom people were staring... Not at the contestants, well, yes the contestants, but one, one special lady

"Good evening LA!" She laughs

How captivating... , you think

She turns and sees you, she stops smiling "(Name)? What? What are you doing here?"

Did she just call you?

Oh gosh she just said your name!

"you're not supposed to be here!" She floats, yup floats and you're shocked, she grabs your hand and she walks you to the entrance of the hotel, the servants who were eager to help everyone was avoiding her gaze and now staying far from you

At the entrance she gestures you get out of the hotel, so you did

A bunch of guys approach you, you don't know who they are

A few minutes pass by

"guys what happened to the mission?" You ask

______________________________

Annabeth: why didn't you know the hotel was magic?

You: idk maybe because in the book it was an island?!

______________________________

@yunloyal @sirenetheblogger @00hellohello00 @spqce-bun @casspen-starlight @eyeless-kun @ghostdoodlen @ratchetprime211 @delias-stuff @sadslasher13 @ellaprime7 @wpdarlingpan @mountvesuvu @chinxinsomnia @nathaly36 @vanessa-boo @bat1212 @ceramic-raven @sweetconnoisseurgardener @dhanyasri @bella-wolf100 @shortnsweetsposts @roseapov @d3sperate-enuf @d3kstar

[pjohoo-reclists]

PJO/HoO Time Travel Fics (2/2)

Requested by @roosinii. A list of fics that have different sorts of time travel involved! All these fics are tagged time travel, in addition to the other tags listed. This list has fics under 40k. Below are the fics over 40k.

Trading Tomorrow by Darkmagyk, loosingletters

T | 44k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson/Luke Castellan

Fix-it, Luke Castellan Redemption, Childhood Trauma

Percy Jackson arrives at Camp Half-Blood bruised and bleeding, with the knowledge that he's the son of a god and his mother is dead. His little display with the Minotaur has caught the attention of the camp. But he’s not sure it is good attention, yet. Only the Hermes Cabin's not-quite Co-counselor Theseus, ‘call me Theo,’ doesn't treat him like a fascinating zoo exhibit. Which would be a relief, except he looks exactly like Percy: same green eyes, same trouble making smile, same black hair. The only differences are the fact that Theo is six years older, covered in battle scars, and the black tattoo on his arm. A trident and the letters SPQR. Theo is eighteen, powerful, and unclaimed. And his resemblance to Percy could set a dangerous precedent.

Rhyme, Don't Repeat by InquiringMinds

G | 52k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Medusa, Sally Jackson/Medusa

Parental Bonding, Sibling Bonding, Time Travel

Percy is suddenly 12 again, and with all of the lessons learned in the years he's suddenly lost he decides to make a better world, earlier and hopefully with fewer challenges and immortal demands. Featuring parental bonding, actual childhoods instead of training for your life, and monsters that really aren't that bad, just misunderstood. Also a cross country road trip!

The Lingering Thought by Bekbek

T | 55k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Sally Jackson/Gabe Ugliano

Gaia wins, Badass Percy Jackson, Fix-it

In a world where the unthinkable happened the Seven are desperate. Everyone and everything they love and know is gone, wiped away by Gaia and Her minions. They have watched their parents and friends fall and were unable to stop the end. So it is with desperation and half a plan that they decide to change things. To go back, all the way to the beginning, and try again. What will change with their knowledge and skills? Who will they save, who will they lose? What, if anything, can they do? There's only one way to find out.

Like a Demon Out of Hell by ashardoffreedom

T | 71k+ | Incomplete

Nico di Angelo/Will Solace, Nico di Angelo/Jason Grace, Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

AU - Canon Divergence, Slow Build, Characters Being Kickass

Three days after the Prophecy of Seven was spoken aloud, a great quake shook the mythical world, and without explanation, the prophecy reworded itself. Also known as: Time-traveling Nico is trying to do his best to save the world, but he seems to have unfortunately landed in a time before the two camps were united, where the gods are on lock-down, there’s an old enemy out for his head, and there’s an angsting 12-year-old wandering around wearing his face.

Nico Di Angelo & the Bane of the Gods by ideasCornucopia

T | 86k | Complete

Nico di Angelo & Jason Grace, Bianca di Angelo & Nico di Angelo, Percy Jackson/Nico di Angelo

Fix-it, Alive Bianca di Angelo, Hades is a Good Parent

When he opens his eyes, Bianca is there holding his arm, and a man that reveals himself to be a monster is behind them. Nico´s eyes are opened wide, because somehow Bianca is there. Is this a dream? Is this some wicked plan by Gaea? The last thing he remembers is Tartarus and Kronos, how is he here? "Nico, are you okay?" Bianca asks, furrowing her brows. They can hear the door of the hallway being opened, as a voice Nico hadn't heard in years calls for them. Nico's fists clench. Dream or not, he won't let them take everything away this time. He will fix this, he will fix everything. Or in which the War with Gaea ends baddly, the Seven die, and Nico is sent back in time (maybe a little bit too early) after making a deal with a Titan. Well shit.

Wait, I wasn't meant to die? by orphan_account

G | 96k | Complete

Bianca di Angelo/Piper McLean, Nico di Angelo & Bianca di Angelo, Percy Jackson & Bianca di Angelo

Fix-it, Misunderstandings, Slow Burn

Bianca chose rebirth but the Fates seem to have other plans, because Bianca finds herself back to the moment where she died, except... not dead. Or, Bianca gets a second chance at life with the power of time travel

I Scream Too Loud When I Speak My Mind. by youngjusticewriter

T | 108k+ | Incomplete

Percy Jackson & Grover Underwood & Annabeth Chase

Smart Percy Jackson, Child Soldiers, Non-Linear Narrative

Chiron leaned forward from his wheelchair and though Percy didn’t look to check he knew he had caught Mrs.Dodds’ attention as well. "And what reason is that?” "They were afraid of being overthrown. Of their power being taken from them so that's why Kronos ate his children. And years later Zeus ate Athena's mother." It was why the Olympians had voted on whether Percy should live or not because he had the potential to lead to - if not cause - the destruction of Olympus when he turned sixteen. Behind him, Nancy mumbled to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.'" "And why, Mr. Jackson," Chiron said, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?" Percy thought of how Thalia had only been twelve when she had given her life so Luke and Annabeth could make it to safety. Percy looked at Chiron as he remembered how he had lied to his mentor about Nico because it wasn’t just the Titan Army who would harm the boy. "I wouldn’t know.” "I see." Chiron looked as though he didn't believe him.

Hold Tight and Pretend It's a Plan by Rynna_Aurelius

M | 112k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase (Past), Percy Jackson & Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson & Triton

Fix-it, AU-Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family

Olympus has fallen. The second Gigantomachy has ended far differently than the first, and in Gaea's triumph, the world has been torn apart. But the Fates have seen what ends their failed meddling have brought, look on at the dead—and undo what should never have happened the only way they possibly can. Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon, is returned to his twelve-year-old self, memories intact and determined to save everyone he can. But he is not alone. The Moirai underestimated the strength of the Lord of Time when stealing his power, and there is something about this particular demigod brat that intrigues him. . . Perseus Jackson came roaring to life with a violent gasp, green eyes wild. After a moment of panicked flailing and struggling to breathe, his fear-filled gaze settled upon a girl with blonde hair and stormy grey eyes, her face stern and unimpressed. "You drool in your sleep."

The Thieving Demigod by Cat_o_pillow

T | 141k | Incomplete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Fix-it, Book 1: The Lightning Thief, AU

The battle against Kronos went badly, ending in the death of the defenders and the razing of Olympus. But not all is lost. Using Kronos' own plan against him, Percy and Annabeth managed to travel back in time to the point it all started. Though they quickly learn not all is as it seems. Titans and Gods beware, the greatest demigod duo will not back down from any challenge.

Even The Thorns Have Roses by robindrake93

M | 171k+ | Incomplete

Percy Jackson/Luke Castellan, Percy Jackson/Michael Yew

Luke Castellan Redemption, Dark Percy Jackson, Worldbuilding

Percy Jackson thought he was done with quests when an old player to the game offers Percy the chance of a lifetime; to go back in time and save one demigod. Even though all Percy wants is to live at the bottom of the lake and be left alone, he can't pass up this golden opportunity to make things right. But this time things are going to be way different and Percy is going to save all of the demigods. No matter what it takes. The rewrite of an older work with the same title.

[foundtherightwords]

Love, If You're Near

Pairing: Michael (Hoard) x OFC

Summary: With a troubled past and a hopeless future, Gwen is just trying to survive on the streets of London. When she meets a man named Michael with a rather strange request, she shrugs and goes along with it, never dreaming that she will find a soul just as broken as hers, or that sometimes broken pieces can fit together perfectly, to bring healing and hope when one least expects it.

Warnings: discussions of prostitution and domestic abuse

Word count: 6.8k

A/N: I've had this idea for Michael even before "Hoard" was released, and after watching the film, I was happy that it was still viable. I don't condone Michael's actions, but I can see where his desire for love and affection comes from, and I hope that after what happened with Maria, Michael could start his own journey of redemption and healing. It is what I based my idea on. I also took some inspiration from "Frankie and Johnny" (the 1991 movie with Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino, not the song).

"Hoard" takes place in 1994, and this is about 4 years after that.

Also, big thanks to @wheels-of-despair for sending me a transcript of the movie. It's helped me tremendously in deciphering the East London dialogue!

Gwen dropped down on a bench outside Dalston Junction Station, slipped her right shoe off her aching foot, and gingerly touched the raw red spot on the back of her heel, through her fishnet. "Cheap piece of shit," she grumbled. Except the shoes weren't exactly cheap. Twenty quid down the drain and they hurt like fuck, even after she'd tried every trick in the book to break them in. But her last pair had broken beyond repair, so it was either this or go barefoot, and she didn't want to step on broken needles and used condoms and whatever garbage that littered the backstreets of Hackney. Plus it was freezing. She'd met a stag do the previous night, and they had kept her out until the morning, eventually straining her all the way over in Chiswick. It was almost noon by the time she crawled back to her flat. It was too cold to sleep in, so she'd whiled away the day in coffee shops and pubs, waiting until it was time to go back out on the street. At this rate, she would take a five-quid blowjob in a car if it meant getting somewhere warm.

Across the street, the Hackney Carnival Mural shouted at her with its peeling musicians and protestors waving their "Unite for Peace" banners. Gwen turned away, annoyed. Idiots. What good is peace, when one is cold and tired and doesn't even have a decent pair of shoes?

It was almost Christmas, and a slow night. The nights had been slow for a while now, not like when she first started. Ten years on the streets, she thought she'd known how it worked. Then three years in the clink, and when she got out, it was like Brave New World out here. Foreign girls flooded the market. The pimps and the punters liked them because they were younger and easier to control, but the local girls knew that naïveté was just an act. These newcomers were tougher and meaner, and they wouldn't hesitate to pull a knife on those that dared to encroach on their territory. That was if they were still on the streets in the first place. It was all indoors now, and they didn't even have to rely on the old tart-card-in-phone-box method of advertisement. The Internet had that covered.

Gwen readjusted her long blonde wig and sighed. Sometimes she felt much older than her thirty-one years.

She put her shoe back on with a grimace. Perhaps she could try her luck up the road, near the Shacklewell Arms. Her friend Medusa worked that corner, and sometimes she would let Gwen stay with her so they could team up against the new girls.

Medusa's real name was Melissa, but all girls needed some exotic street names. For Halloween one year, back when they were both younger and sillier and full of hope, Gwen had even helped her attach plastic snake's heads to her dreads, both giggling like mad.

Gwen took the backstreets to avoid the twinkling lights, the sound of Christmas music, and the scents of evergreen and cinnamon that spilled out from every door and shop window. They depressed her. Her feet would not thank her for the detour, but her heart would.

By the time she reached the Arms, she was sure her blister had burst and was bleeding. Some indie band had just finished their gig, and the front of the pub was crawling with people. Gwen peered into the crowd, trying to make out Medusa's statuesque form. As she spied Medusa's dreads swinging to and fro, Gwen opened her mouth to call her friend. Her eyes fell on the man next to Medusa, and the call died in her throat. It was Medusa's boyfriend and pimp, Nico.

Despite Medusa's insistence that Nico was "not that bad", Gwen knew better than to face him. At best, he would cajole her into coming to work for him, and at worst he would threaten and force her. Gwen knew what it was like to tie yourself to a man. Usually, she could chase Nico off with a few choice words, but in her current state, cold, exhausted, and irritated, she had no strength to deal with him. She beat a quick retreat.

And collided with someone.

It was a man coming out of one of the cheaper and seedier establishments that lined the back alleys behind Shacklewell Lane. "Excuse me," he mumbled.

"'s alright," Gwen said. And, because he was a man and she was working, she added, out of professional habit, "You looking for company?"

"No, thank you," the man said, a little too quickly, and started to walk away. A few steps, then he seemed to have second thoughts and turned back. "How much?" he asked.

Gwen gave him the once-over. He was probably in his mid-thirties, medium built, dressed in old jeans, an older jumper, and sturdy boots. A working man, then, not a tourist or an out-of-towner looking for some cheap thrills. Not her ideal client, but beggars cannot be choosers.

She told him her hourly rate. "Forty quid and I'll do whatever you want, darling." It wasn't high, all things considered, but it wasn't cheap either. She had her dignity.

The man shook his head. "That's—that's out of my—sorry." He turned away again.

Gwen slumped against a brick wall with a sigh. Maybe she should call it a night. The prospect of her cold flat with its empty fridge was not very welcoming though. Maybe she could find Medusa again. She was desperate enough to even risk Nico.

As she struggled to her feet, she staggered backward and collided, for the second time that night, with someone. This time it was a little girl who was coming out of a doorway with her mother. The girl was holding to the hem of her mother's coat with one hand and in the other was a teddy, which she dropped to the ground.

"Sorry," Gwen said. She quickly picked up the teddy, dusted it off, and handed it to the girl with a smile. "Here you go, love."

The girl stared back at Gwen with enormous eyes but said nothing and made no move to take her teddy. The mother snatched the toy back. "Why don't you watch where you're going, you slag!" she snarled. "And stay away from my kid."

"You watch where you're going!" Gwen spat. "What are you doing, dragging a kid out on the street this late anyway? She should be in bed!"

The mother's nostrils flared. "Don't tell me how to raise my own kid! What does a slut like you know about being a mother?" With that, she snatched the kid up in her arms and stormed off. Swallowing her anger, Gwen walked away in the opposite direction.

A moment later, a wail from the little girl caused Gwen to turn back, just in time to see the woman yank the teddy out of her hand and toss it into the nearest bin.

An inexplicable fury prompted Gwen to chase after them despite her blister, not even knowing what she would do if she caught them, but the woman turned down a side street and disappeared. Only the teddy stared up at Gwen from the bin with a rather mournful look, or so she imagined.

She picked it up and straightened up the bowtie around its neck. "I know more about being a mother than that bitch," she said to the teddy, and, without knowing why, she put it in her bag.

Feeling eyes on her, she looked up to see the man who had rejected her still standing at the mouth of the alley, watching her with a strange expression. Something in his dark eyes made blood rush to her cheeks, and she growled, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

He approached her slowly. "Forty an hour, you say?"

She stood up a little straighter. "Yeah."

"And you'll do whatever I want?"

"Within reasons," she said warily.

"Where can we go?"

"You have a car?" He shook his head. "Well, then that depends on what you have in mind," she said. "Even an alleyway would do, though I have to tell you, I'm not keen on getting any more blisters tonight." He colored slightly, and Gwen found herself wondering if this was his first time. She glanced at his hand. No ring. But then again, this type always takes care to leave their ring at home, don't they?

"My flat's not far from here," he said. "Do you mind—?"

Gwen hesitated. She made it a point never to go with a customer to a place she was unfamiliar with. Too risky. But she was cold and tired and just wanted to get this done.

She scrutinized the man, more carefully this time. He had dark hair pushed away from his forehead in soft curls, and a face that, had she been feeling better, she would have found quite handsome. What really struck her, though, were his eyes. They were dark and large, fringed by ridiculously long lashes, which made him look almost boyish. Gwen, who had to rely on false lashes and mascara to get such a doe-eyed look, stared at those lashes enviously. Noticing her scrutiny, he glanced at her briefly and looked away again. That shy, beseeching look finally cinched it for her.

"Alright," she said. "But cash up front."

"Fair enough." He opened his wallet and handed her some crumpled fivers and a tenner. Gwen counted them carefully before stuffing them into her bag. She also checked that her pepper spray was still in her bag—no matter how unassuming the man looked, or how sad his eyes were, she had to be careful. Technically, it was illegal to carry pepper spray, but Gwen never let a small thing like legality stop her.

Her fingers brushed across a little card, and Gwen paused momentarily. She'd been given that card by a group of women who roamed the area in twos and threes, who might be mistaken for working girls at first glance. She supposed that was their disguise. They were a non-profit helping to get women off the streets, they said. Give us a call anytime, they said. Gwen had scoffed at their optimism, yet for some reason, she still held on to their card. 

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"What do you want it to be?" she said, again out of habit, too tired to actually be coquettish. The man raised his eyebrows at her, and Gwen relented. "You can call me Queenie." Medusa wasn't the only girl with a ridiculous street name.

She didn't ask his name. She didn't care.

They went down Shacklewell Lane, away from the bright lights and loud noises of the Arms, crossed the A10, and through some side street lined with terraced houses. Then the houses gave way to chippies, greasy spoons, Laundromats, and off-licenses. Gwen was whimpering by the time they reached a block of council flats, its brown brick façade the color of dry blood under the dim streetlamps.

"You all right?" the man asked, glancing at her.

"How far up?" Gwen managed, looking up at the looming building, trying to calculate how quickly she could run out of there, if necessary.

"Fifth floor."

She let out an involuntary groan. The man looked at her for a moment. And then, before she realized what he was doing, he scooped her up in his arms in one smooth movement and carried her up the stairs, bridal style.

"Do you mind?!" she protested. The man said nothing, only kept walking.

Gwen tried to wriggle out, but she was too tired and his arms were too strong, and after a moment, she gave up and leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of soap and sweat and rollies, and she found herself pressing her nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in his human scent, to purge from her memories the stench of piss and stale beer and rubbish that had assaulted her all through the night.

For all his strength, the man was panting a little by the time they arrived at his door. He set Gwen down on her feet and fumbled with the lock. The moment they were through the door, she collapsed on the nearest available surface, which happened to be an old, rather threadbare sofa, and pulled her shoes off.

"Take it from me," she said. "Never wear heels."

He seemed amused. "OK, I won't." He went about flipping on the lights. "Do you want some Epsom salt for that?"

"Nah, I've had worse."

The man disappeared behind a door down the hall—the bathroom, she supposed��and emerged a second later with a plaster. He then knelt in front of her, rolled down her right stocking and lifted her foot into his lap, not in a sensual or seductive way, but rather matter-of-factly, and stuck the plaster on her heel, like a parent cleaning up a child's skinned knee. This done, he pulled out the sofa and made a bed on it, still in that same matter-of-fact manner.

Something rolled out from under the sofa—a piece of Lego. Gwen's eyebrow went up. Following her eyes, the man saw the Lego as well and turned red. He quickly kicked it back under the sofa and went on making the bed as if nothing had happened. Well, if he wasn't going to say anything, then she certainly wouldn't either.

"Right," she said, rolling down her other stocking. "Let's get started, shall we?"

He turned toward her, looking alarmed. "No, no, no," he said and put his hand over Gwen's, stopping her. "Clothes on, please."

Gwen tilted her head. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked to keep her clothes on, though it was rare enough that it still came as a surprise. She wasn't keen on having her dress all wrinkled and stained. It would be a nightmare to get it clean. But she pulled her fishnets back up anyway

The man sat down next to her on the sofa bed, sheepishly avoiding her eyes. "I'm Michael, by the way," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Michael," Gwen said, because that's what one is supposed to say when someone introduces themselves.

"Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?"

If he'd offered her some wine or whiskey or even beer, she might have accepted, but tea was probably the least erotic drink Gwen could think of. "No, thanks," she said. She didn't trust him not to slip her a Mickey—hey, Mickey and Michael, that's rich, she thought, chuckling to herself. When Michael didn't say anything, she reminded him, "You only paid me for an hour."

"Could you—" he began, looking down at a spot on the scuffed floor. "Would you mind—could you just hold me?"

Is that it? Gwen had to stop herself from grinning. This really was his first time then, poor lamb. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "Like this?" she whispered into his ear. Michael nodded and eased them both down on the bed until they were spooning, with her behind him, so she couldn't see his eyes. "What else do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Just this."

Gwen frowned. "What?"

"Just hold me like this, please."

She sat up to look at him properly. He was lying on his side with his eyes open, staring not at her but at something or somewhere else, miles away.

"You're not going to make me put a giant diaper on you and breastfeed you, are you?" Medusa had once met a punter with that request. It had been part of the reason why she'd decided to work for Nico, so she could avoid another awkward situation like that, though, in Gwen's mind, it was rather like out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Michael turned to her. "What?"

"You don't want to tie me up, and you don't want me to tie you up?"

"No."

"You don't even want to have sex?"

He blushed again. "No."

"So let me get this straight," she said. "You're paying me forty quid to—spoon you?"

"Yeah." He sat up as well. "Look, if you're not comfortable with it, I understand. I'll pay you for your time, and then you can go."

She considered. As far as requests went, it was an odd one, but certainly not the strangest she'd had. And it sounded innocent enough—perhaps the most innocent of all. Still, she would not be lulled into a sense of safety. She pulled her bag a little closer to make sure she could reach inside and get the pepper spray if necessary. Her shoes would be a write-off—she could run faster barefoot anyway.

"Just—hold you?" she asked again, wanting to make sure. "For an hour?"

He looked up at her with those dark eyes, imploring, infinitely sad, like those of a lost child or a dying animal, and Gwen felt her heart stumble. "Yes, please," he said.

"I'm not charging you the full rate just for a bit of cuddle!"

"It's OK, really. I don't mind."

"I do," she insisted. "It's about being professional. What do you do for a living?"

He seemed taken aback by her question, but he answered anyway. "I'm a cleaner. At St. Mary's Hospital." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "Used to be a bin man. But I couldn't take the stink anymore."

Something in the way he said it made Gwen think that there were other reasons besides the stink for him to give up being a bin man, but it was none of her business. "You wouldn't take the full wage for cleaning half the hospital, would you?" she asked.

Something like a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I guess not."

"OK, so let's say twenty an hour, and we have a deal."

A moment's hesitation, and he extended a hand. They shook on it. His hand was warm, his grip strong and steady, and Gwen wondered why such a man could be so alone, and so lonely.

She made to give him back the twenty quid, but he pushed her hand away. "Keep it. I may ask you to stay longer."

"All right," she said, tucking the bills into her bra. "No funny business, mind."

"No."

She lay back down and put one arm around him again, leaving the other free so he couldn't easily pin her under him. "Is this OK?" she asked.

"It's fine," he said. "You don't have to do anything. Just—be natural."

Natural. Gwen wasn't even sure if she remembered how to be natural in bed anymore. She knew how to be enthusiastic, how to be dominant or submissive, how to be seductive, even how to be afraid. But natural? She no longer knew what that meant.  

The minutes ticked by.

While they lay there, Gwen let her eyes wander around, trying to find some clues that might point to danger. She saw a sparsely furnished flat, similar to her own. There were only the sofa bed, a coffee table, and a TV taking up the front room, a kitchenette to the side, and two closed doors, one leading to the bathroom, the other she had no idea. She saw more evidence of a kid—childish drawings on the fridge door, a small toothbrush, a bowl of half-eaten cereal on the coffee table. If he had a kid, she certainly hoped the kid wasn't locked in that spare room.

Her wandering eyes returned to Michael. He had taken his jumper off and was now in a vest. There was a tattoo on his bicep. "Who's Billy?" she asked.

"Mate of mine, from school," he said in a small voice. "He OD'ed."

"Shit," she said. And then, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." His hand found hers, clasped it to his chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling away.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Your hand's cold. I was just trying to warm it up."

"I would've worn a coat, but unfortunately it doesn't go with this outfit," she joked. Her only warm coat would've covered up what she was trying to sell. She left her hand in his, feeling the heavy thump of his heart under her palm. He nestled into her with a sigh, but she remained stiff, keeping some distance between her chest and his back, so she could bolt at the first sign of danger.

But it never came. Instead, his breath evened out, and soon he was asleep.

Gwen must have dozed off as well, for she remembered jolting awake. Michael was still sleeping, holding her hand to his chest as if afraid she would fly off if he let go.

This could be her chance. After making sure Michael was sound asleep, Gwen carefully slid her hand out of his grasp, got out of bed, and tiptoed down the hall. She opened two closed doors. One was a bathroom, just as she suspected. The other was a bedroom, a kid's bedroom, painted in bright, buttery yellow, with a frilly little bed and cheerful toys and books piled on the shelves, a complete contrast to the sad, gray flat outside.

Gwen's feet took her into the room almost of their own volition. She gazed about, a strange melancholy washing over her. No, there wasn't anything strange about this sadness. She knew exactly where it was coming from; she just didn't want to think about it.

There was a framed photo on the bedside table, and she picked it up—it was of Michael, smiling a big, happy smile, carrying on his shoulder a little girl of about two or three years old, who had his same brown curls and his chocolate button eyes.

"What are you doing?" said his voice behind her.

She jumped and dropped the picture, which landed safely on the bed.

"Sorry," she said, fumbling to pick up the frame. "I was looking for the—uh, bathroom. I didn't mean to snoop."

"It's OK." He didn't look angry, only a little awkward, like she had stumbled on an embarrassing secret. It emboldened her.

"This your kid's room?" she asked.

"Yeah." He took the picture frame from her and set it back on the table. "She lives with her mum. I only have her on weekends and when her mum has to work nights, but I try to keep the room nice and clean for her," he explained.

Gwen let out a small breath and reminded herself to stop watching so much The Bill. From the way he had been so secretive about it, she was expecting something tragic. She was glad it wasn't.

"That her?" She nodded at the picture.

A ghost of a proud smile hovered over Michael's lips. "Her name's Amelia."

"Pretty name. Suits her."

"Don't let that face fool you, she's a little terror."

"How old is she?"

"Turning four soon."

"Oh, that's a great age," Gwen said without thinking. "That's when you can start to have a real conversation with them, and it's so fun."

"It is." Michael looked at her sharply. "Have you got a kid?"

For a moment, Gwen considered telling him the truth. It felt so nice, so normal, to talk in that cheery little room, as if sunshine had been stored in its bright yellow paint and the warmth of it was seeping into her, chasing away the cold of those long, lonely nights out on the street. She wanted to hold on to that feeling a little longer.

But she was here to work, not to have a heart-to-heart like she was on some bloody chat show.

"No," she lied.

"Because you sound like you know kids," he said.

Anger pricked at Gwen's insides. Who did this punter think he was?

"It's none of your business," she snapped. Michael continued to stare at her, and the intensity of his eyes forced her to look away. The flat was closing in on her, suffocating her, like her old prison cell. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out of here, get away from this strange man whose eyes seemed to penetrate her very soul.

She grabbed her bag. "I have to go."

Michael glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised. "But I paid you for two hours."

"Here." She tossed the money on the bed, picked up her shoes, and all but ran. He caught her at the door.

"What did I do?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just have to go."

"Don't do this," he said, clutching at her arm like a child afraid of being separated from its mother. "Don't leave. Please." The pleading note in his voice now sounded more like a command. That voice, the hard grip of his hand, and the dark glint in his eyes awoke something savage within Gwen, a cold fury she hadn't felt in years.

"Let me go," she said quietly, "or I'll kill you."

He dropped her arm in an instant. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes glistening with what looked like tears. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—I just don't know how to—"

As suddenly as it appeared, Gwen's anger vanished. She couldn't afford to lose her temper like that.

"It's fine," she said. "Just let me—"

Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. "Michael?" said a voice on the other side. "You in?" A woman's voice.

Michael turned to Gwen, his eyes enormous on his pale face. "Hide," he mouthed to her.

A part of Gwen wanted to be defiant and face whoever was at the door—a wife? A girlfriend?—so she could watch Michael squirm, but another part of her took pity on his panic. Rolling her eyes, she made her way into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

"Leah," she heard Michael say, as he opened the front door. "What's wrong? Is Amelia all right?"

Peeking through a crack of the bedroom door, Gwen saw a woman standing in the doorway. She had auburn hair pulled into a tight bun and a scowling, disapproving expression that seemed terminal. A little girl was asleep in her arms.

These must be his ex and their daughter then. Gwen retreated into the shadow of the room, feeling strangely embarrassed, like she had intruded on an intimate scene. In some way, she had.

"She's fine," Leah said, and Michael let out a breath of relief. "It's my mum," Leah continued, looking harried. "She's had a fall. I have to go to Cardiff to see her. Don't know when I'll be back, so I can't take Amelia with me—" She looked around the flat, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the bills scattered on the sofa bed. Michael looked away, his cheeks flushed. "Is this a bad time?" Leah asked.

"No, not at all," Michael said quickly. "I'll take her. Call me when you get to Cardiff and let me know how your mum is."

With a curt nod, Leah handed their daughter over. She brushed a curl away from the sleeping child's forehead and went downstairs, but not before throwing another suspicious look over her shoulder.

Gwen waited for another moment or two until the coast was clear, and emerged from the bedroom. Michael, with his arms full of a sleeping toddler, gave her an apologetic look.

"Well, I'll be off then," Gwen said, trying not to show how the sight of the little girl was affecting her.

Michael hesitated. "Listen," he said. He tried to take her hand, but his arms were too full to reach. "You don't have to run off like that. I'm sorry about earlier. Stay for a bit. It's cold out."

"I'll be fine," Gwen said lightly. "And you're busy. I should go." At the door, she paused. "Good luck, Michael."

At that moment, Amelia lifted her head from her father's shoulder. "Daddy?" she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Michael said, and the tenderness in his voice made Gwen want to cry. She knew she should be going now, but some invisible force was rooting her to the spot, making her watch Michael with his daughter as if hypnotized. "Mum has to go to Grandma's," he was saying, "so you're staying with me for a bit. Is that all right?"

The little girl rubbed her eyes with a chubby fist. "Where's Snappy?" she said.

Michael looked around. He patted the pockets of Amelia's coat and came up empty. "You don't have him with you?" The girl shook her head. "You must have forgotten him at home then."

"I want him."

"We'll get him when Mum comes back—"

"I want him now!" Amelia demanded. She no longer sounded sleepy.

Michael gave Gwen an exasperated look over his daughter's head. Despite the twist of pain in her heart, Gwen couldn't help but grin back in rueful sympathy.

"What's Snappy?" she whispered to Michael.

"Her crocodile." Turning to Amelia, he said, "Don't worry, Snappy will be fine—"

But Amelia was not having it. "No!" she shouted. "I want Snappy! I'm not going without Snappy! Give me Snappy!"

"Let's just go to bed first, and then I'll find Snappy for you, yeah?"

"No! I don't want to stay here without Snappy!" The little girl started kicking and wriggling to get out of Michael's arms, and there was a shrill note in her voice that Gwen knew well would be followed by a tantrum. Wincing, Michael set Amelia down on the floor. The little girl pushed at her father, shouting, "I want Snappy!"

"Hey, hey, stop," Michael gently admonished her. "I don't have a key to Mum's place, so we can't get in. You have a lot of toys here—"

"I don't wanna stay here! I wanna go home! I want Mum!"

At that, something seemed to break within Michael. Without saying a word, he dropped Amelia on the sofa bed and went over to the kitchenette, where he plopped down at the table with his head in his hands. All the while, Amelia kept crying for Snappy.

Gwen looked between the despondent father and the wailing toddler. None of this had to do with her. She did not need to get involved. She should leave now.

She didn't leave.

She sat down in front of Amelia, who continued to sniff and snuffle. The violence of her tantrum seemed to have passed into a sulk.

"Hi," Gwen said. "You're Amelia, right?"

The little girl wiped a sleeve across her runny nose. "Who're you?" she asked.

Gwen glanced at Michael. He was still sitting with his head in his hands. Odd, that. Why was he acting like a tantrum was the end of the world? "My name's Gwen," she said. Michael raised her head at this, but made no comment. "I'm—I'm a friend of your dad's. Amelia's a very pretty name. Have you ever heard of Princess Amelia?"

At the mention of a princess, the girl's large brown eyes, so like her father's, widened in interest. "Who's she?"

"She was the youngest daughter of King George III. She was very nice and kind. Her father loved her very much, and so did her mother and her brothers and sisters." Gwen paused. Perhaps she shouldn't mention that it was Princess Amelia's death that drove her poor father to madness. "And there's also Amelia Earhart," she said. "She was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic." Again, Gwen paused when she remembered that Ms. Earhart disappeared while trying to fly around the globe. She looked at Michael to see if he'd noticed her bungled attempt to cheer his daughter up. He was still at the table, watching her with an inscrutable expression, just as he had when they first met in the alley. She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Amelia. "Now, can you be kind like Princess Amelia and brave like Amelia Earhart?"

Hesitantly, the little girl nodded. Gwen smiled. "Good. Tell me about Snappy then."

Amelia's little mouth screwed up, and she blinked rapidly, threatening tears again. "He's—m-my croc-crocodile," she hiccupped. "He's gold and has black teeth and he's very scary and he protects me."

"Ah, so that's why he has to stay home then," said Gwen, as if she'd just made a great discovery. "He has to keep it safe for when you and your mum come back."

"Really?"

"Yes. He knows you'll be perfectly safe here with your dad. And"—here Gwen pulled out the teddy from her bag and handed it to Amelia—"in case you're feeling lonely, here's Teddy. He may not be as scary as Snappy, but he can keep you company until you see Snappy again, all right?"

Amelia took the teddy, turned it this way and that, and held it experimentally. Finally, satisfied that the teddy was safe, she hugged it to her chest and smiled at Gwen through her tears.

"Now there's a great big smile," Gwen said, smiling back and giving the girl's nose a little bop.

"My dad always says my smile's as big as Christmas," said Amelia.

"And he's right."

As if on cue, Michael appeared next to them. He nodded at Gwen gratefully and took Amelia into her room.

Gwen was still sitting on the sofa bed when he came out a few minutes later and sat down next to her. "You're really good with her," he said.

"So are you."

"No, I'm not. You heard what she said. She didn't even want to stay with me."

"Michael, she's four," Gwen said. "She's knackered. A four-year-old would say they hate you one minute, then turn around and kiss you the next. That's what they do."

"How do you know?"

Gwen rubbed a hand across her eyes. Amelia wasn't the only one who was tired. Gwen felt like she could lie down and sleep for a thousand years. "I lied earlier," she said. "I do have a kid. Her name's Emma. She's six—no, seven now."

Michael tilted his head, looking at her more closely. "Where is she?"

"She lives with a foster family in Croydon. I haven't seen her in three years." The foster mum sent photos, and Gwen tried to call when she could, but it wasn't the same. "Sometimes I'm afraid she's forgotten me."

"Why can't you see her?"

Gwen didn't answer. It was a wound she wasn't ready to open yet.

Michael went back to the kitchen and fiddled about with the kettle. He came back a moment later with two steaming cups, and handed Gwen one. It reminded her of the tea she used to make for herself as a kid, too sweet and milky for her liking now, but she said nothing. They sat sipping their tea in companionable silence.

"Do you believe some people just can't be loved?" Michael asked.

"What?"

"Some people always seem to end up alone. It's like they can't be loved."

Gwen took a moment to answer. The punters all liked to talk. They would complain to her about their jobs, their wives, their girlfriends, their mothers. She could hear Medusa now, telling her, "We're like trick cyclists, darling"—Medusa was not Cockney, but she'd heard that slang for "psychiatrist" on The Bill or EastEnders and liked to slip it into her talk because she thought it made her sound cool—"except we're cheaper and they get some sex on top of that." So when a customer talked, Gwen would just nod absently and say "Is that so?" while thinking of something else.

Now, having been brought closer by the talk of their kids, she asked Michael, "Why do you think that?"

"Everybody in my life is gone," he said, his voice bleak. "My parents—well, they weren't fit to be parents, really. I lost count of how many foster homes I lived in. None of them wanted me. My brother took me in, but then he moved to Australia with his wife and kids. Maybe it's my fault." His head drooped. "I met someone once. I loved her. Or I thought I did. But I fucked it up. I didn't see what she was going through, and I made it worse."

"Was it Amelia's mum?"

"No." He sighed. "But I fucked it up with her as well. She's too good for me. They're all too good for me."

"Is that why you hired me?" Gwen asked before she could stop herself. Michael turned to her, and the look in his eyes went through her heart like a pin. It was the same look he'd given her when they first met, so lost and vulnerable, the look of a lifetime of hurt and loneliness. Now she understood why she had been so taken by it. It was a look she knew well, for she had seen it plenty of times when she looked into the mirror.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean—"

She shrugged. "It's alright. I'm used to that."

He put a tentative hand over hers and closed his fingers around it. "Thank you, Gwen," he said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for helping me with Amelia."

"Hey, my pleasure." She grinned. "She's a good kid."

"I was frightened to death when she was born, you know," Michael said. "I didn't know what to do. I still don't. What if I fuck it up like I fuck up everything else in my life?"

Gwen squeezed his hand. Finally she understood his despair earlier, just as she had understood his loneliness; understood it because she saw it in herself.

"Want to know why I went to prison?" she asked. "Why I haven't seen my daughter?"

He looked at her, not with morbid curiosity as most people did when they learned she'd been to prison, but with interest and sympathy. She pulled off her blonde wig, and, turning her head, spread her mousy brown hair over her ear to show him the ragged scar just above it, which the hair couldn't quite cover.

"Her father, my piece-of-shit boyfriend—he gave me that," she said. "And worse. Then one time, he pushed me too hard. I pushed back. He hit his head on the kitchen counter." Her voice trembled. It was the first time she spoke of this in three years. She steadied herself, and continued, "I could've called an ambulance, but I didn't. I just stood there and watched him die. Got me three years for that. Involuntary manslaughter." She lifted her eyes to Michael's face. "Think you can fuck up your kid's life worse than I did?" she asked. She tried to laugh and began to cry.

Michael reached out and drew her to him until she was in his arms with her head on his shoulder, just like how he'd held Amelia. He said nothing, but in his embrace, she could feel her fears quiet down, if not fade away entirely. She thought of Emma, and herself, of Amelia, and Michael, of the frightened child inside all of them, waiting only for someone to reach out and hold them and tell them that it's going to be all right.

She buried her nose in Michael's neck, taking in his scent of soap and sweat and smoke, and let out a breath she had been holding for three years, or perhaps even longer. "This is nice," she said. "I can see why you'd pay for this."

Michael's shoulders and chest rumbled pleasantly with laughter, and Gwen smiled as well.

"Can I see you again?" he asked.

Her smile faltered. Somehow, his question made her sad. It brought her crashing back to reality, a reality in which she would have to go back out on the street soon, back to the cold and the loneliness and the emptiness.

But professional habit won out in the end, and she didn't even sigh as she gave him the answer she'd always used with all her customers, "You know where to find me."

"No, not as Queenie," he said. "I want to see you again as Gwen. And without the wig. Can I?"

She lifted her head to look at him. He didn't let go, only slid his hand up her shoulder and her neck to cradle her cheek. As the warmth of his gaze and the tenderness of his caress enveloped her, Gwen made a decision.

Tomorrow, she would go and buy Emma a Christmas present. And bring it to her in person.

Tomorrow, she would ring that number on the card of the non-profit group.

But today, tonight, she would stop running away.

"Yes," she told Michael. "Yes, you can."

THE END

Yes, "Snappy" is the crocodile that Maria gave to Leah.

And of course, it wouldn't be my fic without a Snow Patrol song to accompany it (the title comes from the first line of lyric):

[florawrites-blog]

The peculiar children - Sim Jake

sci-fi / romance / fantasy - Week one halloween sparkle

written from reader perspective (wrote this in class)

In the heart of a peculiar realm, deep within a house cloaked in mystery and time, we thrived—misfits bound together by our extraordinary abilities and the secrets that bound us. Miss Peregrine, our guardian, had taken us in—each of us a puzzle piece, often misunderstood by the world outside. Our home was both sanctuary and prison, woven into a time loop that kept the hollows, those malevolent soul-suckers, at bay.

Stormy could command the skies, summoning thunder with a flick of her wrist. Juno, with her incredible strength, could lift the weight of the world, while Sooha conversed with the unseen, weaving through imaginations like a painter with an endless canvas. Chloe’s whispers could rouse the dead, a skill she wielded with both reverence and fear. I was gifted with manipulation and hypnosis, a talent that danced on the edge of ethics. Won, the oldest, concealed his gaze behind shadowy layers, his Medusa-like powers a constant reminder of the dangers we faced. Jay could conjure life from mere thoughts, his creations both wondrous and unpredictable. And then there was Jake, the interloper from an unknown village—lost, curious, and inexplicably drawn into our world.

The day I found Jake lying unconscious on the beach, the ocean’s waves lapping at his sides, I had no idea the storm he would bring into our already tumultuous lives. As I dragged him to the safety of our peculiar abode, I felt a strange pull, an unexplainable connection that sparked something deep within me. For days, he became part of our peculiar family, his laughter mingling with the echoes of our everyday lives. But beneath the surface, an uneasy tension thrummed through the air; my siblings sensed it too.

Miss Peregrine worked tirelessly to maintain order, but there was an unspoken understanding among us that Jake was more than he seemed. He possessed a power, a potential that felt like a lightning storm just waiting to be unleashed. I spent countless hours with him, exploring the intricacies of our peculiar existence. But was it my manipulation that drew him close, or was it his own heart calling out? I couldn’t tell, and the uncertainty gnawed at me like a hungry hollow.

Then, just as suddenly as he appeared, Jake vanished. The days turned into weeks, each passing moment heavy with betrayal and confusion. The hollows began to stir, their dark presence creeping closer, hungry for our peculiar gifts. Miss Peregrine was gone, lost to the shadows that threatened to engulf us. Panic gripped my siblings, each of us feeling the weight of our isolation as the world outside slipped further from our grasp.

It was on one fateful night, as the hollows descended upon us, that Jake returned. He emerged from the darkness, fierce and resolute, his very essence radiating strength and determination. The fight was intense; I could feel the air crackle with danger as we battled side by side. In those moments, I saw the truth in his eyes—he was our protector, a beacon of hope amid the chaos.

When the dust settled and the hollows retreated, a new chapter unfurled before us. With Miss Peregrine gone, Jake stepped into the role of guardian, his presence a soothing balm for our fractured hearts. Together, we forged a path forward, discovering new strengths within ourselves and each other. Our journey became one of love and survival, each adventure a testament to the bonds we shared.

As we navigated this peculiar existence, the house that once felt like a cage transformed into a haven filled with laughter and love. Jake, with his charm and courage, became the anchor in our stormy seas. Though shadows still lingered at the edges, we learned to embrace our peculiarities, united against the darkness that threatened to consume us. In the end, it was not just survival we sought, but a life woven together by the threads of our extraordinary powers, bound by the choices we made and the love we found in the unlikeliest of places.

[amomentwiser]

Valentine

Will was sitting alone at the bar, nursing his second glass of whiskey and dispassionately watching the baseball game, when someone changed the channel to the news. He was yanked out of his temporarily peaceful existence when the day’s breaking news flashed across the screen: the Chesapeake Ripper had struck again.

Will quickly pulled out his phone and rushed to TattleCrime.com for HD pictures of Hannibal’s latest tableau. He’d give Freddie this: she always managed to be the first to publish multiple angles of the crime scene and classified details that took reputable news outlets a while to procure. This was probably why she wasn’t dead yet: Hannibal’s god complex probably rejoiced in reading someone write about every single detail he put into his art.

What he saw took his breath away. Will closed his eyes and imagined walking through the scene himself.

■ ■ ■

A male corpse stands upright at the centre of the stage, dressed in an expensive, well-tailored suit. His shoes are polished to a shine, his hair carefully styled. He is ID’d as one of Baltimore’s society elites. (An expert performer of civility. The embodiment of a person suit.)

He is posed with both hands cradling a severed head, held upside-down. The head has piercing blue eyes, chestnut-brown curls, and light stubble. He might appear to be the victim, but he is actually the antagonist of this artwork — an equal to the man who literally holds his fate in his hands. Dead snakes — taxidermied and twisted into shapes using wire — are braided through his hair. He is assigned the role of Medusa. (A place of honour. Being a part of this masterpiece — representing Will — finally gives some meaning to his otherwise unremarkable life.)

The standing figure holds the inverted head almost tenderly, his arms raised so their eyes are at a level. A white bridal veil covers his head, ethereal as it flutters gently in the breeze. The delicate lace has been ripped across the middle, creating a clear window so the man and the severed head can gaze into each other' eyes without obstruction. (Will has finally seen what lies beyond the veil. Beyond Hannibal’s person suit.)

The suited man’s chest is an open cavity — his torso has been surgically opened, all flesh and muscle stripped clean to expose just his ribcage. (Will sees right through him. Hannibal feels stripped bare, and the feeling of exposure is in turns welcome and disquieting.)

Nestled within his ribs, encased in a sealed transparent box, lies a human heart.

With both horror and reluctant fascination, Will realizes that the heart is still pumping, even though the man is undeniably dead. The corpse is propped up against a TransMedic machine — a portable organ preservation unit usually used to transport hearts for transplants. Tubes erupt from the valves of the heart, connecting it to the machine and making it beat rhythmically. (Instead of turning someone into stone, Will is an inverted Medusa who has the opposite effect — he’s turned Hannibal’s stone heart soft.)

The tableau is a marvel of medical advancement and a testament to the Chesapeake Ripper’s surgical expertise. The sight of the organ gamely beating outside the body is profoundly unsettling. It’s Hannibal playing God yet again, demonstrating his disturbing intimacy with human anatomy.

I seek to elicit in the observer a wholly unfamiliar emotion. They will recognise the machine as essential to the heart’s life-force, yet be consumed by a visceral sense of absolute wrongness.

I shall show to my beloved what his love has done to me. Vulnerability is grotesque and unsustainable, yet it has somehow transfigured into something vital to our shared existence. There is no escaping this connection — it is, at once, a reminder of mortality and a defiance of it.

This is my design.

》 Full fic on AO3

[acornminiatureslog]

Finished painting this lady, and then also got some other work done! Did up the red on the rest of the hounds of terra batch, and got started on a little project I've been really pumped about

Started slapping some paint on the mini I made for the character I got to play in exactly one (1) game of deathwatch RPG. Was supposed to be a longer campaign, but scheduling conflicts killed it. Someday I will get to play her again, if only because I got Tortuga bay bits for her model goddamn it

[talonabraxas]

Medusa Myth

Medusa started out as a temple Virgin. She was beautiful, charming and admired for her glorious, long, glossy hair. Poseidon, overcome by lust, ravished her in the temple. Pallas Athena was not amused so she cursed Medusa for defiling her sacred grounds. Out of jealousy or maybe just to prove she was one of the boys, Pallas turned Medusa into the hideous serpent headed gorgon with the petrifying stare she is famous for. Brave Perseus succeeded in decapitating her and returned her head to Pallas Athena for use as a powerful shield in battle, the Aegis.

Medusa became even more powerful after her death ( Princess Diana had Venus on Algol), and together with her rival Pallas Athena she became invincible. Maybe there is a message here, when former adversaries are united they become stronger. Algol is very much a star of transformation. The blinking binary star goes from light to dark in cycles, like Persephone. So she is another resurrection Goddess and like Persephone, she was also raped by a God… The serpents in Medusa’s hair connect her to the Ophiuchus constellation (the snake charmer) also known as the medicine man.

I wrote that “Medicine comes from the same root as Medusa, the name of the sorceress Medea also comes from this root. The blood from Medusa’s left side was poisonous and the right side was used to heal.”

So the paradox again, if you dabble in shamanism it can kill you or enlighten you. Medusa’s blood also gave birth to Pegasus, where lies another story about hubris. Both the Lilith star and the Lilith constellation of Ophiuchus have the darkest reputation within the fixed stars. And both feature…serpents. What is it about serpents?

With Ophuichus the serpent is about linking sexuality to enlightenment, and that seems to worry Christianity. With Algol it is more about taking that wisdom and becoming your own god. Now science is the worry. Nowhere is this Medusa hubris more evident than in the medical profession, where we have doctors playing god with genetics.

[amourcherie606]

Last Deck! Shiho Suzui - The Chariot, Codename: Rudis

Even though Ann has left Shujin, Kamoshida as a problem hasn't disappeared. Ann's best friend is still stuck with the shit head, and a visit back to Shujin to check on Shiho unknowingly ends up with the two in the metaverse. Ann has prevented Shiho's suicide effectively however she has transferred to Kosei to avoid the negative student body of Shujin and Shujin in general. Kosei is a somewhat new fresh start for Shiho, while it doesn't have the same sport focus as Shujin, she does participate in extracurricular sports and exercise in general.

Volleyball is a passion that has been tainted by Kamoshida for Shiho, despite her efforts to move onward, she hasn't completely overcome it yet. Shiho's confidant focuses on reconnecting Shiho to her passions in her new environment while also just, hanging out as friends. The two haven't had a hangout in so long without a somewhat tense until recently, they talk a LOT, having heart-to-heart and growing closer.

Within the metaverse, Rudis is Lightning user who utilizes physical attacks. Very useful for guarding!! Shes a good defense unit that can give herself and others defense. Shes a tank! Her persona will probably be Athena or Medusa but I want to look more at potential greek figures for her

[ghstbrd]

Friday April 11th, 2025

Connections abound! I’ve been reading Macbeth with my English IV sections, which paired beautifully with The Picture of Dorian Gray (RIP Sibyl Vane—you would have loved this tragic little tangle of fate and performance). Now that I’ve moved on from Dorian Gray to Dracula, and into a unit on Greek mythology with my English I classes, I can’t stop connecting dots like constellations.

I went on a full rant about the etymology of the word weird—from wyrd, meaning fate, like the three weird sisters in Macbeth, who show up again as the Fates in Hercules (yes, the Disney one), and even as the three brides of Dracula.

Honestly, this is my favorite part of life as an academic: when the strings pull tight and everything ties together in unexpected, beautiful ways.

I get super geeky with moments like this and go all in on curating ambience for my classes. This week, I’ve built a video playlist that’s giving Castle Scribe—ink-smeared scrolls, echoing stone halls, and the hush of old kingdoms—and paired it with a newly created playlist for English IV that feels like Tudor court intrigue: scheming in dark halls, candlelight flickering over velvet and ambition, heavy crowns and heavier secrets.

Meanwhile, English I has been gifted the gentle strains of ancient lyre, set against the soft sounds and visuals of the Library of Alexandria.

I’m absolutely swimming in ambience right now, and honestly? I couldn’t be more in my element.

P.S. Greek mythology is… a deeply awkward subject to geek out on with teenagers. Between the incest, bestiality, rape, and cannibalism, there’s barely a moment that passes without a chorus of scandalized squeals. I feel like that one “Gen Z teacher explains [insert chaotic topic]” on TikTok, because I’m constantly like: “OKAY, so, here’s the tea on how Medusa ended up cursed by Athena…”

All these tangled strings, all these wild constellations—and here I am, happily lost in the web.

[phoeniciandoodles]

Fragmentation of the Laer Chapter 4

Fulgrim sighed a bit in relief as a soft smile rose from his face a little.” Thank you Ferrus, til arrival I’ll wait at my current position, I wish you safe travels to your way here.” Ferrus seemed slightly relax for a moment act knowledge the Phoenician’s words.” Just be there when I arrive I want to know everything.” “ You’ve my word Ferrus I promise.” He swore for a moment he saw a look in the gorgon’s eyes hope before Ferrus ended the connection as Fulgrim was left alone to his thoughts…how dreadful.

He felt a bit of relief and hope Ferrus might not have given up hope in him, perhaps he wasn’t hopeless, as he got up stretching a little he had a few hours might as well make something nice to eat and it might help clear his head a bit more, knowing Ferrus even if he was possibly treat him well as a prisoner he had tried the cooking of the cooking serfs and servitors.

To say he has had better would be a understatement the food might be more nutritious in value but didn’t hold a candle to what many of his sons and cooking serfs could do, a meal can be nutritious but it also can be enjoyable anything can be a form of art from the right lense. A meal can a feast for not just the taste but to the eyes and smell as well, from texture to taste every aspect of cooking to Fulgrim was a perfection that could be enjoyed. It made Fulgrim wonder what the Gorgon ate on Medusa, knowing Ferrus well enough Ferrus would eat sand, dirt or rocks.

Fulgrim entered the small kitchen he was used to bigger but he’ll make do he always had before, opening cupboards finding a lot of things he use to make a lot things a shame nothing really fresh but he had options he would make himself something and Ferrus if he could do anything is at least make sure Ferrus enjoys his food and not eat for the sake because he has to.

Pulling from the top of the refrigeration unit Fulgrim pulled out a cookbook, one he filled with recipes from worlds he brought into the imperium sitting down and going through it quickly as might as well find something that could suit Ferrus and his tastes with what the Phoenician had around in the kitchen. Finding something of interest and stopping on the page placing it down on the counter he could make this work just fine.

Fulgrim pulled from the cupboard pulling a broth canned vegetables, some spices and any type of noodles he could find, going over to the refrigeration unit pulling from the freezer some frozen chicken as he took it out carefully and put in the reheated to detha as he turned a stovetop on put the noodles in a pan with water to boil while putting the broth in a pot mixing in the carrots, potatoes and corn into the bot to shimmer and warm up and have the taste mix with the broth.

Fulgrim knew he had hours to wait might as well take his time with the meal. It after for a time the Phoenician lost himself in the work when the noodles were done boiling he mixed then in with the pot daring the pan of water, cooking the chicken took the longest chopping it into small pieces and mixing them into the pot waiting for it to simmer eventually turning the stovetop to minimum to keep the soup hot eventually taking it a ladle and putting some in a bowl.

He took the first bite the flavours crashed over his tongue as he sat down and stared into the emptiness of space just lost in thoughts his regretful actions slowly weighing his consciousness once more. To lose himself in a passion would probably the only break he would have for a time. He enjoyed it for what little time it was, as not long later Fulgrim see the fist of iron and its supporting vessels he put his bowl down.

Going to the pot of soup as he turned off the stove top pour the last of the soup into another bowl as he wrapped up the top and grabbed a spoon for sitting back down. He knew this would be a lot the best he do is try to prepare himself reviving a incoming call.

( thought it would be nice to give Fulgrim at least one break before things get more spicy