#Vern the stern

[mangorumpuscandyfactory]

Junelezen 28-Family

Family wasn't defined by who birthed him. Family was not cold-eyes and absent warmth, by blithe profiteers off of of a young child's indignity and shame. Family wasn't the ones who had shown him that the only thing in life worth relying on was oneself.

They had found him a dead man on the other side of the world, and placed themself between him and a sure end. They were the ones who had welcomed him even has he healed from wounds that would never truly mend. Family was here, now. And never had it felt realer than this.

(Credit to @venusbeautyshock again for the wonderful work getting all our characters together!)

[moxfirefly]

you've unleashed something with this and you already know I want my leader in blue going feral for reader

[ REMIND ] for our muses to have passionate sex meant to remind one party who they belong to.

❝ i want everyone here to see that you’re mine. ❞

❝ are they making you uncomfortable? i can do something about it. ❞

❝ you wanna lose a limb? beat it, fucker. ❞

Tried to stay in the limit, can't wait to see you work your magic!!

Friend you never disappoint 👌

Let’s do this,

Rated Explicit (18+ only)

“Once I start, I cannot stop myself”

His peripheral alerted him immediately.

Because Leonardo always had some part of him keyed into your moods and their various shifts.

Right now he could tell you were bothered, annoyed.

Naturally once he saw the reason for said annoyance he could empathize.

Vern Fenwick wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

Yours and Leo’s thing had started a few months back and the two of you had opted to keep a low profile. So of course Vern didn’t know which meant he thought he had the go ahead to pathetically flirt with you.

And that little nugget of information had nested within Leo’s stomach in the worst of ways. The basket ball game felt like a thing of the past now, Casey and Raph’s bantering far away. Mikey and April’s hushed laughter white noise, Splinters even breaths as he meditated a simple hum.

He doesn’t quite remember getting up from the couch, his large frame standing at full height had been your alert. Your eyes going back and forth between his approaching steps and Vern’s close proximity.

Something screamed in the back of your mind the second that Leo was behind Vern. All you could envision was the large terrapin suplexing the Falcon into the eighth level of hell.

“So how about it? You and me, a flight to the vineyard and a bottle of rosé?” Vern’s smile faltered the second he felt a large none human hand fall on his shoulder. There was a little jump but soon a sigh of relief. He must’ve thought Leo was Raph, who wasn’t too fond of him either.

“Hey Leo-oomph!”

Vern was not so gently shoved behind him. Leo’s she’ll serving a shield for privacy.

In a hushed whisper he simply asked, “is he making you uncomfortable?” And Christ, Leo had never looked this serious before. Not just serious but downright mad.

“Hey Blue, I was in the middle of something here with Y/n, you mind?” Vern’s eyeroll could be heard more than seen.

You huffed at his words, to which Leo added.

“I can do something about it”

Stern. Truthful. A vein on his forearm more evident as he fisted his hands.

You didn’t want conflict, any moment now everyone would look over and nothing about this screamed ‘friendly banter.’

But Vern naturally had to fuck things up further.

You didn’t hear it, Leo’s large frame was in the way but the way his eyes widened and the way he turned to face Vern was very telling.

“Run that by me again” Leo’s voice was in what everyone joked as ‘leader mode.’

Vern audibly gulped and whispered closer to Leo.

“I said I’m trying to get something going here with Y/n, be a pal and let me close the deal here will ya?” there was a little scoff and laugh as if trying to keep his cool but that quickly went to shit when Leo leaned down closer to Vern’s face.

“You wanna lose a limb?” Was the simple question Leo posed.

“E-excuse me?” Vern visibly shrunk.

“You have two working ears, you heard me” whatever looked Leo was casting at Vern had the man turning pale as a sheet of paper. You felt a small exhilarating rush.

“Well of course not, no-“

“Beat it, fucker”

Oh.

Oh shit.

It dawned on Vern, the warning bells rang and before he could come to the conclusion to what really was going on here, he had scurried off to the living room like a robot.

“Holy shit Leo-“ Before you could finish your sentence his lips had found yours. A three finger grip on the back of your neck kept you in place as he kissed with every intention of everyone finally knowing.

When he released you, the gang (sans Splinter who was deep in meditation) was staring and blinking. Your nervous smile faltered when Leo grabbed your hand and pulled you in direction of his room.

You didn’t miss Mikey’s “good for them” as the door closed.

“Jesus is it spring or are you really this upset?” You smiled and laughed nervously some more once Leo backed you up against the wall.

“No, but if I ever see anybody talk to you like that, I’m going to break their legs” His fingers found the button of your jeans, he undid it and knelt to roll the fabric down vast your knees. Your face heated, pink and red and hot at the sight of his hands giving your underwear the same treatment.

“Leo everyone’s here, they’ll-“

“I want everyone here to see that you’re mine”

The words knocked the air out of you.

Before you could fathom an excuse he used stuck a digit into his mouth and wet the appendage. He found your clit and drew circles. Knees buckling and lips twitching you forgot what sentence you were creating. “I’m going to cover you head to toe in marks…” He stood back up, finger never seizing its movements.

“When you leave this room, you’re leaving smelling of me, on you, in you…” A finger slipped inside of you, thumbs continuing to circle your clit. The action made your hands shoot out to grab at his plastron. “Oh f-fuuuck” You muttered out, a hand slipped to grab his wrist.

Leo’s other hand cupped you’re face, a loving stroke across your lips made another gush of heat pool at his knuckle.

He smiled.

“Please-oh-Leo!” You squeaked as he turned you around and pressed you against the wall.

“Everyday, if I have to remind everyone everyday from now on, I will” His teeth found your shoulder and sunk, hard enough to see the indentations of his teeth on the flesh. “Is that a pro-promise?” You smiled against the concrete wall, stuck out your rear and relished the growl like churr that escaped him.

The rustle of clothes made you bite your lip.

You felt him, inch by excruciating inch.

Felt the desperate need to claim you overtake him as he wrapped an arm around your waist and fucked you.

His mouth found your neck and sucked a bruise onto it, hips rhythmically slapping against your rear. The finger that had been rubbing teasing circles was now in your mouth. Your eyes fluttered, palms against the cold concrete, his heated body a delightful contrast.

He muttered praises at your ear, the ones that with each syllable made you stand on your tippy toes as that familiar pressure overtook. He boxed you against that wall, his massive body pressing up against you wantonly, deliberately, with every intention of your orgasm bouncing off of the concrete against his very soul.

It was a rush, everything weightless and then so very heavy when it hit you. You bit down on his finger and felt your bones turn to jelly as he held you through it. The shaking alone made Leo smirk as he continue to thrust, to push as much of his essence into you. Your drool dribbled down his finger, his own seed doing the very same down your inner thighs.

You felt your world spin as his teeth found another spot on your shoulder.

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 9 / 31 * A NEW ‘PUPPY’ 」

August 7, 1895

“Are you sure about this, dear?” The sun streaks across the Train’s sleek lines and Clara marvels at the massive steel beast, powerful and elegant, carving its presence out of the otherwise dreary California landscape. Much like her husband, it is a fusion of the times, the present—by her account—and the future, blended seamlessly to create something larger-than-life that would put even Captain Nemo’s prized Nautilus to shame.

“I’m positive it’ll work. Besides, somebody has to test it to make sure everything is properly calibrated and I’d rather not put you or the kids at risk.”

It isn’t that she doubts her husband on this—he’d already invented a Time Machine once—that fancy metal behemoth propped up in the Delgado Silver Mine where it would wait for another sixty years until Mr. East—Marty came to retrieve it, facilitating the events that, to them, have already occurred.

He had been working diligently on this ever since they’d agreed that they couldn’t remain in this time, lest they threaten the space-time continuum and potentially jeopardise Emmett’s own existence. Even when she could no longer keep up with his future knowledge of science that still bordered the realm of science-fiction by this time’s standards, she had nothing but confidence in his ability.

No, it is the inherent risk that any scientific experiment entails that has her worried for Emmett’s safety, for time is the one barrier she has no hope to breach should something go terribly wrong.

But she can’t allow herself to think like that.

“I’ll be back in about ten minutes’ time from your perspective.” Emmett wraps his arms around her waist, radiating such confidence and conviction that Clara almost feels foolish for worrying so much.

“And not a minute longer,” Clara teases, leaning in to send her husband off with a fond kiss.

The train whistle blares, slicing through the tender parting and causing both Doc and Clara to leap a foot in the air. Laughter, muffled, yet still filtering out from the open cab, takes the place of the silence and if Clara strains her ears, now ringing from the sudden unexpected noise, she can hear Jules and Verne shouting at each other from inside the Train, the latter complaining how he wants a turn.

“I’d better go before the boys decide that I have to wait for them to be finished before I’m allowed to interrupt.”

“Boys, come out of there,” Clara calls, projecting her stern teacher voice that leaves no room for discussion or debate. “You know the Time Machine isn’t a toy and your father has very important work to be doing.”

Jules and Verne both groan, but in mere moments, they trudge their way out of the Train, carefully descending the steps.

“Can we come too, Dad?” Jules asks, throwing that wide-eyed, pleading look at his father that usually has him folding.

“Yeah! Us too!”

“I’m sorry boys,” Emmett says earnestly, “not this time. But I promise that the next time we use the Train, it’ll be as a family.”

“He’ll only be gone for a few minutes,” Clara adds, to which both of the boys’ faces immediately fall, their expectations of some grand adventure dashed.

Emmett climbs into the cabin and retracts the steps and Clara ushers the boys back several feet, mindful of Emmett’s tales of the first Time Machine and its aggressive displacement method. The boys wave as the Train picks up speed and Clara finds herself holding her breath, her chest tightening with each crack of thunder resounding through the air in spite of the idyllic blue California afternoon. The shockwave rattles her bones and when the flash of light subsides, leaving nothing but a trail of fire and smoke where the Train was only a moment ago, Clara finally lets out the breath she was holding.

“Whoa!! Did you see that, Mom? Dad’s gone!”

Verne runs along the side of the tracks, chasing the ghost of the train with Jules in tow, and Clara stays rooted where she is, overcome with a number of complex thoughts and emotions. The reality of it thrills and excites—time-travel would open doors and wonders that she only ever dreamed about, only ever found through the escape of fantastic books—while paradoxically releasing hordes of butterflies in her stomach, each flutter of its wings an uncertainty, a yet unforeseen trouble, an obstacle to overcome.

The Twentieth Century awaits—she could practically grasp it in her hands now, alive with possibility and promise and peril—and they were going to greet it together, as a family.

Clara doesn’t know how long she stands there until she comes back to herself, pulling out her pocket watch to check the time. Two minutes until Emmett should be getting back. Jules and Verne have moved well enough away from the tracks now, likely chasing one of the small critters if their fixation with the ground is any indication.  

When the storm rolls in despite the conspicuous lack of overcast, Clara’s attention snaps back to the tracks at the same time the boys whip around, eagerly awaiting their father’s return. The Train returns with all the pomp and circumstance it deserves, steam rising from its engine, and once Clara confirms that it’s safe to approach, the boys take off, meeting Emmett at the cab.

“It worked, Dad, it worked—but it’s so loud!”

Emmett peeks his head out of the window, grinning triumphantly down at his family. “Right on time. The temporal displacement worked perfectly—in reality, I was gone for almost three hours.” Both Jules’ and Verne’s eyes go wide. “But according to my watch”—he digs around in his pocket, fishing out the watch—“it has only been ten minutes exactly. I thought I might have to recalibrate the Time Circuits, but it looks like—”

Something barks from inside the cabin and Clara and her husband exchange a look.

“What was that, Dad?”

“It barked! Did you get a dog?” Verne gasps. “Did you bring a dog from the future?”

“You remember me telling you stories of my faithful companion Einstein, don’t you?”

“Named after one of your heroes of the Twentieth Century,” Clara says, recalling the countless tales in which Einstein the dog made an appearance. She had known she would come face-to-face with her husband’s best friend—before Marty, that is—at some point, but she had hardly expected the large, shaggy creature sitting comfortably in the train as if this is old news, his tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Einstein looks around at the unfamiliar surroundings, then appraises each new unfamiliar face in turn.

“And the world’s first time-traveller,” he says proudly, reaching down to scratch Einstein behind the ears. “I grabbed him from the lab when I could be certain Marty wouldn’t show up unexpectedly.”

“Does he bite?” Jules asks, his voice trembling slightly.

“Only if he doesn’t like somebody. But Einstein is an exceptional judge of character—he’s more likely to lick the skin off your face if you don’t push him away than he is to bite you.” Emmett ushers Einstein out of the Train and gestures to each member of his family, introducing them as if Einstein was possessed of human intelligence.

“I know this is all confusing right now, Einie, since I’ve only been gone a couple hours as far as you’re concerned, but I’d like you to meet my family.”

[the-baby-storyteller]

CW: Teen Whumpee

"I'll just get back up!"

Vern shouted indignantly, scowl plastered on his face. He glared at Marc from where he lay, against his will mind you, on the bed and fought the urge to stick his tongue out. That would be a little too childish, even for him.

"You will do no such thing." Marc said, raising his eyebrow in the doorway, food tray in hand. "You will stay lying down and actually recover like you should have done last week. Your leg needs to heal. We're not having a conversation about this, Vern." Marc waltzed into the room with a peacefulness to rival Vern's burning agitation.

Why couldn't he understand that Vern just needed to move?

Marc walked over to the bedside table and dropped the tray onto it.

"Eat this and then go to sleep." Marc's eyes locked with purpose onto his own. "Lord knows you need to recover."

Vern scowled. "I'm not even that hurt! You're overexaggerating!"

"You are, in fact, the king overexaggerater in this apartment, Vern," Marc said rolling his eyes, "but it doesn't matter because you're going to listen to me," He narrowed his eyes, "eat your food, and stay in bed".

Vern averted his eyes obstinately. Marc huffed lightly and began walking away.

A tsk left Vern's lips. "You can't control me," He muttered under his breath, a puff of mischief present.

He pulled off the blankets and started to stand up-

"Vern Allen Haynes."

Vern jumped.

"Get back in bed, now."

He could feel Marc staring at him from the doorway. An unnamed jolt swept through him and he felt shame growing. He looked up and saw Marc's face and the sternness pervading through it. Vern winced involuntarily.

But he couldn't stop the onslaught of thoughts suddenly surging through his head.

Oh my gosh he just full-named me like my parent he actually just did that am I like his kid now? Does he think of me like that AAAAH-

A blush started creeping it's way up his face and he lowered his gaze in an attempt to hide it. Still, Marc hadn't let up with the hard look and he felt thoroughly chided.

He sputtered, trying to salvage his image. "I-I'm not gonna just-"

Marc shot him a glare.

Vern flushed violently. He was acting like Vern's dad.

Marc came over and freaking manhandled Vern back onto the bed, careful of his hurt leg, and Vern let him while he crossed his arms, trying to keep some semblance of defiance about him. The furious blush on his face over the fact that that interaction had just happened didn't really assist with his goal.

Once he was resituated on the bed Marc took a step back to mark him with with one last look to say stay. Though this time he couldn't quite keep up the front and Vern could tell he was holding back a smile.

"Eat the food and sleep, kiddo." Was the last thing Marc said to him, while smoothing his hair in a way that made Vern want to implode with screams because it was way too nonchalant, before walking out.

Vern let out an indignant sniffle.

"Fine."

He picked up the bowl.

Marc smirked.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@whumpster-dumpster for the lovely prompt

[20kmemesunderthesea]

My Thoughts on the Russian 1975 three-Part Miniseries, “Капитан Немо” (Captain Nemo).

First Episode: “The Iron Whale”

I’m not going to lie: I found the first episode tedious. I almost changed my mind about watching this series because the first episode was so slow moving. What I hated most of all was Professor Aronnax got married at the beginning of the episode to an insipid woman named Jacqueline who proved to have as much personality as a sack of flour. He then was immediately called away on this wild adventure, leaving Mrs. Aronnax alone at home…pining. 🤢

It added absolutely nothing to the story. Just like in the book, in this film series Professor Aronnax would later be tempted to stay onboard the Nautilus. In the book his feelings were totally understandable, but here, considering he had a wife at home, he seemed more in love with science/adventure than his wife. (Although I admittedly can’t blame him considering what a dull character Mrs. Aronnax was.)

Other things which didn’t make sense were that Captain Nemo had been sending Professor Aronnax packages (some of which contained live animals) for at least a year prior to the events of the story.

And then Captain Nemo drugged Professor Aronnax, Conseil and Ned Land as soon as they arrived on the Nautilus, and it was never clear why. Conseil hallucinated vividly during that incident which made for a trippy dream sequence. 

As a matter of fact, there were several trippy dream/hallucination sequences throughout the series, which I hated. I hated them very much indeed.

If the film makers had cut out the trippy dream sequences, the whole "There's a Mrs. Aronnax and she's sad" subplot, and some long, irrelevant close-up shots of people making stern facial expressions, I think they could have made it into a two-part series.

(⬆️ Actual footage of me trying to survive the first episode.)

Despite all this, I continued watching…and I’m honestly very glad I did!

I knew I was in for an emotional rollercoaster when it came to a scene of Captain Nemo pacing back and forth in front of the portrait of his late family...

Second Episode: “Prince Dakkar”

SIGNIFICANTLY more engaging…it atoned for the sins of the first episode. Episode two backtracked to the events of India’s 1857 rebellion, and what lead to Captain Nemo’s exile. It had me on the edge of my seat the entire time! In this version, Captain Nemo told Professor Aronnax of the capture of his family, how they were held hostage and how the English tried to coerce him into being their puppet. It was a very compelling and believable story, elaborating on Captain Nemo’s (aka Prince Dakkar) tragic past disclosed in June Verne’s book, “The Mysterious Island.” 

It wasn’t super clear to me, however, what exactly happened to Captain Nemo’s wife and children. In the book, they were killed by the British. However, in this version when Captain Nemo is rescued from the hands of the British by his followers, they mention that his family was relocated. Why, then, is Captain Nemo grieving them? If they’re alive, why didn’t he go find them? (If anyone knows what was supposed to have happened in this film, please enlighten me!) That being said, I do appreciate that they didn't show such a tragic event on screen, or else I'd have been traumatized.

(⬆️ EEEMOTIONAL DAMAAAAAGE)

Also In this version, Captain Nemo willingly told Professor Aronnax about his past, which made the professor much more understanding and sympathetic towards the Captain. Ned Land remained unmoved, however, which I also didn’t understand. 

Overall, I found this episode to be really interesting and exciting: it’s my favorite out of the series. 

Third Episode: “The Nautilus Continues the Fight.”

This episode was grabbing as well. Unfortunately, there was no epic kraken battle, but a giant squid was implied to have attacked a French Nautilus crew member during an underwater expedition. When Professor Aronnax expresses grief that they couldn’t give him a proper burial, Captain Nemo says, “The most lasting memories aren’t locked away in marble or granite: they’re locked away in people’s hearts.” 😭

At the very end when Professor Aronnax and his friends escape and make it back to civilization, Professor Aronnax says about Captain Nemo,

“I’m sure he’s sailing now in the vast expanses of the underwater world…

“The brave people who were helped by the captain will always remember him with gratitude, for his generosity of soul, his humanity and kindness. And if sometimes he became violent, history will judge Nemo and his enemies.”

I found it to be a much more touching and satisfying ending than the Disney version, not to mention more true to the book.

Overall impressions:

-The way the Nautilus operates in this film adaptation was not much like the book at all.

-That being said, I definitely got the sense the writers of this series had read the books throughly. The characters were portrayed well, and a significant amount of dialogue was direct passages from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I appreciated that immensely.

-The only character I didn’t really get was Ned Land. I always imagined him to be impulsive, grumpy-yet-lovable lug. In this version, however, he woke up every day and chose violence. 

-There was no organ in the drawing room! I was hoping for dramatic scenes of Captain Nemo’s signature angsty musical revelries. I was disappointed to be deprived of that.

-The soundtrack was hauntingly beautiful. That was another aspect of this film series which captivated me.

In conclusion, ��Капитан Немо” wasn’t as fast-paced or high-budget as Disney’s “20,000 Leagues Under The Sea,” nor would I say it was as aesthetically pleasing, but in my opinion it captured the overall spirit of Jules Verne’s books better and was a little more faithful to the story. It’s available on YouTube with English captions (auto-translate) if anyone else is interested in watching.

[princesssarisa]

The Different Types of Evil Queen in "Snow White" Adaptations

Since @ariel-seagull-wings recently shared a list of the different types of Snow White characterizations in different adaptations of the fairy tale, I thought I would share a list of the different portrayals of Snow White's nemesis, the evil Queen.

There tends to be more overlap between the different types of Queen than between the different types of Snow White: several portrayals belong to more than one category. But I was still able to narrow the various portrayals down to the five most popular "types."

This covers the Queen's true self only: to discuss the various portrayals of her disguises too would require a separate post.

The Grim Sorceress

This Queen is sinister at first sight. Her beauty is cold, and she contains it in severe styling and dress, wearing sleek, dark-colored gowns and with her hair in a tight updo or hidden by a medieval cowl. Nor does she bother to hide either her ruthlessness or her witchcraft. She's feared throughout the kingdom for her awesome magical powers and for her cruelty, and we see hints of just how she's earned that fear, with dark dungeons in her castle that contain skeletons and/or suffering prisoners. Her transformation into an old hag (or into some other creative form) is done with sinister magic, not just the makeup and prosthetics that other Queens use. Nor are her vanity or her temper ever played for laughs. This is a calm, stern Queen, who rarely smiles except in grim satisfaction when her plans succeed, and who never (or almost never) goes into hysterics over Snow White's superior beauty, but responds with hard, icy resolve to be rid of her. While she might occasionally use her beauty for seduction, she mainly seems to want to be the fairest for the sake of her own pride, as she's generally a solitary figure who uses magical brute force to get what she wants. The quintessential Queen of this type is the very first Disney villain, voiced by Lucille La Verne in 1937's immortal Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Other examples are Suna Selen's Queen in the 1971 Turkish Pamuk Prenses film, Queen Chrystal in the anime series The Legend of Snow White and Charlize Theron's Queen Ravenna in Snow White and the Huntsman... although she combines it with another type of portrayal, seen at the very bottom of this list.

The Venomous Lady

This is a more human Queen than the Grim Sorceress, although she shares much of the same dignity. She's not overtly evil at first, but wears the facade of a refined lady who seems kind and generous, if slightly cold and aloof. It's easy to see why Snow White's father trusted her and thought she would be a good wife. But beneath her amiable facade is deadly jealousy, rage, and cruelty. The phrase "silk hiding steel" comes to mind, describing a woman whose gentle, refined facade hides great strength, but instead of steel, this Queen's silk hides venom. When she reveals that venom to Snow White (for example, by imprisoning her, or by confronting her about her beauty and threatening to banish her), it's almost more horrifying than if it had come from a more blatantly evil Queen. This Queen is also less likely to know witchcraft herself and more likely to have a witch or wizard ally to supply her disguises and poisons. But if she is a witch herself, she's careful to let no one know it. Examples of this type of Queen include Patricia Medina in Snow White and the Three Stooges, the Queen in the anime Grimm's Fairy Tale Classics, and the Queens of the mid-century live-action German versions, Addi Adametz in 1955's Schneewittchen und die sieben Zwerge (although she skirts the line between this type and the Grim Sorceress), Marianne Christina Schilling in 1961's Schneewittchen, and Herta Kravina in the 1971 Schneewittchen short.

The Prima Donna

This Queen is usually – though not always – a more comic portrayal of the character. She's a glamorous overgrown "mean girl" who devotes her life to enhancing her beauty and showing it off. She typically wears lavish, eye-catching gowns and headdresses, sometimes laughable in their gaudiness, and receives luxuriant beauty baths and other cosmetic treatments in her chambers. If her hair isn't too lavishly styled, she'll be seen constantly brushing it as she gazes adoringly into her mirror and boasts to herself about her own beauty. And woe to any servant who doesn't perfectly cater to her thousand daily whims! Far from the calm, collected Grim Sorceress or Venomous Lady, this spoiled brat of a Queen typically bullies her castle staff and throws tantrums when she doesn't get her own way. She tends to be something of a woman-child... yet this doesn't stop her from being truly sinister, cunning, and dangerous when she wants to be. Examples include Queen Brangomar in the 1912 stage play and its 1916 silent film version where she's played by Dorothy Cumming, Vanessa Redgrave in the Snow White episode of Faerie Tale Theatre, Diana Rigg in the Cannon Movie Tales adaptation, the Queen in Luigi Zaninelli's opera adaptation (because of course an operatic soprano Queen should be a Prima Donna), and Sonja Kirschberger in Sechs auf einen Streich.

The Femme Fatale

This Queen is a sensual being. She wears brightly colored and/or revealing and provocative clothes, devotes her life to lavish parties full of admiring guests, and takes a narcissistic sensual delight in her own beauty. She also makes her beauty serve a purpose: manipulating men. Her specialty is seduction, whether subtle or overt, and her magic likely includes love potions or seductive hypnosis as well as poisons. In this way she captivates the likes of Snow White's father and the Huntsman, and typically she wants to captivate the Prince too. Whether for himself, for his kingdom's wealth, or both, she wants him, which enhances her jealousy of Snow White with romantic rivalry. It doesn't matter if he's twenty years her junior – I almost named this type of Queen "the Mrs. Robinson" before I realized that not every example targets the Prince. Examples (both those who target the Prince and those who don't) include Gudrun Landgrebe in Schneewittchen und das Geheimnis der Zwerge, Jeri Aredando's Sly Fox in Happily Ever After: Fairy Tales for Every Child, Jane March's Queen Gwendolyn in Grimm's Snow White, Julia Roberts' Queen Clementianna in Mirror, Mirror (although she combines it with a more lighthearted Prima Donna portrayal), and Nadeshda Brennicke in Schneewittchen und der Zauber der Zwerge. Vanessa Redgrave in Faerie Tale Theatre and Miranda Richardson's Queen Elspeth in Snow White: The Fairest of Them All are partly this type of Queen too, although the former combines it with the Prima Donna, the latter with the Venomous Lady and with... see below.

The Spiraling Madwoman

This is more of a subtype than an individual type of Queen characterization, as it's usually combined with one of the above. But whether she starts out as a Grim Sorceress, a Venomous Lady, or a Femme Fatale, her defining feature is that as Snow White repeatedly survives her attempts to kill her, she becomes increasingly unhinged. She might be slightly unhinged from the start, showing anxiety each time she consults her magic mirror even before she gets an answer she dislikes. And the prospect of losing her status as the fairest in the land doesn't just make her jealous, but gradually sends her into a full-blown emotional and mental breakdown. She typically has a reason for this. Maybe she was born ugly, but made beautiful by magic, and is afraid of losing the beauty that was never really hers; maybe she has a traumatic backstory, which she only survived thanks to her beauty and resulting power over men; or maybe there's a prophecy that a woman more beautiful than she is will cause her death. But whatever the reason, this is the most pitiable version of the Queen. Without making her any less of a villain, her final scene – which typically inflicts both of her worst fears on her, the loss of her beauty as well as death – contains real pathos, as she swings from savage rage to collapsing in a weeping, whimpering heap. One Queen who partly embodies this type is Miranda Richardson's Queen Elspeth in Snow White: The Fairest of Them All (who combines it with the Venomous Lady and the Femme Fatale), but probably the ultimate Spiraling Madwoman is Charlize Theron's Queen Ravenna in Snow White and the Huntsman (who combines it with the Grim Sorceress).

Which type of Queen – or blend of types – is your favorite?

@ariel-seagull-wings, @superkingofpriderock, @themousefromfantasyland, @faintingheroine, @the-blue-fairie

[castaway-achlys]

Idfk... tumblr wont let me comment or rb

But who doesn't like you, Cas? You're a great guy!!!!

-🌈

weird... that's really odd.

v- vern... i don't know why he doesn't like me... i'm trying so hard...

he's very fragile right now and he's perceiving vern's sternness with him as anger and rejection, while vern's talking much more friendly to others, making him feel singled out and like he's a nuisance.

i... wish i didn't wake up...

[madmarchhare]

Proclamation: Short story, no stealing

This one gets a bit violent, graphic and sad at points. Please be aware.

It's long too so be aware. Also, please mention any grammar errors.

A man stood in a well furnished room, looking out of a tall window, his back to everything inside, his eyes seeming to take in far more of the outside in than they should. He was a tall man, straight backed at 6’4”, with a broad chest and firm shoulders pressed back in a commanding firmness, uniformed in fine dress, a pressed and iron grey suit, over a neat white shirt, collared by a bright blue tie pinned with a silver bar at his neck. His dress was decorated in the awards of his office, a squad of medals hung at his breast, polished and neat, but done so that they seemed understated, as if they were unimportant to him, and laid to rest across his shoulders were a pair of epaulettes made of bright blue and grey.

His face was stern, neither managing to fall into a frown or a smile, well shaven, almost impossibly so. As was his hair, neatly set in a parting, the roots of it at the side taking on a tinge of grey, displacing the raven black that it had been dressed in for over five decades of his life. His eyes however, more so than any article of clothes on him or any chiselled and ordered feature on his face, were the most striking. Most notably so in how easily they struck fear in anyone he placed under their gaze. They were eyes colder than ice, a pair of jet black spheres that seemed to undress the façade of the world far more than those in it would want them to.

So he stood, stock still, to attention, watching the world before him, the impressions of his mind completely unreadable to any observer. A nock bust itself into the room from the door, shattering the stiff silence he had established. The man stood still, not making even the slightest movement. Then after a moment he spoke.

“Come in, it’s unlocked.” His voice was low, and monotone. The door’s lock snapped out clearly as the door knob was twisted round, then pushed open by a shortish man, with near bone blonde hair, with a long bunch of strands hanging down one side of his face, falling near parallel with a large scar that streaked up it.

“Mr Alvna, Sir?” The smaller man, questioned, a slightly pensive look pulled over his face. Alvna turned around, his expression unchanging as he looked down at his subordinate.

“What is it Lieutenant?” Alvna replied, walking past his desk over to him, the Lieutenant doing the same.

“They King has issued some new… proclamations,” handing a small portfolio of papers over to Alvna as he spoke, who took them quickly, studying them with a plain face. “Some of the specifics of the proclamations that were issued, along with changes to previous ones made by his father and so on are rather… Untenable, in their reasoning.” He continued, still at attention his arms held behind his back, as Alvna continued through the documents, his countenance ever constant.

“The suggestion has been made by some of our officers, that the citizens might revolt.” The Liueteneant began again, his voice quavering slightly at points, Alvna glancing up slightly to look at him. “We don’t know how well equipped we are to deal with such an event, so, how would you recommend we proceed, Commander?” The Lieutenant finished looking straight at Alvna, who regarded him for a second, before looking back down at the documents.

The Lieutenant felt a bead of sweat fall down the back of his necks, creeping coldly down his spine. He looked at his superior with a great sense of fear, less sourced from the impending revolution, but simply from the presence of his commander. He had more than enough reason for this. After all, Vicarr Vern Alvna was one of the most terrifying men in the Kingdom, if not the continent. Because, for near all of his adult life, he had stood at the head of the Royal Security Police, the King’s secret police, responsible for maintaining order, and uprooting any and all dissenters.

Through torture, private executions, marshal law, funded vigilantism and most notably, sham trials, he maintained the rule of both Kings he had served and preserved the order of the country. He was the greatest source of fear for every man, woman and child in the Kingdom, even more so than the Kings themselves. So feared were his trials, that his office, were his court were organised, was know as the Court of Tears throughout the Kingdom, for the suffering and cruelty that it inflicted.

Even in his own organisation, each officer knew, no matter how high ranked or how close to Alvna himself they were, they were not safe. They knew that, above all else, his first and greatest loyalty was to the Crown. So the Lieutenant stood there, before one of the most terrifying men any could ever meet, made by his superior to deliver this message in his stead. He could not help but feel the sword of death nicking at the nape of his neck.

Alvna continued his silence for what felt an eternity to the shorter man, before letting the documents drop onto his desk and turning calmly over to the other man.

“Lieutenant Wessel,” he began suddenly, startling the man he named.

“Yes Sir.” He snapped back, instinctually.

“Tell all available officers and agents to retrieve their arms and load into the trucks.” Walking over to a hat stand placed near the window and lifting a great grey long coat off it as well as his officers hat, the brilliant blue sash around the brow interrupted by the royal crest at it’s centre.

“Where are we going sir?” Wessel asked, his eyes following his commander as the latter pulled on the coat.

“To the Royal residence,” he replied, his voice as level as always.

“Where are we evacuating them to sir?” Wessel questioned, having expected an answer like this.

“We are not evacuating them Lieutenant,” Alvan replied, causing his subordinate to look confused.

“Then what sir?”

“We are deposing the current King.” Alvna replied, in the same deadpan tone that he always used. Wessel was stunned to silence, not quite able to process what he had just been told.

“Pardon sir?” Worry etched deep into his voice as he spoke, mangled together with confusion and curiosity.

“The only way to maintain the stability of the nation, at this current juncture, is the removal of the King. If he implements these policies the nation will fall, and all will suffer for it.” Alvna responded, walking over to a cabinet on the left side of the room, pulling out one of the drawers and drawing a pistol from it, along with a trio of magazines from it.

“But sir! It-it’s deposing the King!” Wessel responded, scrambling for his words as panic broke across his face. Alvna turned around to him, his face plain.

“Do you disagree with my assessment Lieutenant?” Alva questioned.

“No sir!” Wessel responded instantly; his distress locked behind his firmness. Alvan looked at him hard for a long moment, seeming to only now place him under his sight.

“Is that because of a hatred of the King, a love of the people and our nation, or your fear for the war that will happen in our inaction.”

“It is from my loyalty to you.” Wessel responded calmly, having placed himself back at attention. Alvna regarded his subordinate, then gave a short nod.

“Then you have your orders, and I shall give your comrades theirs when we are all there.” He called out as he strode towards the door, Wessel following after, then opening the door for the former. They parted as they left Alvna’s office, the Commander striding down the hall to his officers’ chambers and offices, pulling out his pistol then loading it with blanks as he emptied the magazine into the ceiling as he walked down the corridor. The men and women in question all stirring in their rooms or cracking open their doors.

“Get dressed and equipped, then meet at the vehicle bay. There is a state of Emergency! Communications officers, shut down all messages out of the capital. Not one letter, phone call or telegram leaves until I say so!” Alvna shouted out, then turned around to look at his bewildered officers, half dressed, hair uncombed, loosened ties, drawn pistols and tense looks. “And good morning.” Turning away from them again and walking back down the hall, leaving his officers to scramble to get dressed, expletives trickling down the hallway as they did so.

As Alvna walked through the halls to the vehicle bay he passed Wessel rushing around between the various barracks of the building, his boots clacking loudly on the concrete floor, chased by a rush of agents, all rushing over to arm themselves or, having done that, to the destination the Lieutenant had instructed. Alvna strode into the vehicle bay, seeing men all stood at attention around the room, watching him as he entered, a number of his officers stood at the other side of the room at attention, fixing their uniforms as they met his gaze.

Alvna walked in front of his officers and turned to look at his men, just as Wessel rushed in with the last dregs of the men in the office, almost shoving them into place before coming over to stand with the other officers. Alvna placed his arms behind his back, looking them all over calmly, before he cleared his throat.

“In regards to the most recent proclamations by the King and his family, it has come to my attention that these specific orders and laws are likely to lead to revolt.” The men and women before him stood still, discipline overriding any impulse they had, but did not stop the nervous glances, or anticipating smiles that shot through the crowd. “To prevent this, and the civil strife and suffering it will bring, I have made the decision that we will be deposing the current King.” Every man and woman in the crowd, even his officers (bar Wessel) stiffened at this. They knew of his loyalties, they had seen them executed first hand, or had been the tool to execute them, sometimes quite literally. But, to them, that left the question and the fear of how severe this crisis that they were now informed of was.

“If any of you oppose this solution, or wish to propose an alternative, I would invite you to speak.” Not one protest was voiced, not one alternative spoken. Alvna looked over the crowd then gave a brisk nod, “then, we’re going to the Royal residence, expect some opposition from the Royal Guard. We will be taking the Royal family alive, any accompanying Nobles that resist may be delt with as you see fit. Your officers will direct you to your specific posts as we depart.” Alvna called out, pacing in front of his soldiers before finally turning around to face them again plainly and shouting fiercely. “You have your orders! Move out!” The agents all scurried to action, a squad piling into a van each as Alvna addressed each of their officers and gave them their orders.

As the officers then strode off to join their squads, getting into either the drivers seat or the passenger, Alvna grabbed Wessel by the shoulder, making the junior officer turn around. “No, you’re driving with me.” The younger man gave a jerky nod, a bead of sweat rolling down around his scar. Wessel followed on after Alvna, the latter jumping into the passenger side of the van, leaving Wessel as the driver.

“Are you sure you want me as your driver sir?” Wessel asked, looking up at his superior nervously, getting a cold look in return.

“Why would I not?” He replied, his face still frosted with indifference.

“You have far more qualified officers than me sir.”

“Yes, officers who passed the duty of grim messenger onto you, their junior.” Wessel peered up at the man who both surpassed him in age and rank, a slightly surprised look in his face, mingled slightly with growing ease. “Now, let us go.”

“Yes Sir!” Wessel barked back, stirring up the engine as he wrestled with the clutch lever, sending the car roaring forward as he drove out of the vehicle bay, leading the other cars as they marched down the roads.

As they drove down the roads of the city peoples’ eyes flicked up from whatever they were doing to stare in open fear or well shrouded anger. They peered from windows or hurried away from the pavement into alleys or shops as the massive procession thundered past them like a pride of viscous lions, the roar of their engines echoing across the pleasant painted faces and façades of the city streets. They had no clue what could be causing such a disturbance, some whispered about a possible revolt or something happening at the palace. But, more than anything while the odd pair or trio of young men and women might hush out excited words about a revolt or liberation, all else looked upon the event with fear and uncomfortable anticipation.

A trio or the vans peeled off from the parade as they continued, driving off to major city exits or communications facilities. Alvna’s van was at the front, and was the first to reach the grounds of the palace, and called over the intercom to be let through the gate. As the fleet of vans approached the front of the palace, a palace guard approached Alvna’s van, but received the butt of a rifle on the chin from one of the agents who had gotten off the second van. The other guard called out in surprise, reaching around for his rifle, but was gunned down by another agent from the second van, as the others all alighted from their various vans.

The agents in the second, fourth and fifth vans all fanned out, moving to secure all the entrances and exits of the estate. Those of the remaining three vans all followed Alvna through the grand door of the estate.

They spread through from the entrance, busting down stately doors at they advanced, Alvna marching forward with Wessel and eight agents, the occasional shot or yell ringing through the halls as the other agents did their work. Alvna reached the grand doors of the King’s ballroom, a pair of grandiose ivory slabs, carved over months into beauty, and threw them open as if they were made of tissue.

The members inside were all bedecked in great silk dresses or fine velvet suits, wearing glittering masks that hid their faces, or old medals to hide their salience. They all turned up to look at the sudden disturbance created by the presence of Alvna and his men, the band cutting short their waltz, almost freezing them all in place as Alvna, followed by Wessel and the plain faced agents advanced slowly into the ball. Then, the most well dressed man stepped out towards him, lifting his mask to reveal the face of the King. He was a naturally pale faced man, having attempted to normalise his complexion with a smock of rouge upon his face and a breast of unearned medals on his suit. He wore a mad expression underneath his façade of makeup as he came forward.

“Alvna! What are you doing?! I did not say you could come here!” The King shouted, his voice an odd mix of a harsh and wiry tone, and a lofty one, making him seem as if he was speaking with two mouths at one.

“I apologise your Majesty, but unfortunately, we believe that the recent policies you have suggested are likely to cause a revolt among the people.” Alvna replied in his usual deadpan tone, looking at the monarch flatly, having to peer down at the man he outstood by just under a foot.

The King’s expression warped into some odd mix of confusion and outrage; one eye squinted under a furrowed brow as the other threatened to burst from it’s socket out of sheer rage. “Those miserable- Do they not know who I am!” He screamed out, his two tone voice shattering out around the ball room as he stamped his foot hard onto the marble floor, the guests drawing back nervously. The King took a moment to calm down, huffing in anger, before snapping his face around to look up at Alvna, “so, I suppose you are here to escort me to safety then?”

“Not exactly sir,” Alvna responded, getting a confused look from the King for a moment until one of the agents slammed the butt of his rifle into his back, sending him sprawling across the ground as he gasped for breath, trying to swallow the air that had been blow out of him. The guests all let out a yell, some falling to their feet in shock, “King Carol III, in order to preserve the authority and stability of this nation, as is our duty, we shall be detaining you and your family and reliving you of your duties as King.” Alvna droned out, in his usual sentencing voice, as his agents grabbed the ex-king under the shoulders and started dragging him out, towards the main doors of the ball room. They were opened slightly by an agent from outside, the sight of a palace guards body bleaching out in the neat gardens that lay past them just visible to the guests.

“For all present here,” Alvna continued, now addressing the party guests and staff, who looked at the man with terror, “you will be held in custody for a short time until the current situation is resolved.” Agents burst through the doors as he finished, some bundling forward palace guards who held up their arms in surrender, or maids and servants of various posts. The various nobles, old veterans and crony capitalists as well as the staff were all made to bunch up in the centre.

As they were all herded together, Alvna leaned over to Wessel and whispered into his ear, “Lieutenant, take one man with you and go get the Queen and her children, then bring them here. Especially the second son.” Not taking his eyes off the crowd before him. Wessel turned to him and saluted, calling out an affirmation, then snapped for an agent to follow him as they both ran off to the Royal chambers.

In total. The whole affair was executed in under an hour, the King being detained in his governmental palace within the centre of the city, along with his wife and five children, bar his second son, named for his grandfather, Vicente. Other nobility and high profile guests were detained elsewhere, those that did not resist at least.

As these great figures of the army, the state, the clergy and all else were shunted out of the palace like coal from a mine, a crowd of people gathered on the opposite side of the street. Gazing out of half-open apartment windows or clustering on the opposite pavement. After a while a young boy strode forward across the road to one of the guards near the gate, to the great protests of his mother, hoping to ask what was happening. Just as he did, ignorant to the frenzied yells of his mother who was being held back by others in the crowds snapping at her to just leave the boy to his fate, Alvna walked through the gate next to the guard.

The crowd fell silent, the woman staring across the street, an expression of horror pulled across her tear soaked face as her clutching hand was left hanging as she looked at the child she now thought she would loose as soon as she blinked. The young boy looked up at Alvna, his face curious, a pair of wireframe glasses slipping up his nose as he did.

“Sir, do you know what’s happening?” The crowd was locked into silence, turning their eyes away from what they knew what was about to happen. Alvna knelt down, getting down to the boy’s eye level.

“There was something really dangerous that was happening in the palace, something that could have put everyone in the kingdom in danger. So, we went in to get rid of it, so everybody would be safe.” The boy looked up at him, a sparkle of excitement flashing in his eyes, the crowd slowly turning to look back at the scene before them, surprise etching itself into their drawn features, the boys mother left stunned as she stared, red eyed, out at her son.

“That sounds so impressive sir!” The boy blurted out, shaking his clenched fists in excitement. Alvna nodded to the boy then stood up.

“Yes, we’ll be telling everyone more about it tomorrow, but for now, you should go back to your mother. She looks quite worried.” Turning to glance at the boys mother as he finished, who bore a petrified expression, relief for her son mixed in deeply, tears once again falling plainly from her face. Alvna walked off, the agent stood near the gate taking the boy by the hand then lead him back to his mother, who pulled him into a deep sobbing hug. The guard nodded to the crowd then asked them to disperse, telling them that more information would be released tomorrow after midday, then bade them good day as he walked back to his post. The crowd stared out in bewilderment after the departing men.

They hadn’t expected it, quite truly. They expected they would be set to spend the next morning in silent, false mourning, all while thanking the heavens that it wasn’t them who had to be mourned. Instead, they were left to look down at a son being hugged by his mother who sobbed and wailed out in relief, the former questioning why his mother was upset.

While the crowd began to thin out, it never did quite disperse, always finding more people who were just walking by or who were gripped by a dangerous curiosity to restock it’s ranks. Only as the darker hours or the evening began to grip the street did it collapse, people darting off for their supper, or to avoid suspicion. But, they all had one though nested deep in their mind.

Tomorrow, they would find out tomorrow.

The governmental palace was a tall, square building, made of two tone masonry, decorated with grand glass windows that stretched almost as high as the building itself, recent alterations in comparison to the buildings old history as a prison, or a keep for the royal gold. Though, it still served both duties even now.

A stage had been erected during the night and early morning in front of the palace, spotlights, film cameras, microphones littered its margin, the various bloodhounds and vultures that formed the reporter class being watched closely by agents as they set them up. People began to flock to the stage as the day broke out into its centre, aware of the presence of the Royal Security Police, whispering in voices inaudible to anyone but their neighbour.

Half an hour dragged itself by, the crowd all a flitter, not knowing what was going to happen, what they would be told, whether those holstered rifles on the agents backs would be pulled on them soon… Then, a Lieutenant-Commander walked out on the stage, tapping one of the main microphones to get the attention of the crowd. “Good Afternoon. We apologize for any delay we will now begin.” The man finished brusquely, looking over the crowd, almost clinically, then stood aside the podium.

Then, stepping onto the stage from the rear, was Alvna. Shackled, his face as blank as ever. The crowd snapped to silence as they saw the man more feared than the devil, whose deeds could make him blush, walk forward, shackled like a prisoner, onto the stage. The clinking of his chains echoing through the silent field, picked up by both the cameras and the microphones. Reporters and civilians darted looks over to agents, again surprised to see they bore matching expressions to Alvna himself, unsurprised, stock still at attention.

Alvna walked forward up to the podium and tapped the microphone, though, really he already had everyone’s undivided attention. “Good afternoon,” he began, his voice the same as ever, seemingly unbothered by his bindings, “as I am sure a great number of you are aware, the King recently issued a number of proclamations.” The crowd murmured slightly at that, the one or two who had heard some of what was released sending the message through the crowd like an infection.

“It was believed by a number of my officers, and myself upon reading these new laws, that they would lead to a revolt or rebellion among the citizenry,” the crowd stiffened at this, fear locking them in place like dear under headlights, as peoples’ eyes twitched over to the weapons held by various agents. “Therefore, in order to maintain the authority and stability of the nation,” Alvna droned out, people in the crowd ducking down and shielding their loves ones, the ones on the margins left with no course of action, “Carol Clovis-Emmanuel III has been removed as King.”

The crowd was still, waiting for the gunfire, but then they finally heard what was just said. Those at the edges who has squeezed their eyes shut plinked them open to look up at the stage, staring out for some indication they had been played the fool. Some great sign shouting about how it was all a joke. Those who had shielded their loved ones or lovers slowly rose to look around at the guards who were supposedly, in their mind, set to kill them. They saw them stood around, unbothered in their duty, a few chatting with their neighbour, one female guard lifting a male one up by his shirt collar with a fierce expression as the latter called out apologies. Only regarding the crowd as a charge, not a target.

“In order to ease possibilities of a revolution,” Alvna continued, catching the attention of the crowd again, “a democratic parliament is to be established.” People snapped their heads around in the crowd at that, showing shocked expressions or tearful ones, reporters snapping around to their fellows and hoarsely demanding they not miss a single detail. “The elections for this parliament will take place summer of next year, preceded by the coronation of the previous Kings second son, Vicente as the new King.” The crowd buzzed with hushed chatter, the predilection to gossip catching many in it’s jaws.

“But, before such a process can begin,” Alvna said, a pair of agents coming onto the stage and pulling away the podium, “their must be an easing of tensions.” Stepping closer to the edge of the stage. “I know what I am to you,” looking down into the crowd catching the hot or loathing glares that jumped out of it onto him, like wild beasts desperate to tear out his throat, “I am the villain. The one who must be gotten rid of or defeated. So first, before any true progress can be made, there must be an airing of grievances.” Staring coldly out into the crowd as he finished, sending a shiver through it, even on those who bore such violent looks before.

“So, shoot at me,” the crowd made no noise, “shout out how you hate me,” no movement, “make clear your grievance. Speak out if you wish me gone before the new age of this nation begins.” No words were spoken, words caught in the mouths of the people, almost choking them as they tried to force out their hatred, their fears, their losses. But they couldn’t, not when they had been invited. They did not expect it, the removal of the gag that all those around them had smothered them with for so long. In some way, it was harder than if they had torn if from their mouths themselves.

“If any of you then need a reason as to why I do this then,” addressing the question lodged in their throat with everything else, “I shall give you the same reason I gave to King Carol’s father.”

“The reason why I held my loyalty to him, and to his son, was simple. The King embodies all of the people of this nation, they protect the nobility, the clergy, aristocrats and the average citizenry. They are responsible for each and every man woman and child in their domain, and for pulling them up towards holiness.” The younger faces in the crowd all looked away or down at their feet in either boredom or disgust, having hear this lesson enough times throughout their life. “So, if the King is allowed to fall,” they took on surprised expression at this, turning up back to look, “he would pull them all down with him into ruin.”

“I do all I do, all I have done, not for a loyalty to the man who I watched wear the crown of this nation, but for my loyalty to the nation itself. I will not see this nation fall to ruin, revolution or foreign invasion. I will not see it dragged back into a Hell like the last war.” At this final line, the men and women of the crowd, and many of the agents and reporters stiffened at this, the teens and children looking about confused.

They remembered, they had told their children, but even still, no matter what you said, taught or otherwise, war and it’s nature can never be conveyed second hand. They remembered the scorched streets, the whistle of bombs and shells. The incessant chattering of machine gun fire and advancing tanks. Of bloodied battle cries cried out by bloodied and battered soldiers. Of famine, the unending pain of hunger and the edging suffering that dragged you over to the clump of flesh that had been blown off your brothers face they day before with a watering mouth. Of pestilence and disease, watching a father or comrade rot before your eyes then be chucked on a pyre, lest the sickness catch another man. Of the violent foreigner who looked at you either as target practice or combatant as you fled or hid.

They remembered the negotiated peace that came, from the begging and pleading of a teenage king who pressed  his nose to the floor for his people, who allowed himself to be kicked at, fresh wounds from escaping his burned palace hissing out, who let them crush his fathers crown under their boots, all for peace. They remembered the young soldiers, yet fresh to war, shouting how they had been backstabbed, demanding ‘Victory’ not surrender. Or themselves and their tired comrades who said nothing, or who joined in the cries of betrayal out of loss and ruin. They remembered the young agents who suddenly arrived and silenced the cries. Who seemed to come and drape themselves over the shouting and rebellion and smother it as the nation tried desperately to knit it’s broken body back together.

They looked up at the man on the stage, the source of so much fear for all in their nation. And they saw his face, the one they had worn when they had fought that war, the one he still wore now. As the young reached for makeshift or stolen pistols, their neighbours placed their hands over the weapons, shaking their heads at them, then turning back to the stage.

Alvna looked out over the crowd, waiting for the shouts, for the insults etc. But they did not come. He looked down, a note of confusion barely noticeable on his face, but he pushed it aside and carried on. “Well then, I suppose that is the end of it,” dislocating his thumbs as he spoke, letting the shackles fall down his wrists, then pressed his hands together, shoving them back into their sockets.

“More information will be released later on, and a temporary privy council will be selected to act as regent until the elections next summer. Thank you for your time, good day.” Alvna droned out, putting his arms behind his back, as he always did when he gave his reports to his Kings. He walked off the stage, meeting with his officers, who then retreated back into the Governmental palace. Agents instructed the reports that the conference was over, and that they needed to take down their equipment and then went back to their usual duties, leaving the people on their own.

They dispersed after a while, going back to their jobs, their daily shopping, or simply the walk they had put off for later. They had to get back after all. Celebration was for the home, as well as worrying, mourning or plotting.

@gaap-goemon-ismylife

@agarespicero @jemimacatclover @psycho-zom-atic @grywolfy @sleepy-gry @momonoki-a-real-teacher @shaoron

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne

CHAPTER XXXIV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AT LAST REACHES LONDON

Phileas Fogg was in prison. He had been shut up in the Custom House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day.

Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen. Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not understand. Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber. The young woman’s heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly.

As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not.

The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new misfortune! Had he not concealed Fix’s errand from his master? When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil. Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out.

Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again.

That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal. Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours.

If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment? No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting—for what? Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed?

However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern. The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught.

Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping from it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room. But the door was locked, and the window heavily barred with iron rods. He sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket. On the line where these words were written, “21st December, Saturday, Liverpool,” he added, “80th day, 11.40 a.m.,” and waited.

The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch was two hours too fast.

Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an express train, he could reach London and the Reform Club by a quarter before nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled.

At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside, then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout’s voice was audible, and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg’s eyes brightened for an instant.

The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix, who hurried towards him.

Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not speak. “Sir,” he stammered, “sir—forgive me—most—unfortunate resemblance—robber arrested three days ago—you are free!”

Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his life, or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the precision of a machine knocked Fix down.

“Well hit!” cried Passepartout, “Parbleu! that’s what you might call a good application of English fists!”

Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word. He had only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout left the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few moments descended at the station.

Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train about to leave for London. It was forty minutes past two. The express train had left thirty-five minutes before. Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.

There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway arrangements did not permit the special train to leave until three o’clock.

At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by the offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London with Aouda and his faithful servant.

It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half; and this would have been easy on a clear road throughout. But there were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped from the train at the terminus, all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes before nine.[1]

Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand five minutes. He had lost the wager!

[1] A somewhat remarkable eccentricity on the part of the London clocks!—TRANSLATOR.

CHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DOES NOT HAVE TO REPEAT HIS ORDERS TO PASSEPARTOUT TWICE

The dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day, if they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home. His doors and windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible.

After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions to purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile.

He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity. Ruined! And by the blundering of the detective! After having steadily traversed that long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles, braved many dangers, and still found time to do some good on his way, to fail near the goal by a sudden event which he could not have foreseen, and against which he was unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were left of the large sum he had carried with him. There only remained of his fortune the twenty thousand pounds deposited at Barings, and this amount he owed to his friends of the Reform Club. So great had been the expense of his tour that, even had he won, it would not have enriched him; and it is probable that he had not sought to enrich himself, being a man who rather laid wagers for honour’s sake than for the stake proposed. But this wager totally ruined him.

Mr. Fogg’s course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what remained for him to do.

A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda, who was overwhelmed with grief at her protector’s misfortune. From the words which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was meditating some serious project.

Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort to the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so doing.

First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had extinguished the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He had found in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought it more than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been doomed to bear.

The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep? Aouda did not once close her eyes. Passepartout watched all night, like a faithful dog, at his master’s door.

Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get Aouda’s breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself. He desired Aouda to excuse him from breakfast and dinner, as his time would be absorbed all day in putting his affairs to rights. In the evening he would ask permission to have a few moment’s conversation with the young lady.

Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey them. He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring his mind to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured by remorse; for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the cause of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg, and had betrayed Fix’s projects to him, his master would certainly not have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then—

Passepartout could hold in no longer.

“My master! Mr. Fogg!” he cried, “why do you not curse me? It was my fault that—”

“I blame no one,” returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. “Go!”

Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda, to whom he delivered his master’s message.

“Madam,” he added, “I can do nothing myself—nothing! I have no influence over my master; but you, perhaps—”

“What influence could I have?” replied Aouda. “Mr. Fogg is influenced by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude to him is overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend, he must not be left alone an instant! You say he is going to speak with me this evening?”

“Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in England.”

“We shall see,” replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive.

Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if uninhabited, and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in that house, did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck half-past eleven.

Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer expected him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on the evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine), he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should go to his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists already had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their credit.

Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so he remained at home. He shut himself up in his room, and busied himself putting his affairs in order. Passepartout continually ascended and descended the stairs. The hours were long for him. He listened at his master’s door, and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do, and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment. Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all the world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty in tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout. . . . This thought haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly.

Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda’s door, went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a corner, and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still pensive.

About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know if Aouda would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself alone with her.

Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace, opposite Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face. Fogg returned was exactly the Fogg who had gone away; there was the same calm, the same impassibility.

He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on Aouda, “Madam,” said he, “will you pardon me for bringing you to England?”

“I, Mr. Fogg!” replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart.

“Please let me finish,” returned Mr. Fogg. “When I decided to bring you far away from the country which was so unsafe for you, I was rich, and counted on putting a portion of my fortune at your disposal; then your existence would have been free and happy. But now I am ruined.”

“I know it, Mr. Fogg,” replied Aouda; “and I ask you in my turn, will you forgive me for having followed you, and—who knows?—for having, perhaps, delayed you, and thus contributed to your ruin?”

“Madam, you could not remain in India, and your safety could only be assured by bringing you to such a distance that your persecutors could not take you.”

“So, Mr. Fogg,” resumed Aouda, “not content with rescuing me from a terrible death, you thought yourself bound to secure my comfort in a foreign land?”

“Yes, madam; but circumstances have been against me. Still, I beg to place the little I have left at your service.”

“But what will become of you, Mr. Fogg?”

“As for me, madam,” replied the gentleman, coldly, “I have need of nothing.”

“But how do you look upon the fate, sir, which awaits you?”

“As I am in the habit of doing.”

“At least,” said Aouda, “want should not overtake a man like you. Your friends—”

“I have no friends, madam.”

“Your relatives—”

“I have no longer any relatives.”

“I pity you, then, Mr. Fogg, for solitude is a sad thing, with no heart to which to confide your griefs. They say, though, that misery itself, shared by two sympathetic souls, may be borne with patience.”

“They say so, madam.”

“Mr. Fogg,” said Aouda, rising and seizing his hand, “do you wish at once a kinswoman and friend? Will you have me for your wife?”

Mr. Fogg, at this, rose in his turn. There was an unwonted light in his eyes, and a slight trembling of his lips. Aouda looked into his face. The sincerity, rectitude, firmness, and sweetness of this soft glance of a noble woman, who could dare all to save him to whom she owed all, at first astonished, then penetrated him. He shut his eyes for an instant, as if to avoid her look. When he opened them again, “I love you!” he said, simply. “Yes, by all that is holiest, I love you, and I am entirely yours!”

“Ah!” cried Aouda, pressing his hand to her heart.

Passepartout was summoned and appeared immediately. Mr. Fogg still held Aouda’s hand in his own; Passepartout understood, and his big, round face became as radiant as the tropical sun at its zenith.

Mr. Fogg asked him if it was not too late to notify the Reverend Samuel Wilson, of Marylebone parish, that evening.

Passepartout smiled his most genial smile, and said, “Never too late.”

It was five minutes past eight.

“Will it be for to-morrow, Monday?”

“For to-morrow, Monday,” said Mr. Fogg, turning to Aouda.

“Yes; for to-morrow, Monday,” she replied.

Passepartout hurried off as fast as his legs could carry him.

[justkeeponsimming]

Reed’s plan for a quick game of chess before the weather gets bad is quickly tossed out the window!

Oh plumbobs, Vernon is sweet but such a competitive sim! Reed’s logic skill isn’t the best, but she’s barely keeping up with Vernon. Every game he wins, Reed wins one later on. Before long, she’s completely lost track of time as Vernon baits her into more games!

Vernon: “Yesssss! Nine matches to six! Nice try, Auntie Ree!”

Reed: “You’re a talented chess player, Vern. I’ll lose gracefully. I think we should -“

Vernon: “One more game! Please!”

Reed sighs and tries to put on a stern expression. The air feels charged now. The weather is going to get so bad very soon and they’re going to get drenched! However, she quickly buckles under Vernon’s wide eyed, puppy dog expression.

Reed: “Fiiine! We -“

Reed’s caving in gets interrupted by a loud clap of thunder right overhead. The heavens open up, sending showers of rain down upon them. Vernon yelps and leaps up from the chess table, running across the rooftop to shelter. Little Kade gets frozen by fear, his wide eyes turned to the sky.

[nuklearis-sutotok]

15 questions, 15 people

Tagged by the always epic @traceamountsoftimetravel whom I am going to stuff with local coffee house scones this summer if he agrees to trying them.

Nickname: A shortened version of my name, Dok/Doc

Sign: Aries Gemini

Height: 5'2" at most.

Last Thing I Googled: "Star Trek Goodies . com." I have a coupon, okay?

Song Stuck in My Head: It is actually quiet in my head at the moment.

Amount of Sleep: Whatever I am granted. Sometimes that means I spend long hours writing increasingly badly.

Dream Job: I don't know anymore.

Wearing: Tan pants, a t-shirt, and Picard hoodie.

Movies/books That Summarize You: Media that summarizes my niche brand of human is in short supply I'm afraid. There are characters I relate to strongly, ones my family used to connect with me at times, but I don't have a good answer for this.

Favorite Song: This is like asking me if I have a favorite potato chip. Where's my Salieri at?

Instrument: That I can play? Guitar (6/12), piano, saxophone, some styles of drums and percussion instruments, I have various flutes, a violin, a banjo, a bluegrass mandolin, a 5 string base, an oboe... I have played with others.

Aesthetic: Sci fi nerd meets Addams family.

Favorite Author: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Alexandre Dumas, Mark Twain, H.G. Wells, Edgar Allan Poe, Jules Verne, Laozi, Christopher Marlowe, Laurence Sterne, Douglas Adams, Diane Duane, Andrew Robinson, V. S. Ramachandran, are but to name a few.

Random Fun Fact: Two, possibly three if I am remembering correctly, of my grandfathers accused my mother of naming me after the goddess of death and thought it was hilarious. My mother was not amused and insisted it was the nickname my siblings had chosen. I always thought it was funny.

Tagging: @drum-cu-naluci @stagofromulus and I think Trace already tagged the rest of the people I normally tag... :D And whoever would like to!

[jmwilligerauthor]

LMoP - Chapter 2.3: Flood!

The main passage from the cave mouth climbed steeply upward, the stream plunging and splashing down its west side. As they pressed onward, the light dimmed until the path was completely cloaked in shadow. In the dim light, they could faintly make out a side passage that led west across the other side of the stream, but that passage was just as dark as the one ahead of them.

“I can’t see a lick down that way.” Sonny sighed. “Anybody got a torch?”

Peri perked up and lifted their mace. “Who needs a torch, when you’ve the light of the Dawnfather?” The mace suddenly shone with a bright blue light that illuminated the whole cavern.

“Put that out, dummy!” Viola hissed. “You want all the goblins to know we’re here?”

Peri’s smile fell, but Rose stepped forward. “Don’t yell at him!” she scolded. “At least he’s trying to come up with solutions. Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but humans and halflings can’t see in the dark. What other choice do we have?”

Viola opened her mouth to reply, but Verne stepped between them with both hands raised, “Enough,” he said, “all of you. Viola, I understand that caution is important, but as we are in unfamiliar territory with creatures that can see far better in the dark than we can, it would serve us well to have a light source. That being said, I agree that it would be best to not announce our presence prematurely. Peri, is there a way in which you can dim the light, or put it out as needed, should we hear enemies approach?”

Peri nodded, and as quickly as the light had come on, it was snuffed. 

“Excellent.” Verne said. “Here is what I suggest as a compromise. As I have no trouble seeing in darkness, I can scout ahead while Peri follows with the light. Should I find any trouble, I will signal to you to snuff the light and hide. Is that acceptable?”

“No way.” Sonny stated. “I won’t have you put yourself in harm's way like that. What if something happens and we can’t get to you in time to help?”

“Your concern is touching,” Verne smiled, “but I’ll not be far, and I assure you that at the first hint of danger I will rush back to your side. On that you have my word.” 

“We trust you, Verne.” Rose said, silencing Sonny with a stern look. 

The elf nodded with a smile before striding off into the darkness. The remaining party members grouped tightly together before Peri’s mace lit up once more, illuminating the path forward. 

The passage continued up beyond another set of uneven steps ahead, bending eastward as it went. A waterfall sounded out from a larger cavern further down. In the shadows of the ceiling to the north, they could just make out the dim shape of a rickety wooden bridge crossing over the passage ahead. Another passage intersected that one, twenty feet above the floor. The party looked around the cave, searching anxiously for any signs of goblins hiding in the shadows, but thankfully found none. And with no signal from Verne, the party maintained their pace. A few minutes later however, they felt a faint rumble and heard a roar that seemed to be growing louder with each passing second. Verne came sprinting around the bend of the passage shouting for everyone to press tight against the wall before a surge of water came cascading through the cave.

Heeding Verne's warning, Rose, Sonny and Viola managed to grab handholds on the wall to anchor themselves in place and avoid being swept away, but poor Peri hadn't been so lucky. The cleric was caught full force in the chest and with a desperate yowl was sucked under the water. Without a moment's hesitation, Sonny released his hold on the stone and dove after them. 

Sonny was by no means a great swimmer. Goldenfields was, after all, a farming town without the luxury of beaches or lakefronts. However, he remembered well the lessons he'd learned on fishing trips to the Dessarin River with his father and brothers, and employed those skills now in his rescue effort. The stream had carried the poor tabaxi nearly to the mouth of the cave, where they scrambled to keep their head above the water, weighed down by waterlogged armor. Sonny quickly waded over, lifted Peri from the water and placed them gently on the dry path beside the stream. 

Peri gasped for breath amidst choked sobs, their mace lying uselessly on the ground, having long-since lost its light. 

“You alright, pal?” Sonny asked nervously.

“N-no!” Peri cried. “This place is too scary. There's dogs and water and Viola is so mean!” The young tabaxi burst into tears, burying their face in their paws.

Sonny knelt down and placed his hand on the young cleric's shoulder. “Try not to take what Viola says too personal.” He said. “She's got a rough way of speaking, but she means well. Y’know, she’s probably just as scared as you are. I think maybe she just doesn't know how to say it.”

“But why does she always go after me?” Peri whined. “She doesn't yell at you, or Rose or Verne.”

“Well yeah, we weren't the ones who tracked flour all over the cart.” Sonny laughed. “But if you want, I can talk to her about easing up on you. As for the rest of it, think about it this way: you've already faced the wolves and the stream, and you survived. You're a tough'n, Peri, and there's nothing these goblins can throw at you that you can't handle.”

Peri perked up at the fighter's words. “You really think so?”

“Definitely.” Sonny stood up and held out his hand. “Now let's head back to the others, huh? They might need our help.”

Peri took the fighters hand and stood, picking up their mace as they padded down the path. With a quick prayer and a flourish of their paw, the mace took up its light once more, and the two adventurers walked down the passage to rejoin their party.

[tombeane-blog]

Friday's Up And Down

What goes up must come down

Spinning wheel got to go 'round

Blood, Sweat & Tears - "Spinning Wheel"

"Tom, you are usually grumpy 24/7.  Why are you in such a good mood this morning."

"Well Vern, as we near the end of this hot, dry, dusty August I was given a gift."

"Which was?"

"As I was driving home from the gym this morning it was still half dark with just a hint of morning sunshine.  The sky was completely overcast.  There was a light rain coming down.  

The roads were wet, the air smelled sweet and clean - and like a cherry on top I could see occasional lightening flashes.  I'm a sunshine guy but a little rain after all these hot and dry days felt great.  My mood became mega maga ultra manic."

"Nothing can ruin this day."

"OK Tom, good on you.  Bless your heart.  Now check out this morning's headline."

"Gov. Tina Kotek unveils task force to bolster battered downtown Portland"

 A 47 member task force to solve Portland's doom loop?

You, me and my dog know what the problem is and we know what the solutions are.  

But once again our governmental overlords wait until a problem turns into a feces covered disaster and only then do they decide the best thing to do is to form a task force to come up with a plan.

47 people in a room scheduled to meet 3 times before coming up with a genius plan.  Maybe they will call it MPGA - Make Portland Great Again.

You me and my dog know that they are going to decide we need to spend a lot more money 'helping' people....

...like curing drug addiction by providing free drugs, needles and a pamphlet...

...like providing tents for sidewalk campers until they can provide them permanently temporary homes...

...like turning career criminal scumbags into law abiding citizens with a stern talking to instead of sending them to jail.

We all know what happens in a meeting with too many people with too many ideas.  Nobody agrees on any thing.  I regurgitate - No.Body.Agrees.  

Everybody in the room has their own constituents to reward and individual pet projects to feed.

So Portland will end up funding 47 plans.  Everybody gets something.  

"Thanks Vern!"

"The more the plans failed, the more the planners planned."

Ronald Reagan

================================

And now in the Don't Do It Category...

When the doctor prescribes a new pill, don't go rushing to the Internet to look up all the possible side effects.

I did that recently and there were 20 or 30 side effects listed.

Sure enough, a few days later I noticed two of the those side effects.  A teeny bit of unsteadiness when I was walking and another teeny bit of momentary weakness in my knees.

My doctor asked, "Did you notice these symptoms before?"

"Hmmm, did I only notice these symptoms after taking the pills?  Is it possible my mind symptosympatheticly created these effects - like kind of an evil placebo effect?"

I first started believing these side effects might be symptochromatic and not physical when I woke up this morning with menstrual cramps.

[doctorbrown]

Marty manages to wrestle the door open, holding it with his foot to step inside and then kicking it closed. He peers out over the stack of things he has in his arms— a sheet cake that looks homemade and two wrapped boxes, one in striped paper and one in polka dot paper— and grins.

“Happy birthday, Doc!”

❝I told you he was gonna show!❞ Verne grins triumphantly as the front door swings open, jumping up from his seat to offer his assistance to his clearly struggling uncle at the front door.

❝I never said he was gonna miss Dad's birthday, I said—❞

❝Yeah, yeah, whatever.❞ Jules rolls his eyes at the obvious dismissal and steals one of the leftover pieces of bacon from his younger brother's plate in retaliation.

Emmett and Clara exchange a knowing glance, smiling at each other in that way that makes Jules avert his eyes and focus on the stolen bacon as if every answer to all the world was charred into it.

❝Let me help,❞ Verne says, strategically stepping out of the way as Marty takes a few steps inside. Emmett, sensing the kind of impending disaster that only an overeager child could bring, hurriedly jumps out of his seat, taking advantage of his long legs to cross from the adjoining room into the foyer before Marty, Verne, the walls, or a combination of all three could be covered in frosting.

❝I'll take it from here, Verne.❞

❝But Dad!❞

❝You just want Marty to think you're cool!❞ Jules shouts from the next room, hitting the nail on the head.

Verne, in his attempt to call up a dignified, elegant retort, manages only a childishly indignant, ❝Not true!❞

❝Boys,❞ Emmett says, his attempted stern tone falling short around the grin he levels at Marty, wise to his youngest son's fondness for his best friend.

❝Marty, why don't you let Verne and I bring that to the kitchen?❞ Emmett hadn't noticed his wife materialise in the doorway with that feline-like grace of hers, but he was grateful for her intervention all the same, as well as her infinite wisdom in knowing how to get the boys to cooperate.

❝It's a lovely cake.❞ She smiles as she lifts the sheet cake from the pile of gifts in Marty's hands and Verne follows with minimal prodding only after being assured that Marty was planning on sticking around for a while.

❝I'm sorry about the boys,❞ he says, finally able to give Marty his full attention and, in turn, the two rather large and colourful boxes balanced in his hands. ❝They're at that age now where they're constantly at each others' throats and Verne is always looking forward to you coming around—❞

❝Anyway, thank you, Marty.❞ He knows better by now than to launch into his usual spiel of how he didn't have to get him anything for his birthday—especially when Marty had pointed out on numerous occasions how hypocritical that was, seeing as he'd never let an occasion go by without having some kind of thoughtful gift already chosen for him—so he accepts the boxes pressed into his arms without any further comment on the matter.

One of the boxes, the one wrapped in striped paper, has considerably more weight to it than the other one, so much so it catches him off-guard. The expression on his face must say it all, for Marty grins in that just trust me on this one, Doc way of his and says, ❝You'll find out when you open it, so hurry up!❞

Emmett guides him toward the living room where either Clara or one of the boys has already tidied up what was left of their late breakfast and sets the boxes down on the table. Marty plops down onto one of the plush chairs, leaning forward expectantly, and though curiosity pulls Emmett's hands towards the striped box, something tells him that one is best saved for last.

Einie slowly lifts his heavy frame out of his dog bed and ambles over to the humans to join in the calmer festivities.

The polka-dot paper tears easily enough and Emmett laughs as he pulls the green shirt out of the box, admiring all the scientific paraphernalia strewn across the fabric. It's bold and vibrant, combining two of his favourite things, and Marty could've just given him this and he would have been over the moon.

But there's a second gift and by the time he gets the wrapping paper off, his eyes have gone wide. Uncharacteristically, he has no words to properly convey the appreciation he has for either his friend or the incredibly thoughtful gift. He pulls the clock out of the well-kept box and inspects the train model itself, suddenly flooded with memories of a life left behind in the Nineteenth Century, of dust and dirt and malady easily treated by today's medical practices, of the home and the life that he and Clara had built...

❝This doesn't look too far off from what the Train looked like before all the modifications to turn it into a time machine.❞ And if the clock functioned as it should, if he was a betting man, he'd wager it sounded exactly like the trains of those days, down to the deafening whistle.

He looks to Marty as he sets the clock down and smiles, pulling his friend into a hug. ❝Thank you, Marty. It's a wonderful gift.❞

A shuffle of feet across the floor interrupts the moment, followed by a startlingly bright flash of light. ❝Aw man, you opened 'em already?❞ Neither of them needed to see Verne's face to know he was pouting, not with that tone. ❝What'd you get, Dad?❞

[delfinoluma101]

Concept art for my OC, Vern Grant.

He’s the leader of the military for the Kingdom of Bouquets. Vern is stoic and stern but has a temper.

[spacecasewriter13]

When the Lights Go on Again by @spacecasewriter13

Fic Summary: It is May of 1946, over a year after his fall from the Hydra train and losing his left arm, and James "Bucky" Barnes is struggling to adjust. Working as an analyst at the New York City SSR branch, Bucky tries to put the war and all of its sorted memories behind him. However, try as he might he is plagued by thoughts of Magdalene "Maggie" Ramirez, a Women's Army Corps (WAC) Corporal he met in London and hasn't spoken to since before his fall in January of 1945. Little does he know that Maggie, in her struggle to put the war behind her, has moved to the city and looking for a job with the New York Bell Telephone Company as a switchboard operator. Now, by sheer dumb luck, they are reunited as they both fight come to terms with what they were to one another during the war, and work to figure out how to move forward in a world that was unprepared to deal with the consequences of war in the unsteady peace.

Chapter 16: Things We Did Last Summer

Chapter Summary: Bucky has a series of conversations with Maggie Ramirez and Daniel Sousa as he tries to decide what he wants, while also trying to come to grips with the fact that what he wants may imperil them both.

Excerpt:

Over the moon. That was how Bucky would describe how he was feeling, sitting on the park bench beside Ramirez. Particularly after the type of morning he’d thought they were going to have. He had arrived at the library early, and when he’d found that she wasn’t there had assumed the worst. Well, perhaps not the worst, but it had certainly been cause for an uptick in his anxiety as he’d waited, fretting if she was going to show up at all.

He’d only been partially relieved when she finally did arrive, her features pale and pinched, her expression guarded. Bucky had braced for what he’d expected to be a very difficult conversation.

It hadn’t been the easiest thing in the world, though he’d certainly had harder, but now (somehow) all of that tension had, for the moment anyway, all but melted away. And now they were here, reading a book together, content to pass some of their day in one another’s presence.

Bucky was elated.

They read until their voices grew hoarse, occasionally stopping so that Ramirez could poke and prod at Verne's science and write notes in her journal. Then they took a brief lunch around noon and afterward charged onward into the body of the book. As they did, Bucky watched as Ramirez shed the anxiety and uncertainty she'd been wearing like armor-plating when she'd first arrived. As they continued through the course of the morning and well into the afternoon, Bucky could tell she was becoming more and more relaxed as they went. Somehow, embodying the mental slot he'd constructed for her in his mind when he'd been cooped up at the ward at Walter Reed in the spring and summer of 1945.

He liked this version of her— soft, warm lines, easy smiles, and laughter. As Ramirez read, she became more enthusiastic, frequently gesturing with her free hand and gave Ardan an increasingly thicker and thicker French accent that verged on parody. Then when it was his turn to read, she listened with rapt attention, her eyes going distant, and he imagined her transported amongst the stars as their heroes floated through space.

He liked to see this side of her. Not the cold and stern lines and unreadable expression he'd become accustomed to. Not the sharp words and pinched features that had too often characterized their exchanges since May.

Not that Bucky could blame her. In fact, he didn't blame her at all for her wariness of him, her doubt of his intentions, the caution with which she moved and spoke and interacted with him. He had given her little reason to trust him, and now he knew he would have to win it back.

And she's testing me.

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