#acutal kings. my boys. my best boys. i love them so.

[maybe-boys-do-love]

So far, Kidnap the series, is BL-ing in all the right ways. It's light fare, but that's exactly what it aims for, and its hitting near the bullseye every episode. Just because its light doesn't mean its bad. Consider this my plea to everyone--for the sake of romance, BLs, and Thai BLs in particular--to stop equating dramatic naturalism with 'good' art. Kidnap is silly, sweet, and such a throwback to classic BLs--it's already hit most of the BL tropes. More importantly, Kidnap understands a major 'why' of BLs and light fare, and the series, itself, is depicting that 'why': they can give an overwhelming sense of reparation for queer people's buried traumas.

On the podcast Boys Love Boys Love, hosts and gay married couple Adam and RJ have been recapping their first watch of ITSAY (which very much broke open many traditions of the BL genre) with guests. In all three recaps so far, the guests and hosts have detailed vividly how, despite feeling 'proud' of their sexuality, BL shows allowed them to revisit painful experiences of isolation and abandonment in adolescence that occurred because of homophobia and then re-imagine an adolescence in which they weren't constantly on guard but instead experienced genuine adult care, friendship, and uninhibited explorations of first love. BL shows and their happy endings help queer people process griefs we don't realize we've suppressed.

I see a parallel to this experience in Kidnap as Min aids Q in coping with his acute PTSD, especially in the play acting scenes. Q can safely engage with his past experience and gain a sense of control and compassion over what he couldn't manage originally. Because I'm a performance dork at heart, the context of Ohm, the 'king of BLs,' leading Leng, an entirely green actor, within the show and through the actual process of acting in BLs doubles down on the theme. With each clear-from-outer-space romance beat, the show promises that this is a safe place to be vulnerable.

In the latest episode (episode 5), the series even began to reveal plot-relevance to its BL levity. We've all joked about Min's incompetency with all the crime he's been drawn into. After the first episode, the people on the internet chucked it up to a cheesy show disinterested in researching and committing to the realities of crime, but then James walked in the next week and called him out on it all. It was just Min, not the show. His exuberant care and desperation to please has led him, unsurprisingly, into a web of deception with no way out.

Brother Mhen laid it flat out this week: just because Min takes care of him doesn't mean he doesn't also provide kinds of care for his brother. Min, like any human-being, has his own weaknesses and issues of self-worth, and Q, with his savvy and prerogative of self-preservation learned from his upbringing, is positioned perfectly to provide the care and encouragement Min needs. I don't think the show has invited this comparison as directly, but it does make me think about how we figure the lighter BL shows and people like Ohm, a particularly evocative representative for creators in the industry, who endure controversies and vitriol to bring their best attempts to lighten the burdens of audiences.

For all the intense feelings ITSAY or The Eight Sense or The On1y One produced in me, I can recognize that their 'cinematic' style, with its naturalistic performances and precise camera work, is still just a style. It's not inherently better than shows recorded on sound-stages with more theatrical performance styles, though many critics and scholars have trained us to think that way. I Love Lucy, The Golden Girls, and shows like them are undeniably celebrated series that have no interest in approaching cinematic style.

Stable cameras, broader characters, and more absurd situations allow for subversive problems to be broached and tackled (and laughed at) while maintaining audience comfort. The slapstick and screwball comedy is one of the things I've adored about Thai BLs, in particular. The audience can feel for but not with the characters. And, that healthy distance is not to be diminished. Comfort can be a vitally important aesthetic experience, and the rules for judging genres that prioritize it are very different than those used for judging prestige tv and *poetic cinema.*

Too much realism would be detrimental to an action rom-com like Kidnap because the audience would no longer feel safe to laugh and coo about these characters in their situation. Although GMMTV is leaning more into its cinematography for BLs recently with this series and The Trainee (maybe toss Moonlight Chicken in there), I personally appreciate how they've maintained the genre's unpretentious sentimental tone, even as they've allowed creators to expand the breadth of the genre and address its problems. That tonal lightness allows us, in Kidnap, to safely dive into PTSD and perhaps our own experiences as queer adolescents with parents who left us unseen as we suffered alone; we trust the show will leave us and the characters resolved in the end.

But I don't want to mistake that kind of depth as the main point of BLs. Those are the undercurrents but we're meant to have fun here. You don't pull-up Miss Congeniality on your TV to understand the human condition. We like these characters, feel safe to open up our hearts, and trust, even as threats of death loom, queer love will conquer all.

[darling-deerest-dead]

Clock

Read on AO3

Tick tock, tick tock. James Potter's life has always been lived to the countdown of a clock. From a young age he was always acutely aware that his parents weren't like other people's parents.

"And this is my grandson, he's 5."

"Why, just the same as you Jamie! Why don't you boys go and have some fun." And that was a dismissal to run off and try to puzzle out what new game to play, with children that might or might not share a language with James. It never took long, however, because they all shared the common love of play which needed no words, only the willingness to join in.

Sometimes he'd overhear snippets of adult conversation, bits and pieces of "Oh, Euphemia but he's so little!" or "You're so brave, I could never do that again at this age!" or "But what will happen if you die?"

Old people, James had found, did not always possess filters between their cynical minds and loose tongues.

James parents weren't like other people's parents. They were more like grandparents and were constantly on the move from country to country, living in rented houses or hotel rooms for months and months on end. They were always showing James things, pointing out buildings and creatures or landmarks and stars. Telling him of shoes and ships and ceiling wax, of cabbages and kings.

"Here, little Oyster," his father would laugh, "Tell me what this says?" James learned to read from signboards and maps, he learned to ask directions of strangers in strange hats. All the natural timidity of childhood he gradually learned to discard, as his parents guided him through more new and strange tasks in lands more exotic than the other.

Much later he realised, this was his parents' last desperate attempt to introduce him to the world, while they themselves went on a farewell tour.

"Charlus, Dorea, Ralston! Merry Christmas, it's so good to see you." Christmastime was always spent in England. The village of Godric's Hollow lay under a blanket of snow that always made James wish for places like Bombay, Kuala Lumpur, or São Paulo where it was warm and sunny. He dreamed of drinking water from coconuts and swimming in the sea while he lived in a present that was enveloped by cold and frost.

"Don't be like that," his much older cousin Ralston would always tell him, "Come on, let's go build a snowman." And he'd bundle James up warmly and cast heating charms on their robes before dragging him out the door by the hand. Before long, it'd devolve into a snowball fight that Ralston always let him win.

Ralston was his appointed guardian if anything happened to both his parents. James knew this, so he tried to get along with Ralston as best as possible. Not that it was too hard, James was used to being charming and Ralston was a lot of fun.

He was not the same as James' parents.

Sometimes, he'd crawl into bed between them, terrified that today would be the day where the only stable pillars of his life left him all alone in the world.

It was irrational; their folk lived a long time.

But James had always lived in the shadow of the sound of the countdown of a clock.

That went tick tock, tick tock, before it chimed.

And then he grew up and there was a war going on, and the ticking of the clock grew louder and louder.

3, it took his parents.

2, it took his friends.

1, it took his wife.

0 —

[kohreeander]

Haikyuu!! but baseball

i started this on twitter but this needs more words for the full brain rot.

volleyball setters and baseball catchers are both extremely important while often being overlooked by casual spectators cause they aren't very flashy

setting in volleyball is extremely important to the offense. they have to be aware of not only where their hitters are, but also where the other team's players are on their court AND figure out how to best score a point. throw in the strict amount of rules they have and you get extremely disciplined players who are also super perceptive.

catchers, on the other hand, literally hold the defense together for the whole game. they are part of every single play, are very base-conscious, and never get a break so they have insane amounts of stamina. if you ever watch a baseball or softball game, pls pay attention to how much the catcher is doing on every single play, you'll be baffled by how much they do.

that being said i know exactly how every setter would catch

kageyama is the definition of a terrifying catcher. he calls all of the pitches himself and he is an asshole about it. he gets a lot of praise for his framing skills that trick even the best umpires into calling strikes. he is acutely aware of each of his teammate's strengths and will adjust them on the field mid-batter to guarantee an out. his fatal flaw is that he got ejected once for arguing with the umps over a check swing (he was right the umps were just bad that day)

suga, on the other hand, is deceptively laid back for a catcher. he has multiple unique call signs that are for the whole team, and often make it harder for coaches to steal their signs. where kageyama almost expects the other team to steal the signs and not pay attention to the defense's movement, suga gets them to move so obviously that they would never be able to guess what pitch is being thrown. like he has noya (ss) move in on the fourth batter, who in their right mind would then call a meatball down the middle?? suga would and it's fuckng insane

noya is a relief catcher. thats it

OIKAWA MY KING he is the perfect catcher. he knows his players perfectly, reads the other teams like open books, is very vocal in each play, is super athletic, looks hot in uniform he's perfect. he's so cocky about his throwing skills that he does run-downs with the ball still in his glove. it's terrifying and monstrous.

yahaba is the relief catcher. he only really gets put in when kyotani is pitching. i can't think of a reason right now but yeah. if he's not catching, he's in the outfield.

kenma is so fucking calm as a catcher. he's very smart and perceptive, but so is the rest of the team so he doesn't have to be as vocal as other catchers. most of the team knows what the play is by how he sets up in the box, and he's. very quick to adapt to strange pitches or hits. he is also not above calling change-ups over and over again on the same batter if it works. he has made many enemies this way I love him

i'm gonna make a dedicated post for semi and shirabu because their catching styles revolve heavily around ushijima, but the gist of it is that semi refuses to call a curveball for ushi so he gets benched for going against the coach's calls, and shirabu is more than happy to only call curveballs.

akaashi. the prettiest boy yes i love him. he is the most stressed catcher in history. he's very good at reading the field, and he is usually the one to call for a conference, not the coach. sometimes he gets too far into his head and makes some wrong calls, but it's nothing a good scream won't fix. his talent shines when he picks off a runner with a pass-ball. and bokuto throws an unfortunate amount of pass-balls.

atsumu is a fucking asshole behind the plate. he is talkative, loud, unfiltered. it is a miracle he has not been thrown out of a game. he will very often steal plays from the other teams. like every game. there is no escape from him. he shines mostly in his framing skills, but don't let that fool you. he will chase down a runner on the third baseline with no hesitation at full speed. he is a terrifying menace and is only made worse when his brother is pitching. both of them find joy in forcing a batter into striking themselves out. they are my nightmare combo.

there are so many teams i cant think of anything else right now.

[userpoe]

#the prettiest vigilantes 

[absolutebl]

This Week in BL

Oct 2021 Wk 2 

Being a highly subjective assessment of one tiny corner of the interwebs.

Ongoing Series - Thai

Bite Me Ep 7 (Viki) - The brother was a greta character but the dripping faucet was very stressful for someone living in drought country. Here’s my relationship with this drama: ARGH they are so cute, but so slow, but so cute, but so slow - OH look at the pretty food! - and more cute. 

Don’t Say No Ep 11 (Line) - Episode recaps here. Make it stop. 

My Mate Match (Line) Ep 2 - honestly the “there’s only one bed trope” is particularly amusing in this series. This ep was a little slow but dealing with real world-esk problems for the age bracket which I liked. 

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

Love is Science? (Taiwan - BL sub plot Viki) ep 17 - honestly OuWen’s understanding of Marks parents’ reaction, and the way he patiently explains how a child coming out can impact a family’s identity was really beautifully done. These two are such great characters and I love how the narrative keeps twisting the expectations and reactions around their narrative arc counteracting what most BL plot lines would give us. Mark is the bold outgoing one, even though he’s newly queer. OuWen is a confident gay, but he’s the one who practices empathy and explains identity struggles of the hets to his militant boyfriend. You can really see why they love each other. OuWen loves that Mark is willing to fight for him and for them - that’s loyalty, while Mark loves how OuWen changes both Mark and the way Mark views the world - that’s trust. They don’t have much screen time but unlike most BLs we see them slowly developing the foundation for a truly long lasting relationship with honest communication and trust. It’s very grown up or them. 

The Tasty Florida (Korea - Viki) Ep 7 & 8 fin - subs were a bit naff on these final two eps, and the love triangle is a little underdeveloped for the amount of emotion, but then so was this whole series. All in all, I’d call it sweet and fluffy, sunshine boy saves grumpy chef from himself. slightly unnecessary love triangle and everyone was very pretty. RECOMMENDED 

Innocent (Taiwan - grey)  Ep 1-2 - man involved in relationship with a boy with multiple personalities, higher heat, it’s a bit too weird for me. Not sure if I’ll finish it. I do kinda like that the seme is basically: So I’m in a poly relationship with one person? That’s cool I guess. 

Vanishing My First Love AKA Kieta Hatsukoi (Japan - indie subbed) Ep 1 - live action yaoi series that looks to be 10 eps of 25 min each. This is a mistaken identity = love triangle drama. Hashimoto has a crush on Ida. Aoki has a crush on Hashimoto. Aoki finds out the girl he likes is into Ida and through a series of mishaps, Ida thinks Aoki has a crush on HIM. Takes this seriously. All three are very earnest and sweet and trying to do the right thing. Japan can get pretty over-expressive and cartoonish with their manga adaptations and this is no exception. Why does one half of the couple always have to be SUCH A SPAZ? (Yes I AM thinking of Cherry Magic.) I suffered acute second hand embarrassment but I did chuckle, it’s just those chuckles are pretty painful. This is more Ossan’s Love than it is Seven Days but it could go Cherry Magic meets Light On Me if it plays it’s cards right, so I’m sticking with it. Tropes are coming thick and fast, already we got lie loom, wall loom, and rooftop assignation: Japan is apparently back in BL to remind us JAPAN STARTED IT ALL, SUCKERS! 

In Case You Missed It

Love With Benefits got a trailer and is supposed to start on Line (in Thailand) on Nov. 1. It’s another quarantine forced proximity (cohabitation) project with a love triangle. It looks a lot like My Mate Match. First, Play, and Pluto have to stay under the same roof for 10 days. Will love blossom? Stars Gameplay (Ingredients) and Best (I am Your King, Skinship, Check Out). No info on the third and he doesn't’ look familiar to me. Love Triangles are in fashion ya’ll.  (thanks @heretherebedork​ for the tip and @maru-x-idrew​ for the date) 

Strongberry dropped a new K-BL microfilm: Please Tell Me So. It’s a sweet little barista has a crush on his regular and can he work up the courage to confess. As usually from Strongberry tit’s on point a very well done. Go spend 8 minutes with these two cuties. 

Small (but reliable) Thai production house Mandee released their 2022 BL line up (all of which I reported on already but this is MORE data). (I’m moving them off the 2021 report as a result.) 

Cutie Pie (featuring Zee from Why R U?) is an arranged marriage romance which has added established pair MaxNat to their roster. For which we are, of course, eternally grateful. Also new pair of unknowns. For which were a nervous. I don’t like it when a BL has too many pairs in it. Loses focus. 

Middleman’s Love and Bed Friend which used to be the same BL, Middle Love (with the couple from Bed Friend as the side dishes), but seem to have been divided into two smaller BLs instead. Presumably for quarantine reasons. 

Ride or Die released another trailer for Quaranthings 2. 

Boys Lockdown has been in production on season 2. 

(@bengiyo reporting in from the Filipino drama front lines) 

GOSSIP!

New Thai BL NilunDon has been cast and is supposed to air an ep 0 teaser on Oct 31 (Gaga) with 12 eps in the series. Hurt/comfort about a hotel heir who returns to Thailand to deal with a death in the family where he meets and falls in love with a barista. Familiar faces: Nut from 2016′s domestic family trauma-llama BL Grey Rainbow (he’s WONDERFUL, but DON’T WATCH IT) and Tie (from The Effect of all things, also DON’T WATCH IT). There will also be a friends to lovers GL couple. 

Bad Buddy got its official trailer from GMMTV and a drop date of October 29. They pulled the original teaser trailer (which I actually likes better) but I am still very excited for this show. 

Two new Vietnamese BLs in the works! @heretherebedork reporting, of course (our source for all things V-BL). 02 Productions (Nation’s Brother, Most Peaceful Place) is filming Cinderfella and release some BTS footage. 02 is responsible for the 2nd Vietnamese BL we know of in existence, The Ring Goes Missing from 2018, which they are now turning into a full series called The Lost Ring (college kid takes work as a houseboy for rich asshole who falls in love with him). I’ll put both these onto 2022′s master tracking list because there’s no other way to track them, since MDL doesn’t list Vietnamese stuff. 

Next Week Looks Like This:

Some shows may be listed later than actual air date for International subs accessibility reasons.

My Sweet Dear starts next week, new Korean BL on Viki!

Upcoming 2021 BL master post here.

Links to watch are provided when possible, ask in a comment if I missed something.

This week’s best moments?

(from the Bad Buddy trailer, look at GMMTV being all cutely self referential.) 

* Sorry this is late, I’m on the move again. 

[vicious-vixxxen]

Tenya Iida X Male Reader: 7 Minutes in Heaven

Been working on this for a minute, thought it was about time I showed this boy some love! Hope you guys enjoy :3  ((Totally SFW, but things do get a wee bit steamy. Enjoy ;3))

“Unbelievable! The level of unprofessionalism from class 1A no less! This is a highly inappropriate way to be spending our free time! It should be spent honing our abilities to their greatest potential, and encouraging each other to bl-“  “Iida...Iida please for the love of god /stop/.” Snatching one of the other boys chopping hands by the wrist, your free hand settled on Iida’s chest to pat gently. “For someone who didn’t put up much of a fight getting tossed in here, you sure won’t shut up about it.” You mused, smirk evident in your tone

Despite the closet being too dark to tell; the only light the thin, dim strips around the doorframe- one of which caught the corner of Tenya’s glasses, and reflected back on the boys flushed cheek. Whether they were like that because of the intensity of his ramblings, or the situation at hand, was still yet to be determined.  “I beg your pardon?” Iida nearly gasped, and you snorted despite yourself. Keeping your hold on the larger boys wrist firm, even as he tried to continue his chopping motion out of it. “I assumed my protests would be considered before they’d have a chance to get us in here, and despite our combined abilities to escape, the rules of the game are very clear and seeing as how we’re here now I don’t see the point in not participating. As class 1A’s representative it’s imperative I encourage the other students to socialize and become a more cohesive unit. Even if it means doing ridiculous things like this, DESPITE protest.”

You’d almost, /almost/ landed on Kaminari. Who had you hurt in a past life to deserve this?

“So you’re unwilling to participate because you’re too busy scolding the other participants for wanting to participate. In a game in which you deem inappropriate, but will still abide by it’s rules. While the same time doing anything but. Did I get that right?” You asked, even unsure yourself.

“Well, I-“ “Is it cuz I’m a dude?” You asked suddenly, genuinely curious. Tenya balked. “O-of course not!” No further elaboration. You smiled. Now you were getting somewhere.

“Then I believe we have about five more minutes for you to get with the program Iida.” Finally letting his wrist go, you brought your hand down towards your face. Checking the watch you didn’t have intently, hoping he could see, for effect if anything, before bringing your hand down to rest on Iida’s hip gently. Snickering at how stiff his stance was, as he tensed impossibly tighter. “It’s just kissing,” You reminded him quietly, squinting in the dark to catch the blush high on his cheeks deepen. Iida was significantly taller than you, but he was acutely conscious of the fact. Shifting his knees, and hunching over slightly to bring himself in closer. More on reflex than anything. Until now he hadn’t quite realized he was primed for the taking, so to speak, and attempted to shift back, but finding the wall just as unyielding to his back as it had been when you’d entered together. A sweat broke out across his forehead, and Tenya began to take the most soft, shallow breaths of his entire life. “You have kissed someone before...haven’t you Iida?” You asked, usual playfulness gone, as you slowly started to piece together the sudden intensity behind Tenya’s protests of the game from the very beginning.  “Kissing...not that it is any of your business, I was under the impression was to be saved for someone you cared a great deal about. Someone special. Not a fellow classmate in a musty closet in our dorms!” Iida hissed, but there was no real heat behind it. Mostly..nerves. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” You asked, curious as to the others mind. Iida may not have cracked your top three since arriving at UA, friend wise, but he was a good guy, with a heart of gold, and a powerful personality. If not always the most easily digested. Point is, he was good. And sweet. And handsome. And you, as were your fellow classmates when the idea of drawing names for 7 minutes in heaven arose, were really in the mood to kiss /someone/. And Tenya made a good partner If he’d just be a little quieter. That’s all. “Well yes, but-“  “And you care about me?” You interrupted, smiling at the grunt of frustration the taller boy let out. A puff of hot breath ghosting across your cheeks from above, sending goosebumps down the back of your neck. Minty. And warm. Perfect, actually.  “Of course! But that’s hardly-“ “So what’s the deal? Loosen your tie a bit and just kiss me, jet boy. Plenty of time in the future to give the most special kisses to the most special people. Right now...how about starting with giving me just one?”

Your voice was quiet as you slid your hand up from Iida’s waist to his chest to join your other, a barely whispered ‘please’ in the dark. Iida stared down at you, his own hands twitching, before they came up to meet yours. He’d had every intention of removing them, setting them back at your own sides, but when you’d gripped his shirt, and leaned up on your toes to brush your nose along his jaw, he’d frozen. Gripping your wrists tightly, just hanging on really. “Mm...you smell nice.” Leave it to Tenya to casually wear the most expensive, mouth watering cologne to a dorm sleepover. Who was he, a Giorgio Armani sponsor! Sheesh.  “...thank you,” Tenya gasped finally, as you nipped at his chin- barking out a laugh, so loose and carefree, Tenya couldn’t help the way his shoulders dropped minutely in response. Maybe...maybe.

“Alright then.” Iida agreed. Stealing himself for the inevitable, though he’d be lying if he said the beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead weren’t because of how soft the plushness of your lips felt trailing up towards his own bitten ones. He’d never quite considered something like this happening to him, at school of all places. Tenya had a firm idea of what he’d come to UA to do, how he’d accomplish it, and how he’d feel after achieving all his goals. Going pro. There really was no time for any straying from that.  Bakugou, for instance, for all the glaring faults Tenya found in his personality, was admirable in that at least he had a similar mindset, albeit a more extremist one...goal oriented to the max. And Tenya did admire it, strived for something similar. He’d never quite struck gold when it came to friends before UA, maybe because they’d never quite understood why he worked so hard to get to the next step, and the next step. But here, his classmates understood the importance of their classes. Their position. ...well, most of them did. And yet here he was now, backed into a literal corner, clammy hands holding tight to y/n’s wrists as the smaller boy continued to whisper random nonsense against Tenya’s chin- his cheek. All because he wanted to appeal more to his peers. Figures. Not that he was complaining. Not anymore, at least. “Ready?” You asked, nerves nearly getting the best of you now too as you focused in on the glint of light in Iida’s glasses again- frowning briefly, and nudging the boys chin with yours to get him to move just enough for the light to reflect in the deep pool of blue that was his eye. Sparkling, and searching. You’d expect nothing less from the class rep. God, he was handsome.. “As I’ll ever be, I suppose,” Tenya whispered, meaning for it to come out more sure, and failing miserably. You were already keyed up enough to be crowned the king of sexual frustration, so you wasted no time in letting out a soft ‘hm’ of confirmation, before leaning in and sealing your lips fully over Iida’s. You’d be lying if you said you’d never imagined just how plush his lips would actually feel. Sure it was something you’d fantasized about with /most/ of the guys in class, but Iida especially. He had great lips. And fuck, they felt nice against yours. Not too soft, not too rough. Plush, like a pillow. Fuck, you wanted to bite them. To tug on his lower lip till he mewled into your mouth. Shit.

Moving your hands tentatively at first, as they were still being held firm by Iida. you slid them up and over his shoulders, hesitating briefly before allowing them to slide further up to cup the boy on either side of his neck. Squeezing there briefly as you pulled away.  “This okay?” You asked, thumbs brushing over Iida’s jaw, words whispered against his lips, you were still they close. “...y-yes, yes that’s alright.” He was too quiet to be sure, but something told you Iida was coming undone at a rapid pace.  “Would another be alright then? We don’t have to, I don’t want you to-mph!-“ and Iida’s lips were back on yours. More insistent, more sure. Firm and soft and you moaned, quietly, still conscious of your classmates on the other side of the door, but just barely.  “Sorry...sorry, I...I’m so sorry, y/n,” Iida huffed, grip just as tight on your wrists as before as he broke away suddenly, guilt wracking his system immediately as he intended to pull away, because what the hell was that?! He’d just-

“No, Iida, please...come on, don’t do me like that, I want it. More...come on,” you pleaded, breathless and giddy at how he’d taken control. On the one hand, of course he would. But on the other, this was /kissing/, and it was /Iida/. What even? Iida’s lips parted in a soft ‘o’, body flushing with heat at how your pleas seemed to effect him. “Okay.” Clearing his throat, his words coming out too husky for his own liking, Iida finally, FINALLY, moved his own hands. Thinking suddenly of movies, and how people kissed there. He could do that. Iida’s hands were on your hips then, gentle, yet sure. Cupping there, finding his footing. Iida finally seemed comfortable leaving one against your hip, the other flat against the small of your back to bring you in close. Whoa. Hadhis hands always felt so big?

Shit.

“Move your lips how I move mine,” you instructed, breath ghosting the shell of Iida’s ear, and you bit your lip gently when Iida nodded. Eager. Fuck.  And you were kissing again. More urgent this time, a few presses of lips, before you began to move. The quiet of the closet being broken by the rustling of your clothes, the slick sound of your lips, and both of your needy breaths. Iida was a skilled learner, and it was almost scary how that transferred over to kissing. Pausing when you move your lips against his in a certain way. Savoring it, before applying it back to you. “It’s concerning how good you are at this,” you laughed softly against his lips, Iida rewarding you with a little breath of a huff in return as his grip on your hip tightened, and he sealed your lips once again. Urgent. Needy.

You could relate. Soon enough you found one arm curled around Iida’s neck, your other hand holding firm to the crop of hair on his head as he kissed you. A shift in stance caused his hand to drop to the outside of your thigh, and on instinct, you’d lifted your leg to Iida’s hip,

Iida hadn’t even hesitated to grip your thigh and hike your leg up higher, bringing your middles closer together, and what? What the fuck? Since when did he know how to do that?! “Shit,” you hissed, overwhelmed by how turned on you were. It was embarrassing, but so good.

“Language,” Iida whispered, not missing a beat, pushing his head up into your hand briefly, encouraging, before kissing you /again/.

Jesus, he was good. It was kind of ridiculous how so. “Ah,” you cried before you could stop yourself, when Iida’s grip on your thigh shifted and tightened, palm held firm over the sensitive underside, and you had to stop. Lips sliding from Iida’s, along his cheek, and down into the crook is his neck. “Are...are you alright?” Iida panted, trying to pull back to look at you- as best he could in the dark- but you held tight to his hair, keeping him in place, as you caught your breath. ‘Look at me’ you thought, nodding your head against Iida’s shoulder, ‘coming apart like a fucking virgin!’ Which, you were...kind of, the specifics of previous encounters were still vaguely juvenile enough for you not to count them

“Just...,” pausing, you took a breath. Blowing it out through your nose, and closing your eyes as you began to litter Iida’s neck with kisses. “-sensitive, down there, is all. But it’s good. Very good.”

Iida was too quiet, tense all of the sudden for an entirely different reason, and you were all too aware of where his brain was probably going. “My /thigh/, Iida, your holding my thigh like you’re about to pitch a softball, and it feels really nice- just caught me off guard, is all.”

Patting him on the head, you evened out your breathing finally, just being for a few long moments, as Iida stood still. “...this is much more-ah...much more than I’d imagine it being.” Iida spoke softly, fingers playing nervously against the back of your thigh. “How incredibly vague,” you teased, giggling quietly, before the both of you were a fit of laughter. Iida’s deep, boisterous sound like music to your ears. Had he ever laughed like that in front of you before?

You vowed to make it happen more often, in any case. “You know what I mean,” he added finally, allowing your leg to slip from his grasp, bringing both hands back to your hips to squeeze gently. Tentatively. Your breath faltered briefly, imagining suddenly getting to feel this again. Whenever you wanted. What an idea. Your face was too hot then, even more so than before, and you hoped Iida couldn’t sense it as you pressed even deeper into his neck. Scratching idly through his hair, fingers skirting across the seam of his undercut.  “If you applied this kind of enthusiasm into your studies, you wouldn’t be scrambling to study with Kaminari last minute, you know.” Iida added simply.  “Excuse you?!” You shouted, no heat behind it as you reeled back, staring at the general area of Iida’s head in faux shock.

“If Midoriya and Uraraka didn’t steal you away all the time, /maybe/ I’d have asked you to study with me at some point. Once you and Yaomomo are busy the pickings are slim, you know. Kiri asked me to join he and Bakugou once...but hard pass, as I don’t particularly like being slammed over the head by our textbooks.” Iida stilled briefly, before sighing and nodding his head dejectedly.  “His methods are almost cruel, yet his results are unquestionable. Kirishima has been doing much better lately. At the cost of his physical and mental health though, which in the long run could have some serious long lasting effects.”

“Oh my mental health is constantly on the verge anyways, so that would be fine.” You joked, snickering as you were pulled back rather harshly, for Iida to get a good look at you no doubt.

Good luck with that in the dark, pal, you thought.  “Kidding, kidding. Kind of. Anyways, point is, if you’d make yourself more available to other students, maybe I’d pick your brain about the homework sometime.”

“I...suppose I have grown comfortable with my own study group- and as class rep it’s imperative I take initiative to make sure each one of us is reaching their full potential, whether it be studying, or during combat.” Iida mumbled. If his hands hadn’t been firm on your hips, you swore they’d be chopping the air around your head. “I don’t need as much oversee as Kaminari. I apply myself when it counts, so if you could spare even an hour or two on the weekend to answer some of my more pressing questions it would be a big help,” you explained, awkwardly untangling yourself from Iida as you cleared your throat. The mood not entirely broken, but you couldn’t very well sit in here and make out with Iida all night.

 Unfortunately. “Of course! Your room is right down the hall from mine after all, it’ll be easy to navigate and configure the perfect time to study. We-“ he paused, hands up in the air somewhere, you could hear the whooshing. “I don’t care much for movies, and the others will be thoroughly entertained enough with this game after us anyhow, if you’d like to go back to my room and set up a study plan?” He offered, and you couldn’t help the way your heart thumped madly once more at the offer. They’d decided on one of your favorite movies tonight, and you’d promised Kami a running commentary.

Oh well, “Let me fix your hair, and you’ve got a deal. Last thing you need is everyone thinking I defiled you in here.”

Pulling your phone from your pocket, and face the screen straight up, you unlocked it- the bright light from the screen illuminating the closet just enough to see. Snorting, you took in Iida’s fluffed up hair, sticking up at odd angles, vaguely reminiscent of Midoriya’s.

“A willing defilement , I suppose, but a defilement nonetheless if we’re being technical,” Iida supplied quietly, as you fussed over his hair. “Willing indeed, you lug. Who would have guessed the class rep would get so /handsy/.” You teased, smiling brightly at the wide eyed expression Iida supplied in return. “And don’t apologize, I...I haven’t kissed many people, but that was definitely the best kiss of my entire life. Something to be proud of. I guess..” You tried to sound nonplussed, but given the new light, it wasn’t hard for Iida to see your blush. “I’ve never kissed anyone, but I can’t imagine it gets better than that,” Iida offered quietly, blush high on his cheeks to match yours.

You both paused, Iida staring down at you, you up at him. Your hands back on either side of his neck, hair as good as it was going to get. ‘Maybe we could do it again sometime’ the little voice in your mind screamed, but the last thing you wanted to do was push Iida. This was just a one time thing. But hey, maybe it meant being closer friends...which was even better, if you were honest with yourself. “We should uh...get going. Out there. The sooner we retreat back to your room, the better. They’ll be hounding as soon as he step out.” Sliding your hands down Iida’s broad chest, you patted twice there just for effect, before snatching up your phone. Steeling yourself for the hoots and hollers, and nagging questions everyone before you had endured. An eye roll all prepped as you stepped out of the closet, missing the way Iida stared after you, if only briefly. Brushing off the wish of you, with your loud personality, and lack of filter, to offer up more of something he couldn’t bring himself to ask for. He couldn’t find the words. He’d hoped you could. Or would. But that was alright. Late at night, after everyone had gone to bed, and the lingering scent of your own cologne faded from Iida’s room, he’d still have the memory of your lips on his. Your voice, soft and needy in his ear. Your thigh heavy, and hot in his palm.  Yeah...that would do. For now, at least.

[homosexual-fast-dancer]

So I just found out from @wisp-herr that it's my pops birthday! Decided to write a little fanfiction for it :D

(Also this is featuring Lottie her s/i!)

"Hey, Shige-Chan, you almost done?" Cherry shouted at the boy as he stood on a ladder, putting up bunting. He hummed tacking on the last piece of bunting before going to step off of the ladder and face her with a small smile. "I hope Master likes this." He looked around the room nodding acutely at his work, while she just continued grinning with a small shrug. "Eh he's gonna love it! Pops is all for this kinda thing." She gave him a thumbs up before turning to Serizawa who was using his psychic powers to sort out the balloons.

"So, Mr Serizawa, what did you get for him? Personally, I got him a pretty neat mug." She lifted the orange box, rattling it around a little. "Oh, Miss Arataka, I got him an Elvis vinyl." He smiled at her lifting up a purple package himself. She beamed at him giggling slightly. "Good stuff, you know how dad is with his Elvis. Thinks he's the King reincarnate." She laughed thinking about how often he would dance to the man when no one else was in the office.

"How bout you Shige?" She looked back to him and he raised a box of his own. "Ties." He handed her box to which she grinned at it, placing it on top of her orange one. As she heard the door open she immediately blurted out, "How about you Lottie?" She smiled at the woman to which she returned but still replied rather curtly with "Nothing. Me being here should be good enough."

A wicked idea grew in her head as she nodded and replied with a "Fair enough." She then grabbed the now empty box that used to contain the decorations bringing it over to her. "You're a gift you say?" She giggled slightly at the absurdity of the idea. "Seriously?" Lottie raised an eyebrow, before shrugging and getting into the box. "C'mon it'll be funny, may even scare him a little." She hummed in reply as Cherry covered the box poking in little holes.

A few moments later they finally heard the rattle of the door handle, causing Cherry to run over to Reigen giving him a big hug. "Happy birthday Pops!" She grinned almost shouting in his ear as she pulled him over to the makeshift table. "Open mine first!" She giggled forcing the box into his hands, he smiled back at her tearing off the wrapping. Inside was a mug that read #1 Dad, with a poorly latched on "Of The 21st Century". He grinned in delight at the kind of tacky corniness of the gift, "Oh it's perfect." He beamed placing it on his desk for the whole world (or at least his employees) to see.

As he took the rest of the gifts he placed them all on his desk looking at the bounty he acquired, yet what really caught his eye was the huge box with orange, grey, and purple paper on it. "Cherry, what's that?" He smiled at her before she broke out into a small laugh. "Yeah, the best gift of the day! …Besides mine course." She pushed the box over to him. He smiled wearily before opening it hesitantly, when out jumped Lottie making him scream a little.

"Oh Lord! L-Lottie, what were you even doing in there? I thought it was your day off." He grabbed his chest as his breathing began to slow. "Yeah, well you're lucky I like you." She smiled at him and as their eyes turned tender, Cherry grinned deviously cupping her hands to her mouth shouting out. "Now, kiss!" Causing them to immediately turn away from each other only taking small glances at the other from time to time.

[honeybeezx]

Armor - Oberyn Martell x Reader x Ellaria Sand - Part 1

Author’s Note: Hey everyone! So this is the first fic I’ve ever posted on tumblr, low key kinda scary😄 But this man and his paramour have been on my mind for the longest. This is a self insert fic, but I don’t really use “Y/N”. Hope you enjoy and any feedback would be great!

Summary: You are an assassin hired by Tyrion to act as extra security alongside Bronn. He brings you back to King’s Landing just as the boy king Jeoffry Baratheon plans to marry the cunning Margaery Tyrell. But with all the guests roaming around, you begin to wonder who is a friend and who is a foe. No one makes you wonder more than the famed prince from Dorne and his captivating paramour.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of murder, allusions to sex

—————

You never knew anything in the seven kingdoms could make you feel so small. It wasn’t as if you’d ever let it show. You held your head high, walking alongside Tyrion as both of you entered the great hall of the throne room, Bronn on the opposite side of your employer. The Red Keep was even bigger than you had imagined it to be. The throne room was the tallest room you had ever seen. Against the dark ceiling the columns looked as if they stretched up into the night sky.

Every eye in the palace was on the three of you, and you felt no one’s eyes more than Cersei’s. You held her gaze. A woman who lived in luxury her whole life did not frighten you. She may have influence, but you had experience, strength, freedom, and skill with your bow that you were now acutely aware was strapped to your back. Having the protection of Tyrion’s influence and connections and Bronn’s strength and skill with a sword brought a sense of comfort, allowing you to remain calm under such scrutinizing gaze.

“Brother.” Cersei greeted with a soft smile that failed to hide all the vileness in her heart. “You come with friends.”

“Oh no, more like bodyguards. We have so many enemies now a days sister, I like to know I’m protected.” Tyrion smirked, leaving Bronn chuckling. You, on the other hand, would not let your intimidating demeanor fade, remaining as stoic and unyielding as the stone columns that held up the palace you wished to see fall. “May I introduce Bronn, Lord of Highgarden and-“

“Yes, I know all about the Silver Hawk from the North. I wonder if you are half as good as they say you are.” She mocked, her tone anything but genuinely curious. “I am told that you can hit your target 200 meters away and steal their breath before they even know what hit them.” If you didn’t know any better you’d think she was impressed, even if she did look at you as if you were the lowest creature she ever beheld.

“Perhaps I will have an opportunity to display my skills while I am here, your grace.” You’ll see first hand when my arrow is aimed just above your crooked neck.

“Perhaps.” She replied, feigning as much sweetness as a ferrel cat.

The both of you narrowed your eyes at each other. There was no outright exchange of harsh words or petty language, but the furious tension between the two of you was enough to fill the entire hall with uncomfortable silence. You hoped your unyielding gaze scared her. You wondered how many people actually defied her, you wondered how long it would take to get under her skin.

“Yes, well.” Tyrion interrupted, knowing you were bubbling with anger. Cersei was too, and although you allowed her to see your own emotions, it please you a bit to know you could anger her just as easy. You hated Lannisters almost more than anything, but you also knew Cersei’s time would come. She would pay for her crimes, fate would decide her end. You knew that fate had not brought you here to slay the queen regent, as much as you despised her. “As much as I love chatting with you sister, I simply wanted our arrival to be known. We have much unpacking to do and much to discuss.”

“Be careful, little brother.” She warned. “Your guard has little reserve and it seems your little silver hawk has a silver tongue as well. You would be wise to remember that people have been killed for that and less.”

“I’ll be sure to keep very close watch over them.” Tyrion retorted sarcastically before turning on his heal and exiting the great hall. You and Bronn followed, the later unable to contain his amusement.

“I’d say that went well!” He quipped, smiling at both you and your employer.

“She didn’t call to chop off our heads, that is some relief.” Tyrion noted. “But you both must be careful, especially you.” His scrutinizing gaze met yours.

“What? You expected me to just let her try and hold some dominate power over me? Just because she is draped in finest jewels in the seven realms and hides behind the her father’s influence does not mean I will tremble like a child before her.”

Tyrion sighed. “You must, for now, hold your tongue. Your wit does you credit, that’s why I like you, but you must check yourself. My sister is more dangerous than you can imagine. Don’t tremble, but don’t overstep either.” You remembered that Tyrion had been playing the game his whole life, he was basically born into it. He knew his sister better than anyone, and that meant he knew how to get around her better than anyone. You made a note to observe exactly what made Cersei tick, what made her preen under her usually reserved demeanor.

Despite the warm tones of the palace, you felt as though you were walking on ice. One wrong step and you were dead under a frozen tundra. You didn’t like this at all. Tyrion promised your freedom would not be at risk, yet you felt the freedom to speak your mind, the freedom to do as you pleased slip from you more and more. You were being watched here, you weren’t stupid. Every move had to be calculated, every word like honey laced with poison. The faster the boy king could marry, the less people there were for you to worry about. It made you uncomfortable not knowing who was an ally and who was a foe. The one thing you could appreciate about Cersei was that you always knew where you stood with her.

“I will try to remain civil if she approaches me, otherwise I will avoid your sister to the best of my abilities. But she would be wise not to challenge my reserve.” I huffed, earning a laugh from Bronn.

“Your reserve, little hawk, will be undone, whether it be from your words or your arrows.” He teased. You gave him a shove and he stumbled a bit, but not much. The last thing you needed was the oaf calling you “little”.

“The sooner we are out of this horrid place the better.” You huffed.

“I agree,” Tyrion agreed, nodding in understanding, “but don’t hold your breath. There is so much to be done before my nephew’s wedding and I will be relying on both of you to help me. While I am arranging more intimate details with my family, you two will be protecting me, but also doing some side tasks that I will not have time for. Bronn, for the most part you will be either at my side or Shae’s. If the palace discovers her they will use her against me. She can’t be found.”

Shae, Tyrion’s lover of sorts. You had grown close to her on your travels. You were wary at first. Your job was to protect Tyrion, naturally, you were cautious of anyone who might try to hurt him, to get close to him only for information or power. But it was a tough business, out spying a spy, and all your instincts told you to trust Shae. She had not left any of you astray thus far, and though the couple had not named their relationship, you could tell Tyrion and Shae cared immensely for each other. But Tyrion was right, she could be used as a pawn against him, especially if Cersei found out.

There was a sort of kinship between you and Shae. You were both strong, clever women, and she had tended to the few wounds you found yourself with on your travels. She seemed like a sister, and you were grateful for the company and friendship she provided.

“As for our favorite archer, you will be assisting some guests, getting information. I want to know the people attending this wedding, I want to ensure that this wedding goes smoothly. The Tyrell’s are a powerful ally, we cannot lose them.”

You nodded in understanding. Tyrion hired you to protect him, yes, but archery was not your only strength. You could be quiet, and you could listen as well as you could speak. You knew he would ask that of you with all the guests roaming around. You were curious to know what King’s Landing was really like, and even more interested in knowing the people who came here. “Ask it of me and it will be done.”

“Aye.” Bronn agreed.

“You are the most trusted of friends.” Tyrion gave the smallest of smiles. You were hesitant to even be in his service when the lord found you and offered you a job, afraid of losing your freedom. You knew the Lannisters, you knew their foul and power-hungry disposition. Being in their service seemed to you signing your life away. You were surprised to find he did not wish to take such things from you. He hired both you and Bronn to protect him, yes, but he would do the same for you both. You were an odd sort of family, but a family nonetheless. “Get settled and rested for the evening, we’ve had a long journey. We will reconvene later to discuss further plans.”

You nodded and left to your new chamber, one just across from Bronn and down the hall from Tyrion.

The trio was still not aware of the Red Viper slithering about the halls.

——————

Days passed with little to do. You hadn’t seen much of Tyrion. Since your arrival at King’s Landing your employer had become hand to his nephew king and married the pretty Stark girl you later learned was named Sansa. Still, you found ways to spend your time, keeping eyes and ears open for any useful information. You were particularly interested in Joffrey. It was astounding how a little boy could hold so much power, so much evil. You figured he inherited his terror from his mother.

Sansa was an interesting girl as well. Your heart broke for her. She was nothing if not resilient, staying loyal to her betrothed if only to keep herself alive. She was smart, you learned, but not useful when attempting to gather information. She did not deny her loyalty to Joffrey, even to those she liked. You were grateful that Tyrion stepped in to propose to the poor girl, if only to save her from the tyrant king. Both you and Shae kept close eyes on her. She was as smart and clever as Shae and yourself. You had a sneaking suspicion that she could be a close ally, if only your little family could get her away from the palace.

But today was different. Today you left your quarters to explore the palace a bit. You wanted to know what sort of battleground you were working with. It seemed surprising that a palace that was so heavily targeted was so...open. It seemed like light could illuminate any room. Even the gloomy and foreboding throne room could not escape a few beams of sunlight. If you didn’t despise every Lannister crawling about the palace, you had a mind to stay. The palace was only under the allusion of being warm and charming, the people who inhabited it ruined any chance of it being a lovely place. You noticed that the open windows and balconies made perfect outlooks should you need to eliminate a threat with one of your silver arrows.

But for now, the open windows became your place of peace as you ate a bowl of berries, just watching the rest of the sunrise. You saw the sun just barely grace the city with its light before you were called into Tyrion’s chambers. You arrived promptly, Bronn stumbling in a few minutes after you. You rolled your eyes at his lack of punctuality, which only earned you a playful nudge from the Lord of Highgarden.

“Behave you two. I swear I am dealing with children.” Shae huffed, but you could tell behind her sharp features was an air of mischief. Still, you straightened up and diverted your full attention to Tyrion.

“Well, much has happened. Prince Oberyn has arrived in The Capital. I visited him yesterday morning and he made it very clear that he wants to kill any Lannister that he sets his sights on. My father apparently ordered the death of his sister and her children. Our goal, for now, is to keep him happy, to keep him entertained. Bronn, your job will be to appear inconspicuous as you keep a watchful eye over my quarters, make sure no one goes in or out.” He ordered.

Shae huffed. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself thank you.” She huffed.

“No one disputes that my dear.” Tyrion chuckled. You remember watching Shae stab a man she did not want for laying a finger on her. “I’m not worried about you. But my sister and my king nephew are very powerful. They will know how to use you against me.” He explained. Shae still was not pleased with the idea, but she relented.

“As for our hawk,” he turned to you and gave you a list with names you did not recognize, “you will present these girls to Prince Oberyn in my place. You will tell him that royal duties as the king’s new hand have prevented me from revisiting him, but you hope he enjoys the whores as a welcoming gift to King’s Landing.”

“Excuse me?!” You snapped your eyes narrowing in on your employer. “I am not a squire whose job is to bring in girls for spoiled princes!”

“Do not think of it as that.” Tyrion poured himself a glass of wine, knowing that he should chose his next words very carefully. He could feel your eyes burning into him. “Consider it a diplomatic mission. Besides, the prince wishes to meet you. The legends of the Silver Hawk have reached so far as Dorne and he is eager to make your acquaintance. This is the perfect opportunity for the both of you.”

You still weren’t pleased. “So I am now to serve as entertainment for the prince of Dorne.” You sighed and shook your head. “I am only staying long enough to bring him the girls, then I’m leaving.”

“Fine,” Tyrion relented. “But you will be cordial to the prince. Don’t be deceived by his charming words, he stabbed one of my cousins for a few unkind, brutish remarks. I don’t want to know what he’ll do when he hears your fire-laced words.” If it weren’t such a serious situation, Tyrion might have been amused to hear you use your wit against a prince, but the prince’s history with the Lannisters was anything but a joke.

“I’m sure she can handle herself. Hawks have talons after all.” Shae teased, but squeezed your arm affectionately. You offered a kind smile, but you still loathed this plan.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Tyrion rubbed his temple like the very thought of you getting into trouble was enough to send him over the edge.

You relented and chuckled a little before placing a hand on your friend’s shoulder. “I will be on my best behavior, but only because you will worry yourself ill.” You teased. “It can’t be too bad if I just deliver your message and leave. I better get going though. Can’t leave a prince waiting.” You snorted. As if you cared what a prince thought.

————————

Oberyn Martell lied in his temporary bed at the brothel, Ellaria Sand at his right, a blond haired boy on his left. He was the picture of lustful bliss, his golden chest glistened as the small rays of light entered the sinful den. But the prince was quiet deep in thought as he started out into the empty space before them. All the pleasure the brothel had to offer could not break his focus.

“Your thoughts are too loud, my prince.” Ellaria chided as she placed a kiss to his chest. “Tell me.”

Even then, Oberyn still could not break his thoughts of you, but he ran a hand through his paramour’s raven curls in acknowledgment. “I think I found our third partner.”

Next Chapter

[hela-avenger]

it’s not you, it’s me- part 2

Author: hela-avenger

Word Count: 1041

Summary: Natasha won’t quit trying to set you up so you decide to play fire with fire. Hence making a deal with an insufferable prince who interestingly enough is willing to fake being in love with you for the rest of the night. Of course when dealing with the God of Lies things are never as they seem. Fake-Dating AU. p&w AU.

A/N: If you haven’t read poison & wine it is ok to read this but there will be some references to it and p&w is completed. As for my p&w loyal readers, ENJOY!

P.S. I’m tagging the p&w people so if you’ll like to be taken off pls do let me know!

Tags are open!

poison & wine masterlist & it’s not you, it’s me masterlist

You tear yourself away from his hold causing Loki to chuckle at your immediate retreat. You stumble as you try to put some space between you two. It didn’t make sense how Loki came to find that truth when many others, others who have known you longer, have yet to figure it out. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Oh, a good liar buys time,” Loki responds. “A great liar would have already been ready with a response.” 

Loki leans his back against the balcony with a smirk. 

“So?” he asks. “Will you answer my question or do you need more time to come up with a lie?” 

“You’re an ass,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Now that’s not a nice thing to say to your date,” Loki mockingly reprimands. “What would Natasha say about that foul mouth of yours?” 

“You know what?” you stammer out in annoyance. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll rather go through mindless conversations with Natasha’s bachelors than to spend another second here with you.” 

You don’t make it too far as Loki grabs a hold of your arm. 

“Retreating so easily?” Loki asks. “Now I didn’t peg you as a quitter.” 

“We’ve just met,” you snap at him. “Stop presuming so much about me.” 

“Then I must ask you to do the same with me.” 

Your anger disappears when you hear this from him. You should know better than to judge a book by its cover and yet you had. 

You blatantly used his status without thinking of the connotation it held. 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable before,” you whisper as you turn around to face him. “It wasn’t my intention and I presumed you would be game to help me.” 

“Oh, believe me, I am,” Loki chuckles. “But I detest my tormentous past being brought up so casually.” 

“I was being honest when I said that I wasn’t using you to scare potential suitors away and I had no intention for Jeff to bring up your past,” you confess to him. “Thor told me you have a way with words and well… he called you Silvertongue so it just further proved you would be the best person I could ask to help me right now.”

Loki continues to stare and you can’t help but compare his mannerisms to a curious raven.

“You’re not lying,” Loki states. “You haven’t since we met but that doesn’t mean I trust you.” 

“I mean, you shouldn’t,” you shrug. “I’m a complete stranger to you.” 

“As I am to you,” Loki remarks with a small tilt on his lips. “Are you saying you don’t trust me?” 

“I mean,” you answer with a laugh. “Who in their sane mind would agree to fake dating a stranger for the rest of the night?”   

Loki chuckles and shakes his head. 

“If this is to work, I need you to be completely honest with me,” Loki states. “I may be the God of Lies but I detest being lied to.” 

“Ok…” 

“So, going back to my previous question,” Loki trails off. “How long have you been lying to your friends about your true lineage?” 

You take a deep breath trying to ease yourself from the alarm running through your whole body. 

You still didn’t know how he came to find this out about you, but it didn’t matter at the moment. Loki had asked you a question and you had to offer a response. 

An honest response. 

“Apart from two, since I’ve first made their acquaintance,” you answer. “And technically I’m half-lying to them seeing as I’m half-human.” 

“What are you?” 

“A demigod. Half-human, half-God.” 

“Of Asgardian descent I presume?” 

“Yes,” you nod. “Found that out about a couple of years ago when your brother first came to Earth.”

“How old are you?” 

Foregoing making a joke about how rude it is to ask for a woman’s age, you answer his question.

“By Earth physical standards 24, but 198 in reality.” 

“Your parents?” 

“My mother died when I was 19, while my father is unknown,” you sigh feeling your chest tightening. “Are we done with this interrogation?”

Loki remains silent as he contemplates your question. He doesn’t stare at you this time which is a welcome reprieve, but it sealed him away from you. You didn’t know what he could be thinking or what mood he may have shifted to. 

“That will do for now,” Loki mutters. “We should head inside soon…” 

“Wait,” you interrupt him before he can even take a step towards the doors. “I just have one question for you.” 

“Which is?” he asks impatiently. 

“How did you know?” you ask. “How did you know I wasn’t human?” 

Loki responds by offering his hand for you to take. You look at it hesitantly forcing Loki to explain his intentions.

“I can show you.” 

With that being said, you take his hand. 

It surprisingly feels soft and warm and soon you realize why. There was some kind of energy running through him that seemed to reach for yours. 

“That,” Loki states. “That is how I knew.” 

“What is that?” you ask him as you pull your hand away. The connection is cut, but you can still feel the warmth tingling in your hand. “What did you do?” 

“It’s called seidr,” Loki answers. “Some Asgardians are blessed with the gift of magic so when we first touched, I felt that connection. That is how I knew that you weren’t completely human.” 

“But your brother…” 

“Thor can barely tell the difference between his precious Mjolnir and an actual hammer,” Loki snorts. “Besides, he’s not acutely aware of his surroundings like I am.” 

“Sounds like you’re paranoid.” 

“It’s because I am,” Loki states. “Villain, remember? I have many enemies who wish to see me fail. Many of them are at this party.”

You roll your eyes knowing he was referring to your friends. 

“Am I one of them?” you can’t help but ask. “An enemy?” 

Loki takes his time to respond. 

“Yet to be determined,” he answers before offering his arm for you to take. “Shall we begin our night now?”

Having been outside long enough, you take a deep breath and loop your arm around his allowing Loki to escort you back inside.

it’s not you, it’s me: @mywellspingoflife @toe-wind-ek-jou @mejusttryintogetby @marvelgirlonamarvelworld​ @nickkie1129​ @theinfinitenerd​

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[vegalocity]

(I’m probably gonna send you a few of these so brace yourself) Hugs #35. Hunter experiences his first ever cuddle pile when he hangs out with Luz and Her friends. - Pixel Anon

affection meme

35. cuddle pile

Pixel (adnd basically anyone lol) send me as much as you want, my computer is busted rn and i can't draw writing is all i've got.

sooo you wanted like a shitton of words about Hunter being touch starved yeah? Good here's the Extended Friend Group (Extended to include the Former Detention Kids) having a sleepover

--

Luz called him touch starved. He thought the idea was ridiculous when she'd first said it; as people touched him all the time, He had the scars to prove that people touched him all the time.

But when he'd come down the stairs of the Owl House to see her and her friends (and girlfriend) spread out along the sleeping bags and cushions, and the girl with the glasses gently placed a hand on his upper arm to keep him from bumping into her as she called back to the others that she was going to go check on the Moon Lillies Eda had let her keep here, and it felt like lightning across his skin. But like... good lightning? It made him jolt and gooseflesh rose up on his skin but it wasn't unpleasant. It felt nice... Like... really nice.

The faintest whisper of her fluffy hair brushed his shoulder as she passed him and his heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't even remember the girl's name and for a moment he was sincerely convinced he'd fallen in love with her. The moment passed and he'd recovered from his temporary insanity, but the memory remained.

Luz called him over, claiming the lot of them were having a sleepover tonight, and if he wanted to join he was welcome.

'Lot of them' was at the moment Luz, King, her friend with the glasses, a younger boy, her girlfriend, a girl with her hair tied up in a bramble scrunchy, a taller boy whom towered over him, and a four legged demon whom also wore glasses.

He only joined because he had nothing better to do. He was introduced to her extended friend group (those being Viney, Jorbo, and Barkus) Luz going on to the others he didn't remember the names of with 'and you already remember the rest of these guys'

He sat apart from the others and avoided eye contact with the glasses girl (Willow, as Luz called her upon her return) wondering idly if as a plant person she'd somehow doused herself with some sort of plant pheromone to make all boys make fools of themselves around her, but then again, Jorbo Barkus and the younger boy (Gus as he'd spoken in third person for a but while telling a story) all seemed to be unaffected.

Then Jorbo slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer in one arm, Barkus under his other and claimed loudly that 'the guys get to choose the game' and Hunter's brain stopped working altogether until He let him go to insist that Gus doesn't count as 'the guys' because he always sides with Luz and Willow on games anyway. And for another very stupid very insane moment he'd convinced himself he'd fallen in love again.

Though this time he'd barely had a moment to recover from his temporary bout of insanity as the two began to bicker before Barkus sighed and placed a paw on his knee in solidarity and he was sent reeling again.

This kept happening on and off all day, someone would touch him, and his insides would positively lurch and he'd fell at once like he both needed to get as far away as possible, and lean into whatever the touch was and cling to whomever was providing it. But thankfully after those first two his brain had stopped taking the exact wrong conclusions about his reactions, so he'd stopped having to talk himself down from the worry that Luz's friends were all sirens and he was falling for their trap.

But it did mean he was now acutely aware of the lot of them as they continued about their games. Amity and Luz were play acting a scene and Amity dramatically fell backward, her upper half and head resting for only a brief moment in his lap and his knees felt like jelly for almost a full hour afterward.

Gus dramatically leaped in his direction and out of reflex Hunter caught him, and he... didn't want to let go. He was able to get away with carrying Gus around for a little bit, as there were no complaints from him at least, but he let the kid drop before it got suspicious.

Viney pulled him aside and while he was getting used to people touching his arms quickly, he was NOT used to another person's hot breath on his skin as she whispered a plan to prank the others into his ear.

King was perched on his shoulders for the longest time after he'd carried Gus around for a bit, insisting that if anyone deserved to have a personal chauffer it was him. He made sure to play up how annoyed he was, but the warm fur on the back of his neck was comforting.

But Luz, Oh... Luz was the worst. She already knew his reactions to being touched before going into this, so she made sure to do it as much as possible. sitting herself right next to him and swaying side to side so sometimes she'd brush up against Amity, and sometimes brush up against him, and she was single handedly the reason why he was getting used to people touching his arms.

But then she kept upping the game. Dramatically insisting that He was too cool for this or that dumb game that she clearly just wanted him to agree to play, putting a hand on his shoulder and pressing her cheek to his, and wathcing his brain promptly shut off as he reeled over how squishy her cheek was against his. sitting o the couch as he sat on the floor, and grabbing his head, tilting him back so that his head was essentially in her lap and smiling like the cat that ate the screamerfly at his reaction as she told him something or another he suddenly couldn't pay attention to. She even got Eda involved when she appeared briefly downstairs! She called in some sort of 'owe' and Eda pulled him aside, looking put upon and sighing.

And he didn't almost cry when the Owl Lady wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him to her chest. He didn't. Her gem dug into his forehead and her nails were long and sharp as she gently brushed them through his hair, and he'd somehow never felt so protected in all of his life, the downy feeling of feathers that still clung to her dress and the soft silver hair that brushed against him in odd places, and he only put his arms around her middle and squeezed back because it was the polite thing to do. Her chin brushed the crown of his head and-.... he just didn't know he was allergic to feathers until then, okay? It just also happened to feel really really good and he didn't want to let go. That was unrelated.

Hours had passed, he'd been shocked with physical affection enough times today that he could barely remember what they'd been doing the entire night, his memory only clinging to those moments where his brain had been so thoroughly flooded with endorphins that the rest of the night was a blur.

And he HAD to go back to is room. He wouldn't be able to sleep at all in the little 'cuddle puddle' Luz and the others had arranged. If he was so distracted by which body parts were in contact with other body parts sleep would elude him entirely, and sure he used to rarely sleep at all, but that was by choice back then!

But he-

He couldn't detangle himself.

Willow used his stomach as a pillow, he watched her head rise and fall with his breaths and felt the whisper of her fluffy hair against the smallest sliver of skin where his shirt had ridden up a bit. Gus and King were curled up to one side, Gus using his shoulder as a cushion and King beside his head. Viney had grabbed his arm in her sleep and clung to it like a stuffed animal. Barkus curled up in the space between his legs and Jerbo was using HIM as a pillow. if he even moved either of his legs one or both of them would be disturbed.

And Luz of course was curled up on his other side. a hand thrown across his shoulders and breathing softly into his neck. Amity was cuddled up behind her with her arms on her waist, and she was using his other arm as her own pillow.

He was effectively buried under the entire sleepover.

The pressure of others resting on top of and near him, the softness, the warmth, he didn't even need a blanket for all the heat the other bodies were providing. A shiver crawled up his spine as Luz hummed in her sleep and he could feel it in his chest as she did so. and Hunter had to concede defeat because this felt too damn good to even want to try and pull away.

--

Eda walked in about an hour after to a silent living room save for periodic snoring, she nursed a mug of Apple blood as she inspected the effective dogpile atop of the former Golden Guard.

Wow, it was days like this where it was really damn obvious how young the kid was. She could see even from here the freshly drying tear tracks on the boy's face, all that from just some cuddling? Sure Eda wasn't the best with handling physical affection either but she hadn't cried from something like that.... ever. (though if they managed to save Raine from whatever it was Belos did to them Eda couldn't be certain that that record would keep)

When Luz had approached her about their newest 'house guest' and insisted that Hunter needed a social circle, and probably just needed affection after living most of his life under Belos' thumb, Eda had assumed that would make him cagey and aggressive at the idea of being treated softly. But... eh... She supposed people always had a tendency to surprise you.

"Gettin' soft Owl Lady..." She muttered to herself as she approached the top of the cuddle pile and placed a hand on the boy's forehead, moving just slightly to comb some of his hair from his face. Hunter let out a quiet whimper but didn't stir. She watched as a sleepy smile lit up the boy's face.

--

Send me stuff

[dear-mrs-otome]

Aanleggen - Ikevamp (Theo)

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire Pairing: MC x Theo Summary: A short illustrated birthday fic for the birthday boy! The incomparable, amazing, talented and lovely @nan-chi​ and I wanted to do something to commemorate the younger van Gogh, and this is the result! 1500 words of fluff and fantastic art!

~~~~~~

There were few things Theo hated more than secrets.

His own - those were fine. But the secrets of others always unsettled him, even as he recognized the hypocrisy of this. And the secrets of Vincent…

Now that was an irritation of a new sort.

Stewing on this, Theo lifted a bite from the syrup-sogged stack before him and chewed, his eyes never leaving the two heads huddled together at one end of the table.

“Kinda cute, aren’t they?” Arthur slung himself into the seat beside Theo, newspaper slapping atop the table as he gestured in the direction of the two with his coffee cup. “The lovebirds,” he explained to Theo’s arched brow.

“The what?” The bite in his mouth turned suddenly and inexplicably dry. “That’s it. You’ve finally lost what little sense you were born with.”

Arthur, studying his face, let the smirk he’d been fighting finally win. “Don’t believe me?” He leaned in, eyes dancing with mischief and his voice pitched low. “I’ve seen her go into his room at least two nights a week the entire past month.”

“At night?”

Arthur nodded, once. Meaningfully. “Late.”

The only answer he could scrape together was a carefully uninterested grunt, turning his attention back to the plate before him. But the pancakes he’d already eaten congealed heavily in his stomach, like wet concrete, and he busied himself with straightening the napkin laid beside his place setting.

How had he missed that?

He wasn’t sure what bothered him more - the fact that he had? The fact that Vincent had taken a lover? Or the fact that...

...The fact that it was her.

He pulled the feeling out, turning it over and over, before realizing it stung. Like saltwater, lapping over an open wound.

It hurt.

But that was alright. Hurt, he could handle. It was a familiar, old friend. From split knuckles to bruises, from the envy-whittled darts that had struck true before his skin had thickened to the regrets that kept him up some nights. He was no stranger to pain.

This too, would pass.

------

But like a dog with a rabbit in its jaws, Arthur’s words wouldn't let him go.

He stood and stared at the wooden panels of her door, as if the answer lay somewhere in the swirls and whorls of woodgrain, before lifting his hand to knock.

"Hondje? You in there?"

There was no answer for a moment, but he could hear the faint rustling of someone moving around on the other side. "Theo?"

"Yeah, look, I -" He jammed his hands in his pockets, a rush of restlessness washing over him. He wasn't sure he'd ever looked forward to and dreaded a conversation so much. "You got a minute?"

"Oh! I….yes, just…" Her voice was pitched a half-octave higher suddenly, shrill with something like panic that set him on edge - especially when he could hear her bustling around. "Hold on. One second. I'm -"

Her words dissolved into a small shriek, as he heard a heavy thud from the other side, and decorum took a backseat to concern as he pushed the door open in a rush. "Hondje?! You okay?"

His gaze darted about. Same pink frilly room, spotlessly organized. Nothing out of order save for the easel in one corner and a canvas, now face down on the floor and her standing over it, dropcloth still in her wringing hands as she looked up at him guiltily.

He blinked at it a moment, heart twisting like a gibbet in his chest. A painting from Vincent? One he hadn't seen either?

He brushed off the fresh handful of salt on the wound, and plastered a smirk on his face. "Dropped your toy, Hondje."

"No, that's-!" She cried in dismay, as he reached to lift it back onto its easel. "You weren't supposed to see it yet."

He frowned, taking in the way her entire body seemed to droop. If she were a pup in truth, her tail would be hanging between her legs at that moment. 

“Why?” He bit back the bitter words that tried to follow. “Something secret between you and Vincent?”

He forced a chuckle then, although it scraped raw in his throat like sandpaper. “I was kinda hoping you guys would have told me yourselves about this but…” he began, as he lifted the piece back into place on its easel.

And then the rest of his comment died away, as he got a look at the painting. He knew immediately it wasn’t one of Vincent’s works - the brushstrokes were all wrong. Clumsy, perhaps a bit, but Vincent’s influence was there in the texture and colors. 

And it was -

He blinked, bemused. “Is this...King?”

“Yeah. Or well, it’s supposed to be, but I guess it obviously is if you could recognize it. Although I know the anatomy needs some work and the shading - golden fur is hard to get just right, and he wouldn’t hold still. I must have sketched him twenty times, I don't know how people work without photographs for reference." She was babbling, and he recognized the nerves eating at her in the way she worked the cloth between her hands over and over. “You weren’t supposed to see it until tonight though, after your birthday dinner.”

An awful, magnificent understanding dawned on him. “Did Vincent help you with this?”

“Yes, I...used to draw and paint a little back home, just as a hobby you know. And when Vincent reminded me it was your birthday soon, I couldn’t think of what to get you.” He watched with keen interest as a blush rose charmingly on her cheeks, spreading nearly to her neck as she went on. “But I know you love art, and you love King…so I thought maybe you’d forgive bad art if it was a subject you liked so much.”

"This is what you’ve been doing in his room the past few weeks?" A breathless sort of anticipation made itself at home, in the confines of his chest, as he asked the question he hoped he already knew the answer to.

She nodded, opening her mouth as if to say something, but closed it again.

"So you and Vincent aren't lovers."

"What?" She squeaked, her eyes flown wide with dismay. "No! Vincent and I? Why would I...I mean I can see why…" She trailed off, then found her footing again. "But no. Definitely not. I…"

She fumbled to a halt again, her eyes sliding up to meet his before bouncing away, and he wondered if he was imagining the way her blush shaded from crimson to carmine.

"I see." He took a step closer, watching with amusement as she took a wary, answering one back. More rabbit than pup in this moment. He took pity on her, and turned to look over the painting. "Let's see this closer then."

He made a show of pulling his ever-present magnifying lens from a pocket, bending to examine the work up close. His initial assessment had been right - sloppy strokes, the color muddied in a few places, the perspective just faintly off. And yet…

And yet...the warmth squeezing in his heart whispered what he already knew. It was the best painting he'd ever seen, flaws and all. 

Because it was hers.

Because she'd made it for him.

He straightened, clearing the sentimental knot from his throat. "Your composition could use some work. The shading, too. But…" A smile ghosted across his lips, as he reached out to tousle her hair gently. "It's a good painting. You've got some talent, hondje."

"You like it?" Her mouth rounded into a surprised o, and he had to stifle the urge to shout how much he loved it.

"Yeah. It's not bad, not bad at all." He smirked at her. "Although King elevates any scene, right? And you clearly have a good teacher."

“The best,” she agreed. 

His hand was still atop her head, fingers snared in the soft strands of her hair as he looked down at her. Suddenly and acutely aware of the small space between them and the upturned tilt of her face - her pretty mouth just begging to be sampled.

It was his birthday. Maybe he would be forgiven for wanting to give himself one gift.

“I like it. A lot.” He murmured, and that fetching blush rose on her cheeks again. “But I can think of something else I’d like for my birthday too.”

“You can?” She frowned, her lips pursing adorable. “What?”

And that little moue was all the impetus he needed to lean down and cover her lips with his, swallowing down her small sound of surprise. His arms coming around her body as she stiffened, only to feel her melting against him moments later.

“Happy Birthday, Theo,” she managed, when he’d drawn back to take a breath. Her fingers still clutching at his sleeves and her eyes alight with something he flattered himself was happiness. 

“Yeah.” He didn’t bother trying to smother his grin, just before ducking down to steal her lips again, stoking the slow blaze of a fire he knew would take all night - if not a lifetime - to burn itself out. “Yeah. It is now, isn’t it?”

~~~~~~

Thank you once again to @nan-chi​ for being an absolute delight of a person - it was a pleasure and an honor to work with you! <3 I hope you all enjoyed our humble offerings to this sweet man!

[thesolitarystripe]

The knights of Lumina were posted outside the main city gate; arming gleaming beneath the hot summer sun. Each one sat atop a night warhorse, varying in color and size but matching in the same obedient stillness. Not a single living being moved within their formation. Every so often, a necessary tail flick to ward off the relentless flies could be seen but otherwise, it was as if the gods had left a magnificent painting as a gift, by the city entrance. At their front was Thomas Grey. Sir Thomas Grey. He was the right hand of the king, protector and personal guard of the kingdom’s princess, and a peasant by birthright. A bastard. It was odd to find one of his lineage within the knighthood and of the highest-ranking position but, his history within Lumina’s royal family spanned from the first year or his life, to now. Twenty-eight years. The young knight rode atop a bright palomino whose coat shown as brightly as the golden stalks of wheat their farmers grew. Its mane was a striking cream color. One dark brown eye, like most equine creatures, and the other an eerie crystalline blue. The mare had been gifted to Thomas as a boy for he too, was crafted uniquely by the gods. Hair as brilliant as the sun, white gold, and eyes as different from one another as night and day. Thomas bore one azure iris and the other a vibrant verdant. It was a rare condition, one seen perhaps between one person every few cities over. Some thought it a blessing, others a curse.

“Sir, dust from the East there,” a voice stated from behind Thomas whose head had turned to take note.

“Our guests have arrived, look sharp men.” Thomas squeezed the belly of his horse, urging her forward. The creature obliged and took Thomas forward with the rest of his men in his wake. Presently there were fifty of them on horseback, only a sliver of the knighthood. They were to greet and escort a small caravan of royalty from the Eastern kingdom of Stalwert. It was an admirable city whose trading routes and exports were undoubtedly some of the best. Lumina’s king sought an alliance by way of marriage. The princess, while not opposed to the arrangement had her reservations—all of which Thomas was acutely aware of. Many did not know his full history, they simply knew that Thomas was a babe dying on the streets when he was found by the royal family during one of the kingdom’s festivals. He was taken in, under what circumstances or pretenses they did not know. Thomas was raised within the castle walls, groomed to be a knight, and fast became the young princess’ most dear and trusted friend.

There had never been thought to anything more. Thomas knew, while his station was admirable, his birthright made him unsuitable for any romantic pursuits when it came to the princess of Lumina. Therefore, the idea never entered his mind though many teased them as children. One was never without the other unless stolen away by their mentors and tutors. It was easy for King Marcus Abraya to assign the young Thomas to be his daughter’s guard, even at the young age of sixteen. Most nights she stole him into her chambers to make her laugh rather than stand guard at her door. They were fast friends. As such, Thomas took today very seriously. He would be this prince’s harshest critic and report any concerns regarding his character to King Abraya himself.

The fleet of knights swarmed the royal caravan, introducing themselves well and offering their protection as they entered the city. The King and Queen of Stalwert greeted him warmly but there was no appearance made by the prince. Offense number one was noted. Thomas led the way back within the city walls, lines of commoners formed all of them trying to gain a look at the potential future king of Lumina. They would see no one. The man kept himself hidden away within his carriage. Only when they were within the sprawling courtyard, just in front of the alabaster castle, did Thomas bring his men to a halt. All of them but Thomas stays on horseback while the blonde dismounted and tended to the royal family. He stood at the carriage door and offered his arm, seeing the Monarchs safely to the ground. It was now, that he beheld the prince. He was of a modest build but clearly untrained in the art of war. The prince was of average height and looked quite small standing beside Thomas who was six feet and six inches more. This prince appeared soft, a man of the arts perhaps with caramel colored hair and deep brown eyes. Thomas would’ve given his honest remarks—the prince was handsome, devilishly but wouldn’t last a day within the ranks of any knighthood Thomas knew of. It wasn’t a prince’s job, however, to wage war with his own hands. Thomas was sure the man was likely a brilliant mind, expert at strategy, and adept at making treaties. Thomas was eager to speak of such topics with him as Lumina got to know their potential ruler over the course of the next few days.

“Prince Robert,” Thomas bowed deeply, the crown of his head exposed. “Might I speak for the knights of Lumina when I say it is a great honor to have you within our kingdom. Please let me know personally if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable.” Thomas stood upright again and found those dark eyes regarding him.

“Thank you, knight, what may I call you?”

“Sir Thomas Grey, my lord,” he replied, bringing his gaze up to meet the prince’s.

“That is a wild look within your eyes, Sir Grey. A defect at birth?” He pointed between his own two eyes as he observed Thomas more closely.

“Indeed sir, I was born with it.”

“Interesting,” Robert sighed before he turned on his heel. Ending the conversation.

Thomas felt a strange sensation wash over him. Something in his gut churned. The skin on his arms pulled up and away from his bones and he had to stave off his urge to frown. The knight led the royal family within, only to be greeted by King Abraya within the great hall. The three flocked to the King and Thomas stood quietly behind, surmising what it was his gut was telling him. Every move Prince Robert Winsley made, ignited Thomas’ nerves. Distrust was already being sewn within the belly of the knight whose hands were clasped in front of him, face expressionless as he watched the greeting of two kingdoms unfold. Their ruler of Lumina ushered the royal families into the throne room, his knighthood in tow behind him. At the head was Thomas, to his right, Belor, and his left, Edward. The three highest of rank and the ones trusted to enter the throne room and stand guard within. Outside, lower ranking knights took their posts and waited behind closed doors. Thomas took his stand beside the elevated slab of marble that held three ornately decorated thrones. The largest in the middle was made of solid cherrywood, a deep red in color and carved with the Kingdom’s crest: an ivory horse, rearing back on its hind legs, mane whipping behind its muscled neck as if the wind blew against it. The background was black while the sides were embroidered in intricate floral patterns. While there were no other colors, save the natural hue of the wood, the marking was unmistakable on the backing of the king’s throne. There were two others, lesser seats but still beautifully made of strong oak. Within the smaller ones sat their Queen and beside her, the princess. The moment Thomas’ gaze lifted and he met the eyes of his childhood friend, the princess smiled. Her eyes hadn’t yet sought out her suitor before they landed on Thomas who was as reserved as ever but offered a half upturn of his lips. The Knight took his place beside the royal ladies while King Abraya waved a hand grandly through the air and motioned to his kin.

“I am pleased to introduce you to my lovely Queen, Amina, and my daughter.” Both women stood with the grace and poise of a swan, their dresses flowing around their bodies to accentuate every luscious curve and dip. Thomas stood with eyes forward, hands crossed in front of him.

“It’s a pleasure,” they both said in tandem as they curtsied and then sat again. Prince Robert flicked an eye over his potential wife and merely nodded his head. The second offense. Thomas wanted to scowl but kept his expression smooth. The royals fell into conversation as King Abraya brought their company to sit and rest; over his shoulder, Thomas heard a familiar clearing throat. Mismatched eyes found the princess who was already looking incredibly bored; she was obscured by her father’s commanding height so she could not be easily seen. The princess rolled her eyes. Thomas smirked.

He puffed out his cheeks and made an exasperated expression.

The princess smirked and stuck out her tongue.

Thomas’ eyes grew wide as if offended. Then he returned the gesture, tongue poking out of his lips and eyes crossing lightly.

The princess bit her lower lip and dropped her chin, desperate to hide her giggling.

Thomas straightened, happy to know he hadn’t lost his ability to make their princess laugh. Even after all these years. The two exchanged glances across the room, every time Thomas looked, his princess had turned away; as soon as he averted his gaze, she was peeking back at him rosy-cheeked and coy. When their eyes finally did meet, each one couldn’t stop the break of a smile across their faces. Children at heart, surely. Thomas clasped his hand over his wrist more tightly, with more resolve than ever to ensure Robert Stalwert was worthy of Lumina’s princess.

[seelie-regent]

Remus gets everyone a pet as a thank you

Part 6 of my Intrulogical Library au

Let me know if you want to be tagged.

Remus finds out that the others got him accepted so he congers pets for them as a thank you.

Logan was waiting for Remus after his appointment. The others were waiting around the corner. Remus walked out looking like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He threw himself into Logan’s arms and thanked him for convincing him to go to therapy. Logan laughed at this and hugged Remus back. Mortuus had walked off to go see Virgil and Janus.

“I take  it the session went well?” Logan said.

“I went wonderfully and you were right by the way,” Remus said.

“About?” 

“Me not being able to work everything out on my own.”

“Ahh. Do you feel comfortable talking to me about what you two disused?”

“Not yet. Eventually I’m sure I will but not today.”

“I understand. So something happened while you were talking to Emile.”

“What happened? Is everyone okay?”

“What happened is good Remus.”

“Really? Then spill.”

“Thomas accepted you.”

Remus froze.

“Please don’t be joking.”

“I am not. Patton decided to talk to Thomas about accepting you. That’s why he needed to talk to all of us. We all went and talked to Thomas about everything and you have been accepted.”

“Oh my god! Thank you!”

The next moment Remus tackled Logan to the ground and was crying.

“I didn’t think this would ever happen. Thank you so much. All of you.”

“Wah? How?” Roman said as everyone came around the corner.

“If I had known how much it would mean to you we would have talked to Thomas sooner,” Patton said.

“Welcome to the light sides Re,” Janus said.

“We aren’t really light or dark anymore are we,” Logan said.

“No, we're just sides,” Remus saids with a grin.

“We did it. We all got accepted,” Virgil said.

Esatic laughter came from all three ex-dark sides. Janus and Virgil pulled Remus into a group hug as they jumped up and down chanting ‘We did it! We did it! We did it!’ shocking the ex-light sides. Just how much did being accepted mean to them. 

“I’ve gotta go make you guys gifts. I’ll be back by dinner,” Remus yelled and ran off.

Remus threw open his door holding it open for Mortuus who had gone running after her owner. Remus pet the marsupial and set to work after all they deserved the best for giving him the best gift possible. He created the carriers first. After all he couldn’t have the animals running around now could he.

Since Virgil already had a spider, Parva which was Latin for small, Remus made a snow white ferret with red eyes he named Nix which was Latin for snow. After all what better pet for the not so secretly mischievous sides. Next was Janus’ who would be getting a speckled king snake named Sibium which is Latin for hissing. Next up was two parakeets for Roman one purple and one green. The colors chosen to represent who Roman cared for most or at least in the green ones case he hoped he cared for the most. The purple one was named Apollo and the green one Avis which is the word bird in Latin. Next was a crow for Logan named Corvus because what is better than a raven named raven. Last was a small hedgehog named Acuta which just so happened to be sharp in Latin.

Worn out from creating the animals Remus passed out on his bed after eating a slice of lemon bread he now kept in his room and drinking a small glass of lemon juice. He woke up ten minutes before dinner and gathered up the carriers. The others were in the living room waiting for Patton to finish dinner. All heads turned to Remus as he walked in.

“Can you all come here for a minute?” Remus asked.

Everyone gathered around Remus and jumped when Avis let out a loud chirp.

“Remus what did you make us?” Janus asked.

“Pets,” Remus chirped.

“Are you serious?” Janus said.

“Yep. Now first up Patton,” Remus said opening the carrier and holding out Acute, “A hedgehog because you won’t be allergic. As long as she doesn’t get mad she makes for an awesome cuddle buddy. I named her Acute.”

“Thank you Remus. I love her,” Patton said, taking her.

“Next we have Apollo and Avis for Roman. I’m not taking them out because parakeets are hard to catch,” Remus said holding out the carrier.

“Oh my god I’m teaching them disney songs,” Roman said, taking the birds.

“Next we have Virgil the Virgil with Nix the ferret,” Remus said holding out the white ferret.

“Oh my god Remus thank you,” Virgil said as Nix draped herself over his shoulders.

“Now we have Logan with Corvus the Raven,” Remus said, letting the bird out.

He landed on Logan’s shoulder, “Thank you Remus.”

“Lastly we have JanJan. I made you a speckled king snake named Sibium,” Remus said, taking the snake out and allowing it to wrap around his neck, “None will attack each other either.

“Remus,” Patton said, petting Acuta, “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing compared to what you did for me Patty-cakes,” Remus said with a grin.

“This is quite thought full Remus,” Logan said.

“Do you like her?” Remus asked nodding towards the raven.

“She will make a wonderful companion. Thank you Remus,” Logan said.

“And you Jay? What do you think of Sibium?” Remus asked.

“I don’t love him,” Janus said.

“I’m glad,” Remus said.

“I love Nix Re,” Virgil said.

“I’m glad and Ro?” Remus asked.

“They are beautiful,” Roman said.

“I’m so glad you like them,” Remus said with joy written across his face.

“How about we watch a couple episodes of Young Justice and play with our new pets?” Logan suggested.

“Please?” Remus cried.

“Why not,” Virgil said, grabbing the remote and moving to the couch .

“Fun fact: our digestive tract is nine foot long and connected from our mouth to our annus which we actually developed from,” Remus chirped out of nowhere.

“Why do you know that?” Virgil asked.

“Fucked if I know but I think it’s cool,” Remus said flopping down next to him and Mortuus curled up in his lap.

“Care to elaborate on the last bit?” Logan asked.

“Sure красавчик (pretty boy, Russian). So when an embryo cell starts developing your ass forms first. When an embryo develops deuterostomes a mouth called blastopore and that ultimately becomes your ass,” Remus explained.

“I’m going to ask again why the ever loving fuck do you know this?” Virgil asked.

“I don’t know it was in a textbook a read awhile back,” Remus said.

“How about we just watch Young Justice?” Patton asked.

“Of course Padre,” Roman said, taking the remote from Virgil and pushing play on the first episode.

A few minutes in Remus muttered along with Robin, “You're overwhelmed. Freeze was underwhelmed. Why isn't anyone ever just whelmed?”

Logan smiled fondly at the DC nerd.

“I forgot dinner!” Patton cried and leapt up to go turn off the stove.

Everyone laughed and Janus went to help Patton plate the, thankfully, unburned food and bring it to everyone in the living room. It was the perfect end to a wonderful day.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I really enjoyed your book review of Sebastian Junger’s Homecoming. Perhaps enjoyment isn’t the right word because it brought home some hard truths. Your book review really helped me understand my older brother better when I think back on how he came home from the war in Afghanistan after serving with the Paras and had medals pinned up the yin yang. It was hard on everyone in the family, especially for him and his wife and young kids. He has found it hard going. Thanks for sharing your own thoughts as a combat veteran from that  war. Even if you’re a toff you don’t come across as a typical Oxbridge poncey Rupert! As you’re a classicist and historian how did ancient soldiers deal with PTSD? Did the Greeks and Roman soldiers even suffer from it like our fighting boys and girls do? Is PTSD just a modern thing?

Part 1 of 2 (see following post)

Because this is subject very close to my heart as a combat veteran I thought very long and hard about the issues you raised. I decided to answer this question in two posts.

This is Part 1 and Part 2 is the next post.

My apologies for the length but this is subject that deserves full careful consideration.

Thank you for your lovely words and I especially find its heart warming if they touched you. I appreciate you for sharing something of the experience your ex-Para brother went through in coming home from war. I have every respect for the Parachute regiment as one of the world’s premier fighting force.

Working alongside them on missions out in Afghanistan I could see their reputation as the ‘brain shit’ of the British Army was well deserved. They’re most uncouth, sweary, and smelliest group of yobbos I’ve ever had the awful misfortune to meet. I’m kidding. The mutual respect and the ribbing went hand in hand. I doff my smurf hat to the cherry berries as ‘propah soldiers’ as they liked to say especially when they cast a glance over at the other elite regiments like HCav and the guards regiments.

Don’t worry I’ve been called a lot worse! But I am grateful you don’t lump me with the other ‘poncey’ officers. Not sure what a female Rupert is called. The fact that I was never accused of being one by any of those I served with is perhaps something I take some measure of pride. There are not as many real toff officers these days compared to the past but there are a fair few Ruperts who are clueless in leading men under their charge. I knew one or two and frankly I’m embarrassed for them and the men under their charge.

I don’t know when the term PTSD was first used in any official way. My older sister who is a doctor - specialising in neurology and all round brain box and is currently working on the front lines in the NHS wards fighting Covid alongside all our amazing NHS nurses and doctors -  took time out one evening to have a discussion with me about these issues. I also talked to one or two other friends in the psychiatric field too. In consensus they agree it was around 1980 when the term PTSD came into usage. Specifically it was the third edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-lll) published by the American Psychiatric Association in 1980 partly because as a result of the ongoing treatment of veterans from the Vietnam War. In the modern mind, PTSD is more associated with the legacy of the Vietnam War disaster.

The importance of whether PTSD affected the ancient Greeks and Romans lies in the larger historical question of to what extent we can apply modern experience to unlock or interpret the past. In the period since PTSD was officially recognised, scholars and psychologists have noted its symptoms in descriptions of the veterans of past conflicts. It has become increasingly common in books and novels as well as articles to assume the direct relevance of present-day psychology to the reactions of those who experienced violent events in the historical past. In popular culture, especially television and film dramas, claims for the historical pedigree of PTSD are now often provided as background to the modern story, without attribution. Indeed we just take it as a given that soldier-warriors in the past suffered the same and in the same way as their modern day counterparts. We are used to the West to map the classical world upon the present but whether we can so easily map the modern world back upon the Greeks and Romans is a doubtful proposition when it comes to discussing PTSD.

Simply put, there is no definitive evidence for the existence of PTSD in the ancient world existed, and relies instead upon the assumption that either the Greeks or Romans, because they were exposed to combat so often, must have suffered psychological trauma.

There are two schools of thought regarding the possibility of PTSD featuring in the Greco-Roman world (and indeed the wider ancient world stretching back into pre-history, myth and legend) – universalism and relativism. Put simply, the universalists argue that we all carry the same ‘wetware’ in our heads, since the human brain probably hasn’t developed in evolutionary terms in the eye blink that is the two thousand years or so since the Greco-Roman Classical era. If we’re subject to PTSD now, they posit, then the Greeks and the Romans must have been equally vulnerable. The relativists, on the other hand, argue that the circumstances under which the individual has received their life conditioning – the experiences which programme the highly individual software running that identical ‘wetware’, if you will – is of critical importance to an individual’s capacity to absorb the undoubted horrors of any battlefield, ancient or modern.

Whichever school one falls down on the side of is that what seems to happen in any serious discussion of the issue of PTSD in the ancient world is to either infer it indirectly from culture (primarily, literature and poetry) or infer it from a comparative historical understanding of ancient warfare. Because the direct evidence is so scant we can only ever infer or deduce but can never be certain. So we can read into it whenever we wish.

In Greek antiquity we have of course The Illiad and the Odyssey as one of the most cited examples when we look at the character traits of both Achilles and Odysseus. From Greek tragedy those who think PTSD can be inferred often point to Sophocles’s Ajax and Euripide’s Heracles. Or they look to Aeschylus and The Oresteia. I personally think this is an over stretch. Greek writers do; the return from war was a revisited theme in tragedy and is the subject of the Odyssey and the Cyclic Nostoi.

The Greeks didn’t leave us much to ponder further. But, with rare exceptions, the works from Graeco-Roman antiquity do not discuss the mental state of those who had fought. There is silence about the interior world of the fighting man at war’s end. So we are led to ponder the question why the silence?

This silence also echoes into the Roman period of literature and history too. Indeed when we turn to the Roman world, descriptions of veterans are rare in the writings that survive from the Roman world and occur most often in fiction.

In the first poem of Ovid’s Heroides, the poet writes about a returned soldier tracing a map upon a table (Ov. Her. 1.31–5):

...upon the tabletop that has been set someone shows the fierce battles, and paints all Troy with a slender line of pure wine:
‘Here the Simois flowed; this is the Sigeian territory,
here stood the lofty palace of old Priam, there the tent of Achilles...’

This scene provides an intimate glimpse of what it must have been like when a veteran returned home and told stories of his campaigns: the memories of battle brought to the meal, the crimson trail of the wine offering a rough outline of the places and battlefields he had experienced. The military characters in poems and plays show a world in which soldiers are ubiquitous, if somewhat annoying to the civilians. Plautus, for instance, in his Miles Gloriosus, portrays an officer boasting about his made-up conquests – the model for the braggart in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum – and Juvenal complains about a centurion who stomps on his sandalled foot in the bustling Roman street.

Despite this silence, compelling works have been written that interweave vivid modern accounts of combat and its aftermath with quotes from ancient prose and poetry. At their best, these comparisons can illuminate both worlds, but at other times the concerns of the present-day author are imposed on the ancient material. But the question remains are such approaches truthful and valid in understanding PTSD in the ancient world?

So if arts and literature don’t really tell us much what about comparative examples drawn from military history itself?

Here again we are in left disappointed.

According to the Greek historian, Herodotus, in 480 B.C., at the Battle of Thermopylae, where King Leonidas and 300 Spartans took on Xerxes I and 100,000-150,000 Persian troops, two of the Spartan soldiers, Aristodemos and another named Eurytos, reported that they were suffering from an “acute inflammation of the eyes,”...Labeled tresantes, meaning “trembler,”. It is that Aristodemos later hung himself in shame. Another Spartan commander was forced to dismiss several of his troops in the Battle of Thermopylae Pass in 480 B.C, “They had no heart for the fight and were unwilling to take their share of the danger.”

Herodotus again in writing about the battle of Marathon in 490 B.C., cites an Athenian warrior who went permanently blind when the soldier standing next to him was killed, although the blinded soldier “was wounded in no part of his body.” Interestingly enough, blindness, deafness, and paralysis, among other conditions, are common forms of “conversion reactions” experienced and well-documented among soldiers today

Outside the fictional world, Roman military history tell us very little.

Appian of Alexandria (c. 95? – c. AD 165) described a legion veteran called Cestius Macedonicus who, when his town was under threat of capture by (the Emperor-to-be) Octavian, set fire to his house and burned himself within it.  Plutarch’s Life of Marius speaks of Caius Marius’ behaviour who, when he found himself under severe stress towards the end of his life, suffering from night terrors, harassing dreams, excessive drinking and flashbacks to previous battles. These examples are just a few instances which seem to demonstrate that PTSD, or culturally similar phenomena, may be as old as warfare itself. But it’s worth stressing it is not definitive, just conjecture.

Of course of accounts of wars and battles were copiously written but not the hard bloody experience of the soldier. Indeed the Roman military man is described almost exclusively as a commander or in battle. Men such as Caesar who experienced war and wrote about it do not to tell us about homecoming.

It seems one of main challenges when we try to see military history through the lens of our definition of PTSD is to first understand the comparative nature of military history and what it is we are comparing ie mistaking apples for oranges.

The origin of military history was tied to the idea that if one understood ancient battle, one might fight and, more importantly, one might lead and strategise more effectively. In essence, much of the training of officers – even in the military handbooks of the Greeks and Romans – was an attempt to keep new commanders from making the same mistakes as the commanders of old. Military history is intended to be a pragmatic enterprise; in pursuit of this pragmatic goal, it has long been the norm to use comparative materials to understand the nature of ancient battle.

The 19th Century French military theorist Ardant du Picq argued for the continuity of human behaviour and assumed that the reactions of men under the threat of lethal force would be identical over the centuries: “Man does not enter battle to fight, but for victory. He does everything that he can to avoid the first and obtain the second....Now, man has a horror of death. In the bravest, a great sense of duty, which they alone are capable of understanding and living up to, is paramount. But the mass always cowers at sight of the phantom, death. Discipline is for the purpose of dominating that horror by a still greater horror, that of punishment or disgrace. But there always comes an instant when natural horror gets an upper hand over discipline, and the fighter flees”

These words offer insight to those of us who have never faced the terror of battle but at the same time assume the universality of how combat is experienced, despite changes in psychological expectations and weaponry, to name but two variables.

Another incentive for scholars and researchers is to turn to comparative material has been the growing awareness of the artificiality of how we describe war. A mere phrase such as ‘flank attack’ does not capture the bloody, grinding human struggle. Roman authors – especially those who had not fought – often wrote generic descriptions of battle. Literary battle can distort and simplify even as it tells, but if the main things are right – who won, who lost, and who the good guys are – the important ‘facts’ are covered. Even if one intends to speak the truth about battle, the assumptions and the normative language used to describe violence will affect the telling. We may note that the battle accounts in poetry become increasingly grisly during the course of the Roman Empire (perhaps owing to the growing popularity of gladiatorial games),while, in Caesar’s Gallic War, the Latin word cruor (blood) never appears and sanguis (another Latin word for blood) only appears in quoted appeals (Caes. B. Gall. 7.20, in the mouth of Vercingetorix, and 7.50, where the centurion M. Petronius urges his men to retreat). The realities of the battlefield are described in anodyne shorthand. In much the same way that the news rarely prints or televises graphic images, Caesar does not use gore, and perhaps for the same reason – to give a sense of reportorial objectivity.

Another element in the interpretive scrum is a given author’s goal in writing an account in the first place: Caesar, for example, was writing about himself, and he may have been producing something akin to a political campaign ad. Caesar makes Caesar look great and there is reason to believe that, if he was not precisely cooking the books, he did give them a little rinse to make him look more pristine. Given the many factors that complicate our ability to ‘unpack’ battle narratives, Philip Sabin has argued that the ambiguity and unreliability of the ancient sources must be supplemented by looking at the “form of the overall characteristics of Roman infantry in mortal combat”. Again the modern is used to illuminate that which is obscured by written accounts and the “the enduring psychological strains” are merely unconsciously assumed.

These legitimate uses of comparative materials have led to a sort of creep: because military historians have used observations of how men react to combat stress during battle to indicate continuity of behaviour through time, there appears to be a consequent expectation that men will also react identically after battle. This creep became a lusty stride with modern books written about the ancient world and PTSD.

After I finished my tour in Afghanistan I read many books recommended to me by family and friends as well as comrades. One of these books is well known in military circles - at least amongst the thinking officer class - as an iconic work of marrying the ancient world and the modern experience of war. I read it and I was touched deeply by this brilliant therapeutic book. It was only months later I began to re-think whether it was a true account of PTSD in the ancient world.

This insightful book is called Achilles in Vietnam by Jonathan Shay. Shay is psychiatrist in Boston, USA. He began reading The Iliad with Vietnam veterans whom he was treating. Achilles in Vietnam, is a deeply humane work and is very much concerned with promoting policies that he hoped would help diminish the frequency of post-traumatic stress. His goal was not to explain ancient poetry but to use it therapeutically by linking his patients’ pain to that of the Iliad’s great hero. His book offers a conduit between the reader and the experiences of the men that Shay counsels. In the introduction to this work he makes a nod to Homerists while also asserting the primacy of his own reading:

“I shall present the Iliad as the tragedy of Achilles. I will not glorify Vietnam combat veterans by linking them to a prestigious ‘classic’ nor attempt to justify study of the Iliad by making it sexy, exciting, modern or ‘relevant’. I respect the work of classical scholars and could not have done my work without them. Homer’s poem does not mean whatever I want it to mean. However, having honored the boundaries of meaning that scholars have pointed out, I can confidently tell you that my reading of the Iliad as an account of men in war is not a ‘meditation’ that is only tenuously rooted in the text. “

After outlining the major plot points around which he will organise his argument, he notes, “ ‘This is the story of Achilles in the Iliad, not some metaphorical translation of it”.

The trouble was and continues to be is that many in the historical and medical fields began to rush to unfounded conclusions that Shay, on the issue of PTSD in the ancient world, had demonstrated that the psychological realities of western warfare were universal and enduring. More books on similar comparative themes soon emerged and began to enshrine the truth that PTSD was indeed prevalent throughout the ancient world and one could draw comparative lessons from it.

Perhaps one of the most influential books after Shay was by Lawrence Tritle. Tritle, a veteran himself, wrote From Melos to My Lai. It’s a fascinating book to read and there are parts that certainly resonate with my own experiences and those of others I have known. In the book Tritle drew a direct parallel between the experiences of the ancient Greeks and those of modern veterans. For instance, Xenophon, in his military autobiography, presents a brief eulogy for one of his fallen commanders, Clearchus. Xenophon writes that Clearchus was ‘polemikos kai philopolemos eschatos’ (Xen. An. 2.6) – ‘warlike and a lover of war to the highest degree’.

Tritle comments:

“The question that arises is why men like Clearchus and his counterparts in Vietnam and the Western Front became so entranced with violence. The answer is to be found in the natural ‘high’ that violence induces in those exposed to it, and in the PTSD that follows this exposure. Such a modern interpretation in Clearchus’ case might seem forced, but there seems little reason to doubt that Xenophon in fact provides us with the first known historical case of PTSD in the western literary tradition.”

Arguably in the West and especially our current modern Western culture is predicated at baulking at the notion of being ‘war lovers” as immoral. But such an interpretation speaks more of our modern Christianised ambivalence towards war; to the Spartans and Athenians the term would not have had a negative connotation. ‘Philopolemos’ is, in fact, a compliment, and the list of Clearchus’ military exploits functions as a eulogy. There are points where his analysis does not adequately address the divergences between ancient and modern experiences.

For all the talk of our Western culture being rooted in Ancient Greece and Rome we are not shaped by the same ethics. Our modern ethics and our moral code is Christian. There is no such thing as a secular humanist or atheist both owe a debt to Christianity for the way they have come to be; in many respects it’s more accurate to describe such people as Christianised Humanists or Christian Atheists even if they reject the theological tenets of the religious faith because they use Christian morality as the foundation to construct their own. Many forget just how brutal these ancient societies were in every day life to the point there would be little one could find recognisable within our own modern lives.

Now we come to third point I wish to make in determining where the Greeks or Romans actually experienced PTSD. This is to do with the little understood nature of PTSD itself. As much as we know about PTSD there is still much more we don’t know. Indeed one of the most problematic and complicated issues is the continued disagreement around the diagnosis and specific triggers of the disorder which remain little understood. We have to admit there are competing theories about what causes PTSD but, in terms of experiences that make it manifest, there are essentially three possible triggers: witnessing horrific events and/or being in mortal danger and/or the act of killing – especially close kills where the reality of one’s responsibility cannot be doubted. The last of these was strongly argued in another scholarly book by D. Grossman, On Killing, the Psychological Cost of Learning to Kill in War and Society (1995).

Roman soldiers had the potential to experience all of these things. The majority of Roman combat was close combat and permitted no doubt as to the killer. The comparatively short length of the gladius encouraged aggressive fighting. Caesar recounts how his men, facing a shield wall carried by the taller Gauls, leaped up on top of the shields, grabbed the upper edges with one hand, and stabbed downwards into the faces of their opponents (Caes. B. Gall. 1.52). As for mortal danger, Stefan Chrissanthos in his informative book, Warfare in the Ancient World: From the Rise of Uruk to the Fall of Rome, 3500BC-476AD, puts it this way: “For Roman soldiers, though the weapons were more primitive, the terrors and risks of combat were just as real. They had to face javelins, stones, spears, arrows, swords, cavalry charges, and maybe worst of all, the threat of being trampled by war elephants.”

Such terrors are regularly attested. During his campaign in North Africa, Caesar, noting his men’s fear, procured a number of elephants to familiarise his troops with how best to kill the beasts (Caes. B. Afr.72). It should also be noted that it was not unusual for the reserve line to be made up of veterans because they were better able to watch the combat without losing their nerve. Held in reserve, they had to watch stoically as their comrades were injured and killed, and contemplate the awful fact that they might suffer the same fate. This was not a role for the faint of heart.

However, while the Romans certainly had the raw ingredients for combat trauma, the danger for a Roman legionary was much more localised. Mortars could not be lobbed into the Green Zone, suicide bombers did not walk into the market, and garbage piled on the street did not hide powerful explosives. The danger for a Roman soldier was largely circumscribed by his moments on the field of battle, and even here, if he was with the victorious side, the casualties were likely to be light: at Gergovia, a disaster by Caesar’s standards, he lost nearly seven hundred men (Caes. B. Gall. 7.51). In his victory over Pompey the Great at Pharsalus, his casualties numbered only two hundred (Caes. B. Civ. 3.99).

So we are left with the disturbing question: were the stressors really the same?

This is the part where I also defer to my eldest sister as a doctor and surgeon specialising in neurology and just so much smarter than myself.

My eldest sister holds the view in talking to her own American medical peers that despite  similar experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq, British soldiers on average report better mental health than US soldiers.

My sister pointed out to research study done by Kings College London way back around 2015 or so that analysed 34 studies produced over a 15-year period (up to 2015) and found that overall there has been no increase in mental health issues among British personnel - with the exception of high rates of alcohol abuse among soldiers. The study was in part inspired the “significant mental health morbidity” among U.S. soldiers and reports that factors such as age and the quality of mental health programs contribute to the difference between the two nation’s servicemen and women.

She pointed out that these same studies showed that post-traumatic stress disorder afflicts roughly 2 to 5% of non-combat U.K. soldiers returning from deployment, while 7% of combat troops report PTSD. According to a General Health Questionnaire, an estimated 16 to 20% of U.K. soldiers have reported symptoms of common mental disorders, similar to the rates of the general U.K. population. In comparison, studies around the same time in 2014 showed U.S. soldiers experience PTSD at rates of 21 to 29%. The U.S. Department of Veteran Affairs estimated PTSD afflicted 11% of veterans returning from Afghanistan and 20% returning from Iraq. Major depression was reported by 14% of major soldiers according to another study commissioned by RAND corporation; roughly 7% of the general U.S. population reports similar symptoms.

It’s always tough comparing rates between countries and is not a reflection of the quality of the fighting soldier. But one finding that consistently and stubbornly refuses to go away is that over the past 20 years reported mental health problems tend to be higher among service personnel and veterans of the USA compared with the UK, Canada, Germany and Denmark.

However my sister strongly cautioned against making hasty judgements. And there could be many variable factors at play. One explanation is that American soldiers are more likely than their British counterparts to be from the reserve forces. Empirical studies showed reservists from both America and British troops were more likely to experience mental illness post-deployment. It was also worth pointing out that American soldiers also tended to be younger - being younger and inexperienced as well as untested on the battlefield, service personnel would naturally run the risk of greater and be more vulnerable to mental illness.

In contrast, the elite forces of the British army, such as your brother’s Parachute Regiment or the Royal Marines, were found to be the least affected by mental illness. It was found that in spite of elite forces experiencing some of the toughest fighting conditions, they tended to enjoy better mental health than non-elite troops. The more elite a unit is or more professional then you find that troops tend to enjoy a very deep bonds of camaraderie. As such the social cohesion of these fighting forces provides a psychological protective buffer. Not for all, but for many.

More intriguing are new avenues of discovery that might go a long way to actually understanding one of the root causes of PTSD. According to my sister, recent research carried out in the US and Europe and published in such prestigious medical journals as the New England Journal of Medicine (US) and the Lancet (UK), seems to establish a causal link between concussive injury and PTSD. 

One recent study looked at US soldiers that concerned itself with the effects of concussive injuries upon troops after their return from active duty during the war in Iraq.

Of the majority of soldiers who suffered no combat injuries of any sort, 9.1 per cent exhibited symptoms consistent with PTSD. This allows a baseline for susceptibility of roughly 10% of the population. A slightly higher number (16.2%)  of those who were injured in some way, but suffered no concussion, also experienced symptoms. As soon as concussive injuries were involved, however, the rates of PTSD climbed dramatically.

Although only 4.9% of the troops suffered concussions that resulted in complete loss of consciousness, 43.9% of these soldiers noted on their questionnaires that they were experiencing a range of PTSD symptoms. Of the 10.3% of the unit who suffered concussion resulting in confusion but retained consciousness, more than a quarter (27.3%) suffered symptoms. This suggests a high correlation between head trauma and the occurrence of subsequent psychological problems. The authors of the study note that ‘concern has been emerging about the possible long term effect of mild traumatic brain injury or concussion...as a result of deployment related head injuries, particularly those resulting from proximity to blast explosions’

Although these results are preliminary, if confirmed they have profound implications for anyone trying to understand the nature of warfare in the ancient world, especially the Western world. 

So why does it matter?

In Roman warfare, wounds were most often inflicted by edged weapons. Romans did of course experience head trauma, but the incidence of concussive injuries would have been limited both by the types of weapons they faced and by the use of helmets. Indeed the efficacy and importance of headgear for example can be deduced from the death of the Epirrote general Pyrrhus from a roof tile during the sack of Argos. It is likely that the Romans designed their helmets with an eye to blunting the force of the blows they most often encountered. Connolly has argued that helmet design in the Republican period suggests a crouching fighting stance (see P. Connolly, ‘The Roman Fighting Technique Deduced from Armour and Weaponry’, Roman Frontier Studies (1989). However my own view is that the change in helmet design may signal instead a shift in the role of troops from performing assaults on towns and fortifications when the empire was expanding (and the blows would more often rain from above) to the defence and guarding of the frontiers.

While the evidence is clear that concussion is not the only risk factor for PTSD, it is so strongly correlated that it suggests that the incidence of PTSD may have risen sharply with the arrival of modern warfare and the technology of gunpowder, shells, and plastic explosives. Indeed, accounts of shell shock from the First World War are common, and it was in the wake of that war that those observing veterans suspected that neurological damage was being caused by exploding shells.

For soldiers of the Second World War and down to our modern day, an artillery barrage is like an invention of hell.

As one American put it in his memoirs of fighting the Japanese at Peleiu and Okinawa, “I developed a passionate hatred for shells. To be killed by a bullet seemed so clean and surgical but shells would not only tear and rip the body, they tortured one’s mind almost beyond the brink of sanity. After each shell I was wrung out, limp and exhausted. During prolonged shelling, I often had to restrain myself and fight back a wild inexorable urge to scream, to sob, and to cry. As Peleliu dragged on, I feared that if I ever lost control of myself under shell fire my mind would be shattered. To be under heavy shell fire was to me by far the most terrifying of combat experiences. Each time it left me feeling more forlorn and helpless, more fatalistic, and with less confidence that I could escape the dreadful law of averages that inexorably reduced our numbers. Fear is many-faceted and has many subtle nuances, but the terror and desperation endured under heavy shelling are by far the most unbearable” (see E.B. Sledge, With the Old Breed at Peleiu and Okinanwa, 2007).

The psychological effect of shelling seems to result from the combined effect of awaiting injury while at the same time having no power to combat it.

There is another aspect that I alluded to above which is the psychological and societal conditioning of the Roman soldier. In other words a Roman male’s social and cultural expectations of his place in the world. Feelings of helplessness and fatalism were probably a less alien experience for most Romans – even those in the upper classes. In general, the Romans inhabited a world that was significantly more brutal and uncertain than our own.

This another way of saying that the Roman and 21st century combat are very different in a variety of ways that subject the modern soldier to a good deal more stress than the legionary was ever likely to suffer. And the Roman’s societal preparation – his life before the battle – was far more robust than that we enjoy today.

Take infant mortality. In the modern developed world, our infant mortality rates are about ten per thousand. In Rome, it is estimated that this number was three hundred per thousand. Three-tenths of infants would die within the first year, and an additional fifth would not make it to the age of ten - 50% of children would not survive childhood. Anecdotal evidence supports these statistics: Cornelia, the mother of the Gracchi, gave birth to twelve children between 163 bc and 152 bc; all twelve survived their father’s death in 152 bc, but only three survived to adulthood. Marcus Aurelius and his wife, Faustina, had at least twelve children but only the future emperor Commodus survived. 


Then look at how that child grows up. The typical Roman child would be raised in a society that readily accepted ultra-violent arena entertainment, mob justice, frequent and bloody warfare as a fact of life. This was reinforced by religious and societal encouragement to see war as natural and beneficial, open butchering of food animals, a total lack of support structures for the poor and less able.

Compared to the legionary our modern soldier has been protected from such realities to a greater degree than at any other point in history, and will thus be far less well prepared for the horror of a warfare that contains far more stress factors than for a man who might fight a handful of battles in his military career, with long periods of relative calm in between, state of war notwithstanding. Modern special and elite forces training often emphasises the brutalisation and ‘rebuilding’ of the recruit in readiness for this step into darkness, but it seems likely that no such conditioning would have been needed two thousand years ago.

I would argue that we experience war very differently from the way the Romans did. Our modern identity is defined far more by our Western Christian heritage than our Western Classical roots. They are in fact world apart when it comes to ethics and morality. Consider the fact that when we talk of war and killing today we often do so through conflict between our civilian moral codes – which offer the strict injunction not to do violence to other human beings – and wartime, when men are commanded to violate such prohibitions. It is a terrible thing to try to navigate ‘Thou shalt not kill’ and the necessity of taking a life in combat.

It is sometimes the case that the qualities that make the best soldier do not make the best civilian, a point amply attested in Greek poetry by heroes such as Heracles and Odysseus.

The Romans, for their part, celebrated heroes such as Cincinnatus, who could command effectively and then leave behind the power he wielded to return to his humble plough. It is important, however, when evaluating combat and its effects in the ancient world, that we do not read our ambivalence about violence onto the Romans. They inhabited an empire whose prosperity was quite openly tied to conquest.

As M. Zimmerman writes in his academic article, “Violence in Late Antiquity Reconsidered’ (2007), “The pain of the other, seen on the distorted faces of public and private monuments, or heard in the screams of criminals in the amphitheatre, reassured Romans of their own place in the world. Violence was a pervasive presence in the public space; indeed, it was an important basis for its existence, pertaining as it did not only to victories over external enemies but also to the internal order of the state.”

Violence then was both the means and the expression of Roman power. The Roman soldier was its instrument. The Roman warrior then would have brought a different perspective to lethal violence, and would have had a far more restricted moral circle to his modern counterpart – his friends and family, clan, patron and clients, as opposed to millions of fellow citizens via the internet and social media.

Part II follows next post

[diddlesanddoodles]

DUMPLING ch 56

Nenani tried to occupy herself by recalling as much of her lessons with Maevis as she was able, but time passed like cold molasses. While the old magician possessed many tricks and pointers for magic, it was frustratingly difficult to recall them. The more she tried to hold onto the memories, the more they seemed to pass through her fingers like grains of sand. Haiyer sensed something of her mood and wrapped his arms around her. Having been pulled from her thoughts, she looked down at him with a curious expression.

“Ellis will be back soon,” he told her with such confidence that she almost smiled. “And then we can go home.”

“I’m sure she will,” she said and returned the embrace. After what seemed like hours, there was a knock on the door. Farris’s shoulders squared as he reached for the knife at his belt, moving from his seat to the door.

“That you, Keral?” he asked lowly.

“Aye,” Keral’s voice said, muffled behind the wood. “It’s just me.”

Farris removed the chair blocking the door, and the moment Keral was inside, the chair was placed back. Nenani watched the ranger move to the center of the room, his expression betraying the weight of his thoughts.

“I’ve sent the note,” Keral said. “But I’m not very confident it’ll ever reach Warren’s hands. Their falconer smells off to me. Shady. But too agreeable and smiles a bit too much. But if it does make it to the castle, there’s enough short code words in there fer His Majesty to know what’s going on.”

“Short code words?” Nenani asked. “What are those?”

“It’s like a spy language,” Jae explained. “Depending on the way the message starts or ends, it lets the reader know there is a hidden message and certain words or phrases have double meanings. You isolate the words and decipher the message.”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s clever.”

“So what are we doing now?” Farris asked.

Keral ran a hand down his pensive face. “I had thought we might stay up here till the light begins to fade and then try to make our way down. But when I was meeting with the falconer, I saw that they’d stationed a few guardsmen near the door and there were a few milling ‘round outside.”

“Think they suspect we know?” Farris asked.

Keral shook his head, but his expression remained pensive. “I don’t believe so. But it don’t look as though they mean to risk it. They get a sniff of our plans and those guard’s will be on our arses in a blink.”

“Gods piss on it,” Farris snarled and turned away, running his hand down his face anxiously. When he rounded back to face him, he pinned his brother with barely suppressed rage. “Can’t just sit up here Keral.”

“Unless ye wanna find out what it’s like to have steel split yer spleen in half, that’s just what we’re gonna have to do,” Keral retorted sternly. “We need more information before we –”

His words cut off as a flash of light illuminated the room for a brief moment and Ellis appeared above Keral’s head. Her wings seemed to beat at a slower rate, and she plopped herself onto the ranger’s shoulder in an exhausted heap.

“Any luck?” he asked the fairy. Ellis looked haggard, but she nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “I found him, your Lord Colem. He and his men are on the road now and he says to expect them just after sunset.”

There was a palpable shift in the room, and Nenani shared a look of relief with Jae.

“Fuckin’ great news! You did well,” Keral told her with a near manic grin. “Very well. Now I have another one fer ye.”

Ellis raised her head slightly, and in a tired and reluctant voice she asked, “Yes?”

“How many more portal jumps ye think ye have in ye?”

Ellis was quiet as she considered. “One. But only one. I wouldn’t be able to make a return trip until I’ve rested. Why?”

Keral jerked his head towards where the children sat together on the bed. “Ye think ye might be able to get Haiyer back to Vhasshal? To the castle?”

Ellis immediately brightened up at the idea, her near exhaustion suddenly forgotten. There was a light in her eyes that was not there before. “Yes! Of course I can! And if not there, then close enough. Out of this wretched place at the very least.” She paused and considered. “But I would not be able to take the other humans. Not until I rest a bit more.”

“How long?” Keral asked.

“An hour at the very least. I am still not yet fully recovered, and to go that far with another...I shall be useless after.”

“Then that is what you will do,” he said with an air of finality. Moving to the bed, he carefully plucked the fairy from his shoulder and placed her near the humans. “Get the boy as close to the castle as ye can. Maybe aim fer the Hill Tribe. It’ll save ye a few miles at least, and they’ll take ye both in if ye just tell ‘em ye were sent by me. They’ll see to it the lad’s kept safe. Rest, and the moment ye feel like ye can make a round trip, come on back. I want all three of them out of this place before any of the fightin’ starts.”

It was then that the horrible implications of what Keral was saying were made clear to Nenani. Jae seemed to have gotten there just as she had and he balked at the ranger.

“You don’t mean that you’re gonna stay here, do you?” Jae demanded hotly. “If there’s a fight...”

“Ain’t no other way fer this to happen,” Keral told him. “Ellis will get you three out of here. Colem’s men will arrive, and Farris and I will use that distraction to try and get the humans downstairs out.”

“And what if Colem’s men aren’t enough?” Jae demanded hotly.

“Then I suppose we’re just gonna die,” Keral replied frankly with a shrug. Nenani felt herself go pale, and both she and Jae regarded the ranger with a look of horror. Before either could protest, however, Keral silenced them with a hand. “Ain’t to say that I plan on dying here. I may not be in my prime, but I still know how to fight. And if all they have is them boys I saw walkin’ ‘round, then I’m thinkin’ I stand a good chance.”

Behind him, Farris snorted. “I certainly don’t have any intentions of dyin’ here of all places.”

“Good!” Nenani snapped at him. Farris regarded her with a raised eyebrow, and she glared back at him. “You better not.”

He looked as though he wanted to be mad, but his frown broke into a smirk. “Yes, ma’am.”

The notion of either Farris or Keral getting hurt or worse was enough to send the tips of her fingers sparking. She wished they were all back at the castle and the worse she had to contend with was endless dress fittings and her lessons.

It felt like the world was becoming far too complicated and she was drowning in it.

“Come to me, Haiyer,” Ellis said as she reached out for the little boy. “Let us go.”

Just as he began to move, Nenani reached out to pull Haiyer into a quick hug. The little boy readily returned it, burying his head against her chest.

“Come too,” he said.

“I will,” she assured him. “Soon. But you need to go first.”

From the side, Keral reached over and poked Haiyer lightly on the head. “Yer gonna scout ahead fer us, eh?”

“Oh, okay,” he said, though he did not look convinced or enthusiastic about it.

“If you go to the Hill Tribe,” Nenani said to Ellis, blinking back sudden tears. “Find Nonna. She is our great aunt. She will take care of him.”

Ellis nodded as Nenani loosened her hold on her brother. The fairy happily gathered the little boy into her arms and allowed herself a smile.

“I will do that,” she said to Nenani and then regarded the others with a wistful look. “I wish you all the best of luck. May the green mother’s blessing be with you.”

And with a flash of golden light, both the fairy and Haiyer were gone.

“He’ll be alright, Sweetling,” Keral told her softly, running a knuckle down her back. “He’s a tough little nut.”

………………….

“We’re playin’ a dangerous game,” Keral explained to them. Farris stood near the bed, close to where Jae and Nenani sat, all of them wearing morose or stern expressions. “And if we wanna have any chance at winnin’, we’re gonna need to play our pieces in just the right order and at just the right time.”

The room somehow felt colder despite the roaring fire not too far away. She felt Haiyer’s absence far more acutely than she had assumed she would but consoled herself with the knowledge that he was safe. It was clear that Ellis dearly loved her brother, and she had faith that loyalty would see him through. But to not be able to see him with her own eyes made her nervous. In her growing anxiety, she picked at the uneven portion of her fingernail.

“Sunset won’t be fer another hour or so,” Keral continued with a calculating look to the window. The sun was nearing the horizon and casting the world in a hazy orange and red, but it did not yet touch the tops of the mountains in the distance.

“Is Colem’s estate really that close to here?” Jae asked. He snorted in frustration and crossed his arms. “If he’s one of the good fellas like you say, why couldn’t we have stumbled on his estate?”

Keral shrugged.

“Luck of the draw, lad. Would have liked it better myself, everythin’ considered,” he said. “Would never have been suspicious of Brennan. Eldherst or Tendle or one of them velvet-arsed pricks, but not Brennan. Feel a fool fer fallin’ fer his charade.”

“Yeah. He was awfully chummy with Queen Aine at the dinner too,” Jae added, delving back into his memories for missing puzzle pieces. “Think there was some calculations going on there?”

“He put up a lot of money to rebuild Silvaara too,” Nenani said, feeling the same sort of incredulous horror. When she pictured his smiling grinning face, it became twisted and maniacal. She shuddered. “Why do all that if he’s...doing all of this too?”

“The charming philanthropist makes fer a convincing cover,” Farris replied flatly. “Fooled the king. Fooled all of us.”

“There might be more still,” Keral said in contemplation. “But answers will be hard to come by fer a bit. If luck be with us tonight and we get the humans downstairs out, the estate secured, and the staff in irons, then we can –”

Keral paused as the sound of many boots stomping up the stairwell pulled all of their eyes to the door. Both he and Farris rose to their feet together, moved to the door, and pushed their bodies against it just as a body from the other side collided with it in a horrible cacophony of pained grunts and groaning wood. The force of the strike bowed the door inward, but the old wood and hinges held. The brothers pushed themselves harder against it to hold back the next strike, and though it was just as strong as the first, the door did not move. Both Farris and Keral’s faces were grim mirrors of one another as they shared a glance.

“Gods piss on it,” Farris snarled under his breath. “Fuck the bloody fuckers to Vendril’s damned door!”

There was another slam and more grunts of frustration from the other side. There was no way of telling how many men were outside their room, but Nenani thought she could pick out at least four distinct voices.

“Open this door!” demanded one such voice. “Or we will break it down and drag you out!”

“SHOVE IT UP YER ARSE!” Farris bellowed back. He turned his head and pinned Nenani with a hard look. Determination and regret and anger and fear all rolled into one single glance. “The window. Go. Now!”

She knew two things were going to happen. Firstly, they were not going to be able to barricade the door forever. The men outside would get in eventually through whatever means they could employ. Secondly, once inside, they would either kill them all outright or take them in irons. The window was too small for the giants to climb out themselves. The door was the only entrance or exit for them.

There did not seem to be any choice. And it was terribly frustrating to have so few options. She hated the idea of just abandoning them. The mere thought of losing them was a crushing weight inside her head. And yet there was so little that she could do. Fire, in all its power and splendor, seemed so utterly useless to her in that moment.

She returned Farris’s gaze with anger and reluctant acceptance. A thousand words were on her lips, but her body moved as though it knew there was really only one choice. Beside her, Jae stood like a doe caught in the hunter’s sights, motionless and terrified, but the moment Nenani grabbed his arm he seemed to come back to himself.

“Help me open the window. We need to get to the roof,” she told him, pulling him along. The window looked old and worn, and she worried it would stick and they would not be able to pull it up, but it moved with shocking ease after only a few hard pushes. The ledge below was a good four feet wide, made of stone, and speckled with bird droppings and remnants of past seasons’ nests.

“We can’t just leave them,” Jae said to her, wincing when there came another slam against the door.

“We can’t do anything if we are dead,” Nenani told him. “They’ll take them prisoner. They would outright kill us.”

Just as they stepped down onto the ledge, the door behind them burst, the hinges breaking apart from the abuse, and bodies and splintered wood fell into the room. The small space was filled with loud angry voices as seven armed men dressed in dark green uniforms stormed inside. They grabbed Farris and Keral’s arms, pushing and pulling at them as the whole lot of them struggled for control over the other.

One of the men near the door caught sight of the open window and locked eyes with both Nenani and Jae.

“The window!” he shouted, pointing at them. “The fucking little rats are escaping!”

Jae pushed Nenani in front of him and further down the ledge, away from the open window.

“Move!” he told her. 

They reached the end of the ledge where the dormer ended and a sloping part of the roof began. Behind them, they heard a curse, and when they turned, they saw one of the guards trying to climb out the small window after them. He was younger and thin-limbed, and Nenani did not doubt that he might have been the only one of the giants who had a chance of fitting through.

“Get back here!” he snarled, swinging his arm out towards them. His fingertips rushed by with barely a foot of space to spare. Jae tried to use himself to shield Nenani, but she pushed his arm away and stood in front of him.

The giant’s eyes were a dusty brown, and they bore into her with a primal hate and rage. She recognized it, and she allowed herself the smallest piece of self indulgent joy as she fed every piece of fear and anger she had inside to her flame.

Angry red fire burned from the tips of her fingers and up through her arms. The amulet set inside her belt sparked to life as she reached inside and pulled every bit of magic she could. The flames along her arms flickered and turned into a hissing blue flame. Long tendrils of fire, like barbed strings, fell from her fingertips and pooled around her feet. Anger drained from the giant’s face to be replaced first with confusion and then with terror. She swung her arms, bringing the horned vines down across his arms and face. Something fell away and dropped down off the ledge, and the man was still and did not move as blood pooled around him.

His head was gone.

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Trying out a new color scheme. This is kind of how I’ve been feeling all week. 

[firefield]

David Bowie - Reality (2003)

“The thing, probably, that keeps me writing is this awful feeling that there are no absolutes. That there is no truth. That we are, as I’ve been thinking for so many years now, fully in the swirl of chaos theory.” DB, 2003

I always learn new things about David Bowie whenever I listen through his complete discography chronologically, and this run through is no different. As I get close to the end here, I’m reminded how much less I know about these later works, due simply to the fact that they have existed for a much shorter time, and my experience with them is more limited. “Reality” rocks more than I realized on release day, especially coming off the heels of “Heathen” with all its layers and mystery and subtleties. An empty house afforded the opportunity to really crank this one up, a vinyl pass, and CD pass, and finally the 5.1 surround sound edition - and yeah - DB said he wanted a simpler sound, and wanted a record that could be translated into a live show easily and effectively and he got that in spades.

As with all his post-80’s work, and especially his post-heart attack material, “Reality” embraces the darker and more cynical side of DB’s many characters - from the irony of the album title with album art portraying a very cartoony space-man Bowie looking about as unreal and non-Reality as possible and still be recognizable - to DB’s insistence that he made a “positive!” record despite themes of aging and death, loneliness and anonymity, geopolitical strife, day-in-day-out mundanity and the creeping threat of urbanization to nature. Regarding the subject matter of Reality he told Interview Magazine, “This is probably a period when, more than any other time, the idea that our absolutes are disintegrating is manifest in real terms. Truths that we always thought we could stand by are crumbling before our eyes. It really is quite traumatic.”

I read quotes like that and I think, for a guy that is largely known for (and criticized for) his ability to synthesize the past and his surroundings into something entirely David-Bowieingly unique, he certainly shows skill at synthesizing the future as well. Beyond things like financial chicanery like Bowie Bonds and the impact of the internet on the creation and distribution of music, Bowie often hit at the very essence of what unites as well as divides.

The seeds of this malleablity of truth that DB describes had been planted in my country during the civil rights movement and the tragedy of the Vietnam War, but began to flower and bloom after the 9/11 event - affecting Bowie’s home turf and his family profoundly. Heathen is prescient, Reality is a little angry about things. DB took time to specifically say what Reality was not: it was not an angry album, it was not a response to 9/11, it was not his “New York Album” - but then he’d spend just as much time gently walking back those claims, almost wondering aloud if it was, in fact, all of those things and more. He speaks around this time about how naturally writing music came to him. Unforced, calmly. I think this “flow” is why you can glean so many little contradictions about Reality and it’s intentions and meaning. He’s letting it happen, not dictating the plot; the tensions of that city and that moment in time allowed to mold and shape the work. Polar opposite to the Heathen recording environment at Allaire Studios in the Catskill Mountains, Reality was recorded in the cramped Studio B of Philip Glass’s Looking Glass Studios in NYC and both those disparate studio choices impact their respective products acutely.

Reality is Bowie’s most “hands-on” record since Diamond Dogs, employing all his multi-instrumentalist abilities, and it’s also one of his most thoroughly demoed. Most all of Reality was demoed out in Studio B by DB and Tony Visconti playing all the instruments, with Mario McNulty (the same engineer DB would later trust with the posthumous reimagining/re-recording of Never Let Me Down) as studio assistant. According to Tony, he had a feeling that many of these “demo tracks” would not ever actually be re-recorded, so they were laid down at a useable fidelity. Consequently, much of the demo material survived on the final album. The band brought in for final overdubs was chosen with the live show in mind specifically. This was a smaller, tighter unit of BowieLive veterans and by all accounts recording was smooth and productive.

New Killer Star opens the record, and is also Reality’s debut single (that contained one of his more surprising B-sides, Sigue Sigue Sputnik’s ‘Love Missle F1-11’) and is a spectacular Earl Slick led hazy, woozy guitar statement.

This is followed by The Modern Lovers - Pablo Picasso - recorded in 1972 but delayed until their 1976 debut. This track mimics the space occupied by the Pixies cover Cactus - the second track on Heathen - DB pulling tracks from his past that he enjoys and placing them where they give the record momentum. Quite a different interpretation if you have heard the original - DB took liberties with both the lyric and the arrangement and it’s a cool little track.

Never Get Old follows and addresses the common theme of time and aging in DB compositions…. (Cygnet Committee, Time, Hearts Filthy Lesson, Changes, Fantastic Voyage, and many more) and the composition itself references much of his past in Space Oddities countdown, the elongated guitar strands of Heroes, bits of melody from Crack City, the four-walls-closing-in sense of Low and some of Hunky Dory’s ominous moments. A pounding live favorite.

…and seamlessly right into The Loneliest Guy. Anyone who saw the Reality Tour knows the captivating power of this piece, and it’s honesty and fragility was one of a few reasons why I thought this would be DB’s final album.

Looking For Water. Man, I *love* this song. It’s one of my favorite vocal performances on Reality and would certainly end up on my list of “underrated DB songs” were I compelled to make one. I like repetition in music, and it’s hypnotic and mantra-esque qualities - and this is one that always gets a significant volume boost.

She’ll Drive The Big Car - a supercool stab of Bowie sash and swagger, and a killer vocal performance, masking some seriously sad lyrics. Bowie manages to sound defiant, tired, funky, deferential, sexy and soulful all in the course of a single song. He’s such an effortlessly great singer, that’s it’s easy to become so accustomed to it that you almost miss it. It’s just “him.”

The exceedingly sweet “Days” fits nicely with all of Realities reflections, and has for me become a song I pay much more attention to since we lost the man to cancer.

Fall Dog Bombs The Moon is one of DB’s most overtly political songs, and was apparently written very quickly - under a half and hour - and directly addresses the Iraq War and the profiteering involved. Relatively bleak with murky lyrics, it’s a interesting and unique DB composition.

Try Some, Buy Some is just beautiful and I think one of Bowie’s most interesting and genuinely heart-felt covers (along with Waterloo Sunset, also from these sessions.) The inspiration to do this song comes directly from the 1971 Ronnie Spector version and the impact it had on him personally. DB seems to be absolutely sincere when he claimed that he had completely forgotten that it was a George Harrison composition until he sat down to work on the album credits.

Next up is the sizzling rocker Reality that has one foot in Tin Machine and one foot in The Next Day. Love Earl’s guitar sound here. Like New Killer Star, the guitar layers in this one sound amazing on the 5.1 surround mix.

Ahh yeah. Another in an amazing number of fantastic Bowie album closers. I’ve made it a point in my life to quit ranking art into “good/better/best/sucks categories and hierarchies and see art as an experience, not a competition. My friends know this about me, and consequently tease me and attempt to prod me into breaking this creed. Under unrelenting pressure to name a “favorite David Bowie track” I named Bring Me The Disco King.

I could give many reasons why this would be the one…. The repetition I mentioned earlier, here found in Matt Chamberlain’s drum loop (interestingly snagged from ‘When The Boys Come Marching Home,’) the overwhelming sense I had when I first heard it that this was DB’s final record, the sense that the threat of jazz that had always pounded on David’s door in his chord structures and harmonies had finally broken down the door… the very tangible sense that this was a composition that had already had a long life but stayed tucked into the shadows by its unsatisfied creator, only to be given life and light on this great album after it had been stripped down to almost nothing - simplicity being the sought after key to its finally being allowed to soar. If it’s not already obvious, I think this song is magnificent. Literally. The fact that David knew it was deep inside there, he just had to mine it out over the course of a decade or so is extraordinary.

Couple of thoughts about a track that didn’t fit well on Reality but made it to bonus/B-sides…

How cool is his cover of The Kinks Waterloo Sunset? In the years after his death, when I feel that loss in my heart, it’s Waterloo Sunset I turn up to 11 and allow it to yank me back out of that murk.

“People so busy

makes me feel dizzy

but I don’t feel afraid

as long as I gaze on Waterloo Sunset

I am in paradise.”