#and if you run it through a narrow tube for years on end...

[random2908]

You know, sometimes I’m grateful that my first summer in my graduate lab, at the impressionable age of 22, my main assignment was to design and build a full closed-loop water cooling system, with a chiller whose heat exchanger had to also be connected to the building cold water system (which, if you screwed it up, had enough water flow that you could flood the whole lab). And I gained familiarity with all the main types of hose, tube, and pipe connectors and how to install them.

I also learned the very important life lesson of, if all else fails, a blow torch can solve nearly any problem. I think I solved three different problems with a blow torch that summer.

No home plumbing I might undertake will match the disasters I ran into that summer.

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 1

As a professional artist, you've made a career out of bringing works of art to life. The colors of Zaun are no exception, and your current commission is literally larger-than-life: a mural in the Undercity. But then you meet a young revolutionary named Silco who shows you a side of the underground that you've never seen before...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst || SFW | WC: 3k

beta readers: @silcoitus @deny-the-issue

ao3 || Masterlist

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There’s color everywhere in the Undercity. It’s not that hard to find, but most people don’t care to go looking for it. But you’ve always been able to appreciate it in all its forms: dandelions straining through cracks in the concrete, eclectic graffiti in hard-to-reach places, pale weak lighting streaming through broken glass and ironwork…

Anywhere you look, there’s always a feast for the eyes.

There are plenty of artists from the Undercity, and you proudly count yourself among their number. But not many of them manage to cultivate a steady clientele; fewer still manage to attract the attention of wealthy Topsiders. They’ve sustained you for years now, since the beginning of your professional career. Making the transition from tagging crumbling stone walls with graffiti to painting on smooth, delicate canvas was a huge learning curve, but you make great money from commissions. And there’s a seemingly never-ending supply of wealthy Piltover families who want family portraits, individual portraits, pet portraits, portraits of long dead ancestors, portraits of them participating in historical events that they weren’t present at…

Whatever opinions you have of your clients, you keep them to yourself. They probably have their own issues with you since you were born and raised in the Undercity. But you wouldn’t give up your upbringing for anything. Certainly not the hallowed halls of Piltover’s art schools, learning to paint only in the styles of long-dead “masters” who romanticize poverty as an abstract concept, something to be studied and observed at a distance. 

Today, your work brings you to the periphery of the Undercity, where Piltover’s largest bridge ends at the aboveground levels of Zaun. You’re working on your biggest commission yet, literally: a mural high on the side of a whitewashed gray brick building in the Promenade, the emergent layer of the Undercity’s glass and iron jungle. Still close enough to the surface to be touched by the sun, illuminated in the early hours on days with good weather. Your artwork is going to encompass at least two-thirds of the wall, over a hundred times larger than most other wall art in this area of Zaun.

The location has you nostalgic for those bygone days of your childhood, but the fresh air and warm sun are miles above where you used to run around in the lowly gutters, competing with your friends for the best real estate and vandalizing each other’s work, showing off who can paint the fastest and most elaborate pieces before Enforcers come stomping around. That’s when you’d all scatter like rats, only to do it all over again the next day.

The mural you’re working on is large enough to warrant the use of a scissor lift, which you’re standing on right now. Its highest extension brings you standing higher than the wall, level with the roof’s ledge. When you lean back and stretch as far as you can, a cool breeze trails through your fingers. You can’t help but savor the beautiful day for a little while longer before getting started.

Just as you lean over a yellow paint can to open it, the sound of running footsteps makes you pause. You lean over the scissor lift’s railing to look down at the alleyway below. It’s narrow due to the close proximity of other buildings, pipes and glass tubes rising above rooftops and wrapping around windows like fungi. You squint hard, trying to make out the source of the noise.

It moves so fast you almost miss it. A blur runs over the irregular stonework on the ground, coalescing into a shadowy figure that dodges and jumps around the landscape with ease, darting and almost flying on a deliberate path. Maybe it’s an avian Vastayan? 

This area doesn’t see a lot of foot traffic around this time of day; you deliberately chose your working hours so you wouldn’t be disturbed. Still, it’s not unusual to see or hear people nearby. But what really gets your attention is when the thing ducks around your scissor lift and peeks out, using your machine as cover to look back where it came from.

You don’t know why you’re watching, but something compels you to. Compels you to defy the first law of survival in the Undercity: mind your own damn business. Or else.

For a moment, it doesn’t move.

Then, it looks up. Catching you staring at it.

No, not “it”—a man. Human, dark-haired with brilliant blue eyes, staring back at you in defiance and uncertainty.

He turns and goes down to his knees, crawling to a nearby manhole cover and lifting it, then jumping in. His movements are swift and graceful, no doubt thoroughly practiced at using this specific escape route. 

Footsteps fill the air again. You turn away to look down the other end of the alleyway where the man came from. These footfalls are slower and louder; whoever they belong to, they’re wearing heavy boots and don’t seem to care about being subtle.

A pair of Enforcers turn the corner, navigating the debris and unsteady ground much more clumsily than the stranger.

“He can’t have gone far! Damn gutter rat…” one of them swears angrily. 

They’re about to pass right next to your scissor lift. 

You hold your breath as you grab two of your paint cans at random and pry their lids off as quickly as you can…

Perch them carefully on the railing…

Take aim…

And then—

SPLAT!!!

Your aim is perfect: the cans drop like bombs, crashing into the Enforcers’ shoulders and clanking onto the ground, spinning wild arcs of paint all over their boots. They’re both drenched in paint from head to toe, prim and proper gold and blue outfits stained in long drips of light pink and pure white, bright enough to be seen even from the great height you’re standing at. Just as you hoped, they stop their pursuit to shake themselves like mangy dogs, trying to swipe the paint off of their sleeves. One of them takes off their hat and whips it frantically up and down, splattering the nearby walls and your scissor lift.

You school your face from a triumphant grin into a serious, mournful expression as you lower the lift to the ground. The loud hum of the machinery drowns out their furious cursing.

“I’m soooooo sorry officers, I didn’t see you there!” you apologize profusely as you climb down to approach them. 

“Dammit, woman!” one of them shouts, brandishing a paint-splattered baton at you. “What the hell—”

“If you want to be reimbursed for your uniforms, just let Councilor Salo know and he’ll cover the costs,” you smoothly interrupt the Enforcer, unbothered by his outburst.

The namedrop makes them pause. You pull your business card and a golden engraved crest out of your pocket. One of the officers takes them both, not bothering to look at your card. Instead, he carefully examines the crest, a pure gold and tacky letter “S” in calligraphic script, set in a delicate filigree of a leafy bush laden with berries. The crest is given by the Councilor to his contractors to give them free entry to restricted areas in Piltover. You’ve only ever used it so far to gain access to his gated mansion, but right now it’s coming in handy too: having Salo as a patron basically tells people that they shouldn’t mess with you unless they want to piss off a councilor.

“It’s genuine,” the Enforcer mutters to his partner and hands the crest back to you. He clears his throat and addresses you in a calmer, more formal manner. “And it’s not a problem, ma’am. We won’t bother the Councilor with something so trivial. Have you seen a—”

You gasp melodramatically, exaggeratedly widening your eyes. “Your uniforms! You need to wash them right away! Or else they’ll stain permanently!”

They glance at each other impatiently. “It’s fine. We’re looking for a—”

“And your skin! Did you get any on you?? It’ll stain you too!!”

That gets their attention. One of them tucks his hat under his arm, rubbing a gloved hand furiously at his pink-and-white cheek. You shove the other Enforcer with all your might, pushing him away.

“Scrub your bodies with tomato juice and then soak in onion peels! That’ll get it all out! But hurry!!”

They finally break out into a run, out of Zaun and towards Piltover where they belong. You snicker to yourself and toss the crest in the air. It flips over and over, casting bright reflections that spin dizzily on the walls as it catches the light. Those Enforcers won’t actually have to do all that to get the paint out of their clothing, but it feels like a small victory against the cruel arm of law enforcement who cause even worse trouble whenever they visit the Undercity.

You catch a glimpse of something twinkling on the ground. It’s the eyes of the man, still watching you from underground. 

As you suppress the instinct to wave hello at him, he pulls the manhole cover back into place, disappearing into the sewers.

The next day starts off like any other, and you’re looking forward to getting more work done. But as you climb your scissor lift, a jolt of fear zaps up your spine. Prickles on the back of your neck crawl upwards to settle at the top of your head. It’s an Undercity instinct, a warning that someone you can’t see is watching you.

And they’re looking down at you like a bird of prey.

You dart into the shadows, crouching low against the wall. You take deep breaths to settle your nerves. The high ground gives them an advantage against you. If they have a gun, it’s just a matter of them pointing and shooting—

But then, just barely, you’re able to catch a whiff of smoke. It smells of cheap nicotine, and you look up to see a ring of cigarette smoke uncurling lazily against the backdrop of a cloudless sky.

The cigarette smoke is as good as a signal fire. If they wanted to hurt you, they wouldn’t make themselves known like that. Still, whoever it is, they know where you work and were waiting for you. That makes you wary enough to grab your sharpest palette knife and hide it in your pocket. It’s not a conventional weapon, but there’s no way you’re going to confront a stranger unarmed when you ask them to leave you alone. Your grip around the knife’s handle is tight as you punch the button to extend the lift to its fullest height. It brings you level with the roof and the person waiting for you.

It’s the same man from yesterday, now close enough for you to notice that his narrowed, suspicious eyes aren’t blue but turquoise, clear as the ocean and just as deep. He’s pointy and whip-thin, leaning against the roof’s ledge with crossed arms, a cigarette squeezed between the clenched fingers of a tight fist.

“What kind of person works for a councilor but won’t turn in a wanted man?” he asks, curious. His voice is low and smoky, a smooth baritone intonation rolling over gravel. It’s a beautiful voice, tempting you into lowering your guard. If you closed your eyes, you could be fooled into believing that his voice belonged to a Topside radio host or a curator giving tours in a museum. 

“Just wanted to help a fellow ‘gutter rat’,” you reply, shrugging. 

“And why would you do that?” His fashion is typical for an average Zaunite: his dark shirt is made of rough and well-worn fabric, long sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal wiry but muscled forearms. On his left shoulder is a leather pad, studded with brass buttons and stitched with metal wires, all highly polished and shining brightly in the sun, reflections dancing off them like flares. His left wrist is wrapped in bandages while a leather bracelet threaded with silver coins adorns his right wrist. 

“Why not?” you ask. “Isn’t life hard enough already? We should help each other out whenever we can.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your statement with a reply, but instead raises an incredulous eyebrow. You let the silence continue as the two of you mutually size each other up. His high cheekbones and long, narrow and shapely nose are framed by straight hair, black as coal. It looks so soft, parting in the exact middle of his forehead to end in drapes around his chin. His skin is pale with an ashy undertone, a symptom of living long-term in the deepest guts of the Undercity where its denizens rarely get to enjoy any sunshine at all. His lips are thin, the irregular cupid’s bow longer on his right side than the left.

This man’s face would be an interesting challenge to paint. 

“Now that’s not an attitude you encounter every day in the Undercity,” he muses. His eyes are especially striking. They gaze at you with such intensity, it makes you self-conscious of your paint-stained attire, a loose workman’s jumpsuit that prioritizes utility and comfort over style. He doesn’t seem to pay any mind to your painting materials, which you’re suddenly realizing are lying out in the open… He could get a good price for them if he stole them from you. Yesterday’s prank was a spur-of-the-moment decision; losing some easily replaceable supplies was worth inconveniencing the officers, but you suddenly regret painting a target on your back. 

That’s why you have to keep to yourself in the Undercity. If you help a stranger, they could stab you in the back instead of thanking you. 

But the man seems more interested in staring through you, scrutinizing you with such focus that it could put yesterday’s Enforcers to shame. 

“Well, it’s fun to mess with Enforcers, too,” you chuckle at the memory. Staring back with casual indifference, you quietly readjust your grip on your knife. Another rule of survival in the Undercity is to never break eye contact with someone trying to intimidate you unless you want to be seen as weak. If he wants to start a fight, you’ll be ready to finish it. 

“That, I understand all too well.” The stiff line of his lips quirks upward in appreciation before settling again into wary neutrality. He finally breaks eye contact, turning away to take a pull on his cigarette. You let out a low breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Your eyes are drawn to the elegant, lazy movement of his hand as he puts out his cigarette, grinding it against the ledge. The wind carries away small brown flecks of ash in a sudden breeze. 

His demeanor is stony, but not hostile. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking just from looking at his face. But he went out of his way to come here and find you, and that says a lot about his determination overriding his sense of caution. You didn’t get a good enough look at him yesterday to track him down, either to turn him in or demand a reward. He could have just as easily carried on with his own life on a path that never crossed yours again. 

He must be really curious about you. 

You don’t know why, but the feeling is mutual.

“You’re welcome for yesterday, by the way,” you smile at him, relaxing your hold on your knife. “Those Enforcers would’ve caught you if it weren’t for me. Although you’re so skinny you could literally slip through their fingers.”

His impressive façade cracks as he bares his chipped teeth, bristling and ready to attack. “I did not need your help. I was perfectly capable of escaping on my own.”

You thoughtfully stroke your chin. “Guess we’ll never know.”

He stands tall to his fullest height, towering over you, a dangerous challenge in his voice sharpening its edges into a threat. “What makes you think it would be a good idea to antagonize someone wanted by Enforcers?”

“Ooooh, the Enforcers want to lock up little ol’ you. You’re such a big baddie,” you tease. “If they had it their way, they’d have every single one of us locked up. You’re not special.”

He leans forward again, curling his hands over the ledge of the roof. “Perhaps I’ve done something especially terrible to warrant particular attention from Topside.”

“Let me guess,” you purse your lips as you examine him. “You pickpocketed some rich guy?”

He smiles slyly. “Worse than that.”

“Running an illegal Poro-fighting ring?”

“No.”

“Impersonating a councilor?”

“Not quite.”

You shake your head in bemusement. “What was it?”

“Seducing a Piltie noblewoman,” a mischievous twinkle shines in his eyes. “I all but rescued her from a cold and loveless marriage. Unfortunately, her husband didn’t seem to feel the same way.”

“Really?” you laugh again, more out of surprise than humor this time.

“No,” he winks. “I guess you’ll never know.”  

“If I bump into those Enforcers again I’ll just ask them— not that I’d tell them where you are,” you add hastily. It was meant as a joke, but from the way he glares at you with humorless alarm it was clearly the wrong thing to say. “Besides, if you did seduce a Piltie lady, you’d be doing her a favor.”

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “And what do you mean by that?”

You blush. It was something you thought when you first laid eyes on him properly, but it just slipped out while you were babbling— he’s handsome. “You’re probably better looking than her husband.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” his smile this time is accompanied by a soft exhale of amusement. He leans forward again, this time a slight slouch in his shoulders as he allows himself to relax. “I also owe you my gratitude for coming to my rescue. Thank you, madam.”

You wince at the word. He doesn’t look that much older than you, so there’s no need for him to address you so formally. “Please don’t call me that.”

“May I have your name then?” he asks politely.

You give it to him. He repeats it slowly, as if appreciating the shape of it. Something about the way he says it makes you want to step forward. The opportunity presents itself when he reaches his hand out for you to shake.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Silco.”

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Chapter 2

[icallhimjoey]

tubelift!joe was a sweetheart & reallllly wanted to find out what happened after they went separate ways !!!

jfc it's been a whole YEAR since tubelift!joe, thats insane! but here you go, have some of him! its only short, but hope you enjoy! (a/n: this story will make little sense if you've not read between floors and feelings) Wordcount: 1.8K

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Funny Story, Actually

It had been ages, but you could still sense it every time. When you'd get onto the tube together, Joe's shoulders would tense as he'd look around the car, scanning his worried eyes over every single person there.

It was just to check. Just to settle something inside of him that was a little impossible to settle, you thought.

You remembered being one of those people, but witnessing it now, knowing what you knew, traveling through peak hours with him was hell.

You noticed how his knuckles lost all colour as he tightly held on to a handrail overhead, his lips all tight, his jaw clenched.

He looked hot.

But that wasn't the point.

"Hey," you poked Joe softly in the side to get his attention. "Did you say you had been to this place before?"

You knew he had been, but it was an easy way of distracting him from trying to make eye-contact with everyone, which he only did just in case he could see something there to worry about.

It literally helped no one, you knew.

"Oh, yea. Couple of times. You know how there's places that exceed your expectations every time you go? Very rare, that. This is one of those."

You smiled. He'd told you the exact same thing about four times, using a different way to describe how much he loved this restaurant each time.

You'd happily listen to him tell you again and again.

"Yea? What did you have last time?" you asked, softly, because not many others needed to hear you ask, or hear Joe's answer for that matter. To be fair, you didn't even need to hear it. You just needed Joe to step out of his tube-anxiety. It was only one more stop.

"Um, I had..." Joe narrowed his eyes for a second, thinking. And then, before he even remembered, he realised what you were doing. He let his breath escape him in a chuckled sigh and reached for your hand. Gave the tube car a last glance before fully turning towards you and giving you a silly face.

"You're a menace."

You scrunched your nose at him, knowing glances shared.

Joe kept hold of your hand when you got off the tube and made your way towards street level. When you were lead into a corridor of which the dead end just held the stainless steal doors to two lifts, you gave each other a look before turning around and finding another way out.

Absolutely no way you were risking it.

Ever since that one night, neither of you had ever stepped foot inside of a tube lift again.

You'd rather race each other up the Covent Garden tube station steps, all 193 of them, than get into a small confined metal box like that again.

Even after the one you'd been stuck in had been fixed.

Even when you were in a group and your friends would go for the lift.

You'd go, "Loser gets the bill tonight!" and set off running up the steps, hoping you'd beat the elevator. You rarely did. And even after a while, it got easier, but it would still leave you out of breath. Still, getting a little exercise would forever win it over having to pee into a water bottle, so it was fine.

You'd take the stairs.

You easily found escalators that time, and you both went to stand on the right to let the system take you up. You turned around and let Joe curl his arms around your waist for a moment, tilting his head back and smiling up at you. It made you swipe at some worry lines that were permanently etched into Joe's forehead whenever you were underground before leaning down to give him a small kiss.

You beamed big smiles at each other, and you weren't sure what prompted you to join the crowd on the left side of the escalator, but you were quick as a flash as you stepped to the side and started bolting your way up the moving steps.

Joe followed just behind you, and you laughed as you felt him try to hold onto your coat in an attempt to keep up.

Happy.

There was just something about knowing you'd make it up and out without getting trapped for hours, you know?

After you touched-out, Joe turned to you slightly out of breath and said, "Maybe we need to start using car service to go places, because–"

"And give into the fear?" you scoffed. "Come on," you held up an arm and humorously flexed a non-existent bicep. "We're stronger than that!"

And you truly believed that, but you felt every single bit of strength leave your body when you got shoulder-checked hard enough to slam the air right from your lungs.

"Ahh," you immediately winced, spinning on your feet from the clash. Joe's hands were quick to find you, steadying you and preventing you from stumbling and falling.

"Sorry, so sor–..." a throat got cleared. "Sorry..."

The woman who had just roughly knocked half her body into yours looked down at her feet as she slung her bag back onto her shoulder, and, oh, my God, you couldn't fucking believe it.

"Linda."

Your former boss.

You sounded more surprised than anything else, because this was something you had dreaded for a while. Running into her. You'd heard that your ex-boyfriend had gone and moved in with her after he'd moved out of the studio you had shared, but that it had only lasted for a couple of weeks.

Served her right, you thought.

"Oh my God. Hi, I'm– sorry. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't hurt you?" Linda let a polite hand hover in front of your shoulder - the one you were still holding onto yourself - and gave a regretful smile.

Linda did hurt you.

A little now, but a lot before.

You know, back when you found your boyfriend making out with her in her office and you learnt from you colleagues that the affair had actually been happening for a while but they'd been too afraid to tell you because she was their boss too.

Vile wench of a woman.

You'd gotten your revenge though.

You still weren't proud of it, but... if you could do that night over again, the only thing you would change is that you would make sure you'd actually empty your full bladder into her bag that time.

You gave her a blank stare and then let your eyes drop to her bag.

Holy shit.

There was no way.

"I'm fine." you said coldly, but kept your eyes on her bag.

She saw, and it made her shuffle a little awkwardly

"Good. Okay, good. Sorry. I'm in a rush. We should catch up, soon. Sorry, again." Linda finished her sentence as she ran off, and you stared at her as she tapped-in with her phone and then disappeared down an escalator.

Huh.

Wow.

You felt weirdly okay about all of that, unexpectedly so.

You were definitely not going to be catching up with her soon, though.

When you turned to Joe, he gave you a worried little smile.

"There you are."

"Huh?"

"I asked you a question. Are you okay?"

You blinked up at him and realised you were stood in the middle of a busy bit of tube station. It was the exact wrong place to stand still, so you were quick to move with the crowd. Joe followed, hand on the small of your back.

"Who was that?"

"Oh, sorry. Um. That was Linda. She used to be my boss." you couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Remember my boss? How I caught–"

"I do." Joe cut you off, no need to repeat the painful story. He had remembered it fine from when you'd first told him, dirty wedding dress and crackling intercom as the background noise and all.

But tonight wasn't about awful memories.

You were about to have dinner with some of his friends - ones you'd met just once in brief passing but had never had a proper conversation with, and Joe was excited. You were going to love them, and he was sure that they were also going to love you.

"Wow... that was... that was weird. She fully crashed into me."

"Yea it was quite the collision, you nearly fell over."

"I'm okay." you assured him you were fine. The clash of shoulders had only hurt for a second.

Joe reached to hold your hand and threw you a warm smile as you made your way down the pavement.

"That's good."

"I think..." you started, eyes narrowing as you tried to remember. "I'm not joking, but I think she was carrying the bag that I... you know."

Joe's eyes bulged at you as his smile grew.

"What?! No way."

"That was the bag." You knew for sure. Kind of hard to forget the bag that you squatted over to piss right into. "I hope she got that professionally cleaned though, why the fuck would she even– wait, why did she keep that?"

Joe laughed at your outrage. He agreed though.

"Maybe she never noticed." he reasoned as you reached the restaurant. His reasoning made you frown at him though because, "Joe, I pissed over everything she had in there, there is no way she didn't–"

"All right, all right, keep it down, will you? This is a nice place." Joe laughed, helping you out of your coat as the host asked if you had a reservation.

Linda.

You couldn't quite get over how weird it was to be running into her in the tube with Joe there. It was almost kind of funny.

It felt like a weird full-circle moment, especially because you knew that whatever she had taken from you hadn't worked out for her in the end. Lost out on a star-employee (you) and on a mediocre boyfriend (your ex).

Maybe the bag was a good reminder for her.

Maybe it kept her grounded.

You had no idea.

The loud greetings from Joe's friends who were already there snapped you out of your thoughts. The restaurant was nice, and Joe's friends were lovely. It was nice to get to know Joe better through other people, but you kind of forgot that you were also a whole new person for others to meet. A person to ask questions about.

You weren't sure why you hadn't anticipated anyone asking the most obvious question you could be asked, but it nearly made Joe choke on his first sip of his drink.

"So, how did you two meet again?"

Joe looked at you over the table after making sure he didn't have any wine dripping down his chin, pursing a smile before giving you a tiny nod.

Joe's friends looked between the two of you, confused eyes darting back and forth because clearly they were missing an inside joke, or whatever.

Before anyone could ask, you cleared your throat and said, "Funny story, actually..."

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The Taglisted

@ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson,

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@werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella, @yunirgo

taglist currently full, sorry

[intheshadowofwar]

21 June 2023

You’re In The Army Now

London 21 June 2023

It was an early start today - I was out the door just after 7.30, catching the Victoria Line to Oxford Circus and the Bakerloo to Paddington. It was already very busy, but there was a laurel at the end of my journey to make braving rush hour a little bearable. It look me a little questioning of staff before I knew whether or not my journey was in vain - it wasn’t - and then I proceeded to sit on Platform One for an hour because I’d massively overestimated how early the train would enter the station. And what locomotive, pray tell, would I go to all this trouble for?

If you know your trains, you could probably make an educated guess.

Built a century ago this year, No. 4472 - ahem, 60103 Flying Scotsman needs absolutely no introduction. Today she is the Kardashian of locomotives - she is famous for being famous. Unlike the Kardashians, that fame is well earned - namesake of the famed Flying Scotsman express, first non-stop run from London to Edinburgh in 1928, first (sort of) authenticated 100mph by a steam locomotive in 1934, one of the first privately preserved steam locomotives. She toured the United States (even though we don’t like to talk about how that one nearly ended) and Australia, making the longest non-stop run by a steam locomotive ever between Parkes and Broken Hill. To her detractors, she’s the ‘flying moneypit,’ bankrupting every owner since 1963. To her fans, she’s the most famous steam locomotive in the world, Sir Nigel Gresley’s masterpiece. And at long, long last, I have seen her in steam.

Basically, do you know how monarchists get really excited about seeing the King? This is my version of that.

After her departure at 9.40, I headed on the Circle Line to Sloane Square, walking through Chelsea and past the famed hospital there to the National Army Museum. The NAM is basically the cooler, hipper IWM, in my opinion. It perhaps benefits from a narrow subject matter; specifically Britain, and specifically the British Army. Without becoming too complicated, it does a much better job at contextualising its exhibits than the IWM, without shying away from the controversies and horrors of war. Do you think, for example, that the Australian War Memorial would stock a book about the massacre of Surafend, in the way the NAM stocks one on the British organised mass slaughter of Amritsar?

When I talk about museums, as you probably know by now, I like to mention an exhibit that struck me, and the exhibit in question at the NAM was more recent than you might expect. While I could discuss the saw that amputated the Earl of Uxbridge’s leg again - the fact that it still exists makes me very happy - I’ll instead mention a ruined L85 rifle from the Middle East, which was recovered from a vehicle destroyed by an IED - none of the passengers survived. Jay Winter has said that if one shows a weapon in a museum, they ought to show what it does. Here, in this ruined weapon, we see both at once. We don’t need to see the blood and bones of the soldiers; from this broken rifle, we can fill in the gaps as to the horrific power of explosives ourselves.

Also, the NAM cafe does a mean scrambled eggs.

After the Army Museum, I headed back to the tube and caught the Circle Line again to St. James’ Park, where I walked to the Guards Museum. This is a small museum that people don’t really know about, and that surprises me as it’s literally right across the road from Buckingham Palace - it’s in Wellington Barracks, where the guards march from during the Changing of the Guard.

The Guards Museum is a very old-school and classic museum; a British Army regimental museum in the same old style that I love so very, very much. The museum is both wide in scope and intimate in subject matter - this isn’t the story of the army or the wars it fought, but the part played by the five regiments of the Foot Guards - the Grenadiers, the Coldstream, the Scots Guard, the Irish Guard and the Welsh Guard. For the majority of the British Army’s history, there were only the first three - oddly, the ‘1st’ (Grenadier) Foot Guards are actually the youngest, but as they were Charles II’s personal guard, they got to be senior after the Restoration in 1660.

There were a lot of very interesting things in this museum, but I’m going to highlight something very boring instead. There’s a shako worn by a soldier of the Coldstream Guards in the late 1820s - it’s called a bell-top shako. Guards shakos from this period are very rare, because they were introduced in 1829 and dropped in 1831, when all of the Guards regiments adopted the bearskin cap of the Grenadiers. In fact, this shako was so rare that I didn’t actually know it existed - I’d assumed that the bearskins were adopted soon after Waterloo, but it seems the Coldstream and Scots Guards kept the shakoes of the regular infantry for just a little bit longer. This is a completely, utterly useless factoid, but I find it absolutely fascinating.

Across from the Guards Museum is the Guards Chapel, and to the uninitiated it looks strangely modern. Surely regiments as old as the Guards ought to have a similarly old chapel, right? Well, they did - until the morning of 18th June 1944, when it suffered a direct hit from a German V-1 flying bomb in the middle of a morning service. 121 were killed, and over 140 injured. The new chapel is not only a memorial to the men of the Household Division (the Foot Guards and the Household Cavalry), but to those killed in the bombing. I was initially the only visitor, and by the time I left only a small group of Americans - who I will say were very respectful - had joined me there. Dozens of regimental colours from throughout the Guards histories hang from the walls. I almost felt like an intruder in another family’s mausoleum.

I’m not religious, but for some reason I was moved to light a candle.

I walked from there, back past Buckingham Palace and down Lower Grovesnor Place, to a small memorial on the side of an intersection near Victoria. This is a curious little monument - it’s explicitly a memorial to the Great War, yet the Tommy on top is joined by a pair of riflemen from the Napoleonic and Crimean Wars respectively. This is the memorial to the Rifle Brigade, the progeny of the famed 95th Rifles of Wellington’s time (although a number of Rifle Brigade battalions could trace their heritage to the 60th Rifles as well.) After the Second World War, it was adapted to commemorate the riflemen lost in that conflict.

I visit a lot of memorials because I think they are interesting, or because I simply find them in the wild. I hunted down this one because it was important to me personally. This isn’t because I think the 95th were cool or because I watch a lot of Sharpe, or because green is my favourite colour and riflemen wore green uniforms. My nan had two uncles, one who fought in the First World War and one who fought in the Second. Both were riflemen - the first of the ‘Hackney Rifles’ and the second of the 7th Rifle Brigade. The first was wounded at Third Ypres, although I’m not certain how severely. The second still lies to this day in Florence, lost in the attacks on the Gothic Line in September 1944. It’s silly, and probably vulgar, but I’ve always seen the Rifle Brigade as ‘ours.’ I probably confused a lot of London commuters by pointing at a random monument in the middle of the city, repeating over again - ‘that’s us. That’s us.’

Yet it is us. The memory agents, the people who lived through the First World War, are all dead. The people who lived through the Second will still follow. It is now up to us to interpret their memory, their experiences, their histories and their stories. We have a responsibility to them.

Like it or not, this is us.

I then wrecked this profound emotional moment by having a big fanboy moment over a Routemaster bus, and then I walked back to the hotel. After a brief rest, I reunited with my mum and stepdad, who had been very kindly invited by my professor to join the group at the garden party of the Britain-Australia Society at the Royal Over-Seas League’s London HQ. It was all very sophisticated, with a lot of the great and good - and Joe Hockey - present, but I think it just didn’t quite gel with me. We stayed for a socially acceptable amount of time, then went back to Victoria Station and grabbed some McDonalds before parting.

We will reunite in Paris, but there’s a long road ahead to get there…

[cemexecution]

I have worn nothing but blood and death for years.

It fell from his mouth, a malformed excuse. Hitting the flagstones between them, it lay like a spaniel’s find – a collared dove with its innards spilling out, viscera bulging in shades of rubellite and spinel. Viola pursed her lips, unimpressed. Such was the nature of hunters. Standing apart from their fellow man, tied together with knotted ribbons of blood, wearing the same stink of burnt fur and sour spittle.

The hunt was on tonight. Gascoigne would be soon called back to the horror and she would stay behind, closeted in the sanctuary of the parish hall – their differences were the same as those between shepherd dogs and the livestock they guarded. With the incense smoke burning in her nose, she would remain seated and cannulated until the colour bled from her face, until she was permitted to retire to a candlelit dormitory and there await the dawn. Already Viola grew pale, watched by the cataracted eye of the full, fat moon that peeked through the lead latticework of narrow windows, bathing them all in watered-down light. By the time she saw the sun, Gascoigne would be beyond her reach.

Thoughts of impending separation were what set Viola to thaw, to reach for his hand. How small and cool her palm, how impossible the task of covering his broad mitt with her own. What was in her was drawn into him, with lines of tubing running between them, faux arteries stitching them together like two halves of a heart. There was little romanticism in the observation – Viola knew that organ to be akin to a clenched fist, sinuous and sticky – but she did permit herself to wonder if he could taste her in the capillaries at the back of his throat, if he could feel her girlish vigour pulse behind his eyes.

Frost framed the edges of her gaze as she looked at his face, tracing the winding strip of linen that kept his eyes from her. Blood drip-dried where it painted his clothes in spatters, congealing deep in the treads of his boots. Who would clean them, when the hunt was over? Who would dress his wounds and rub the aches from his shoulders? As the daughter of a hunter, she understood there was work to be done at night’s end. As the daughter of a hunter, hadn’t she too seen her share of blood? It had clogged and caked under her short nails – the blood of beasts, the blood of her father, the blood of her own moon-guided cycles. All those mornings, hollow-eyed and sleepless, hadn’t she mopped the puddles and scrubbed the stains from her father’s front step?

“Do you believe yourself unfit for finer threads?”

Viola had been a child when she first laid eyes on Gascoigne, looming too-large in her father’s house, despite its high ceilings and lofty picture rails. Her stomach had flipped like liver in a pan – not the jittering of purported butterflies, but with a far more visceral, gut-bound feeling. Gascoigne had struck her as kind, even soaked in the briny scent of copper pennies, even as he walked blood into the plush pile of the carpet. As a girl, Viola forgave him for the mess, for the way he crowded the kitchen table. As a woman, she forgave him for being a man and a hunter, for shying when the door of his self-appointed cage cracked open.

“As I understand it, a man chooses his garments, they do not choose him. Perhaps it is time to adorn yourself with something unfamiliar?”

Her interest in men was a rarely sighted beast, a bony shadow slinking across distant moorland. Its infrequency did not render her a fool – Viola understood her desires, but would not indulge them where her standards were not met. After all, solitary life was no terrible penance for one who had been alone much of her girlhood, for one content to graduate to spinsterhood. Could Gascoigne say the same? Would he find fulfilment when old age eroded his teeth to their roots and he was forced to abandon the hunt? Would he be satisfied if his legacy was one only of bloodshed and beasts slayed? Would he be comforted by the expanse of a wide, empty bed? The cold fire of Viola’s eyes warmed by degrees, her elegant fingertips gently prising his digits apart, palm pressed to the coarse hair that sprung from the back of his hand as she tentatively and shallowly linked them together.

“Continue to don your cilice by all means, Father, but do so knowing I would gladly offer you something softer.”

[missarchivistdoodles]

A Sleepy Bois Inc Christmas

He heard the beeping before he saw the damage. A plate glass window, which had once held the name of the small store in curly, fanciful writing, lay shattered across the display table of toys within. The alarm - a high, reedy thing that sounded long past its prime - gasped into the midnight street, which was empty of all but himself. There were no indoor lights on - the sleepy little town had closed its eyes earlier that day, the broadcast of a winter blizzard sending the residents scurrying into their clapboard homes and brick apartments. Nobody should have been out.

But here was the evidence of witching hour tomfoolery - a set of footprints leading up to the shattered window, a rock sitting innocently in the middle of the holiday train display, a smear of blood on the white felt masquerading as snow. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath - there was more blood, farther in, beyond the small halo of light cast by the street lamp. Not enough to be worrying, but certainly more than a papercut or a skinned knee. It smelled human, and young.

A young human.

A child.

Only centuries of discipline kept Technoblade from groaning like a student being assigned a pop-quiz. It was well after December fifth - almost three weeks after! - which meant he was off the clock until next year. But there was no-one else on the street, and the alarm wasn't loud enough to alert anybody in the surrounding buildings. And the child was hurt. If he left a hurt child in a potentially dangerous situation, Phil would never let him hear the end of it. Running a hand down his face, the man moved to the front door.

The lock clicked beneath his magic, and the door swung open, the little silver bell above it jingling merrily. Beyond the little halo of light that fell through the door, something shuffled, then abruptly stopped. He was lucky he had near-perfect night vision - he didn't fancy turning on a light and possibly alerting more of the street to this break-in. He just had to find the kid, make sure they weren't bleeding to death, give them a bit of a scare and then send them home. No problem.

Something fell in the back of the store, where there were shelves of stuffed animals and colorful costumes. Stepping lightly, Techno approached, prepared to face a tearful child who had gotten just a bit greedy and impatient on Christmas Eve. 

He was not expecting a wiffle-ball bat to the face.

It didn't do anything, of course - he was older than the invention of plastic, a light-weight tube of it was nothing compared to flaming torches and steel pitchforks. Still, it had been a surprise, and he stumbled back a step, more to get his bearings than out of actual pain.

"TAKE THAT, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Something jumped off a stool and tried to dart past the man, and his arm snapped out, centuries of hunting instinct thrumming through his veins. He snagged the back of a shirt and easily hauled the thief off the ground, dangling him a good two feet off the ground. The child - a boy, messy blonde hair, blue eyes narrowed in rage, a thin and dirty face - began hollering swears left and right, thrashing. He dropped the wiffle-ball bat, but kept something else tucked close to his chest as he yelled.

"YOU'RE A WRONG'UN! LEMME GO! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCKYOUFUCKYOU-"

"Hush." The one word, spoken in his deep timbre with an undercurrent of threatening magic, shut the child up. His teeth clicked sharply as he closed his mouth and finally took a chance to examine the man holding him. Only, Technoblade knew, he wasn't seeing a man.

Age magic was curious. The younger someone was - such as this child, who couldn't be more than five or six - the more likely they were to believe in the supernatural, and the more likely they were to see it. Technoblade could walk through an office building and appear as no more than a tall human male with an eccentric hair color and odd fashion sense. But to children - especially misbehaving children, especially this time of year - they would see what he truly was.

A tall half-human, half-hooved creature, ebony horns curling from his hair, bare-chested, with a large woven basket strapped to his back, large enough to carry a few misbehaving children at a time. He'd use to carry a bundle of whippy birch rods as well (not that he ever used them to cause lasting harm, but a stinging hand was a good reminder to stay away from a hot stove or from sharp objects), but Phil had convinced him to ditch that part of his routine decades ago. The softy had shoved a stack of research papers about 'corporal punishment' and 'lasting psychological damage from spanking' at him, and he'd happily tossed the rods into the fire (followed by the papers, so he didn't have to read them). 

As the child took in his appearance, eyes growing large and face going pale, Technoblade took the chance to do the same to him. The kid was tiny - for a moment he wondered if his first estimate was off, that this was a toddler - but there was something in his face, in his eyes, that spoke of years of hardship. So five, maybe six, possibly slightly older. His clothes were little more than rags, and his feet were bare. There was a cut on one foot, still bleeding sluggishly from where he'd stepped through the front window. Something fluffy and white with brown spots was clutched to his chest - whatever toy he'd had time to grab before Technoblade interrupted him, he supposed.

The boy's bottom lip was beginning to tremble, and Technoblade wished for the first time that he had Phil on speed-dial. They'd upgraded to cell phones when they became popular - he was given a new one every Christmas, at Wilbur's insistence - but he rarely used them, only sending messages sparingly to check in on the yearly preparations, or to question sudden, random snowstorms that were out of season or area (which Wilbur always denied responsibility for). 

"Krampus." The boy whispered, his expression shifting into one of horror. He tucked his knees up to his chest as best he could, hugging the stolen toy - some kind of plush - close to his chest. Tears were beading along his eyes, and the man was reminded why his December fifth visits were always done with Phil by his side. 

He could not handle crying kids.

"Kid-"

"Please don't eat me!" The boy squealed, scrunching his eyes closed. "I don't taste good, I promise! I tried!"

"Kid, I'm not - you tried?"

The child sniffled, and gave a small nod. "I got hungry." He muttered, and Techno looked at the prominent elbows, the visible cheekbones, the stick-like fingers. "I don't taste good! I promise! And - and I'm skinny so I got no meat on my bones!" 

He wasn't wrong. Techno ran his free hand down his face with a heavy sigh. "Kid, where're your parents?" He asked, and a sinking feeling in his gut told him he wouldn't like the answer.

"Don't got none." The boy muttered, sniffling as some of the tears began running down his cheeks in big, fat drops. "I'm a big man, don't need anybody."

"Do you have any adults looking after you?" Techno knelt, carefully lowering the boy so he was able to balance on his uninjured foot, though he didn't release his hold on the threadbare shirt. If he did that the boy would bolt, and he really wasn't up for a chase tonight. 

"'dults are stupid." The boy muttered, wincing when he tried to put weight on his bleeding foot. The cut wasn't deep, but he bet it stung. 

"Right." For the third time, Techno ran a hand down his face, pausing to cover his mouth as he stared at the boy. The orphan. The homeless orphan boy who couldn't be more than six. Who had broken into a toy store on Christmas Eve, most likely to find at least one little thing he could call his own, so he could have a toy for the holiday like millions of other children across the world. Glancing over his shoulder at the broken window and the street beyond, he frowned. He couldn't just leave the child here, not when there was a blizzard coming in hot, not when the town was shut down. Not when he couldn't trust the human adults to properly look after an apparently abandoned child.

"Here's what we're going to do, kid. You're gonna come with me-" The boy gasped, eyes growing wide, lip wobbling as more tears fell down his cheek. He tried to protest, but Techno spoke over him. "-and we'll get you some clean clothes and food, then figure out what to do with you. My friend Phil will be happy to help you find somewhere to stay for the winter."

"But you're Krampus." The boy wailed. "You're gonna eat me!"

What he wouldn't give for Phil, or hell, Wilbur. Even Quackity would be an improvement right now, but he wasn't going to the spring spirit for anything. Not after their…misunderstanding last equinox. The child was working himself into hysterics, and he didn't know what to do.

"I'm not gonna-"

"You are! You eat bad children and I'm a bad kid!"

"No you're not, I promise-"

The boy just wailed, and he panicked.

"I'm vegan!"

His jaw clicked shut, wide blue eyes staring at the adult like he'd spoken the secrets of the universe. They quickly changed to confusion, however.

"What's vegan?"

"It means I don't eat meat." A complete and total lie - he had a freezer full of prime cuts at home, and frequently indulged in them with a glass of wine after long days of tending his farm, but the kid didn't need to know that. "I don't eat meat, or anything that would hurt something living. So I can't eat you, because I'm a vegan." 

The boy sniffled, using one hand to wipe away his tears, the other still clutched the stuffed toy to his chest. "You promise?"

"I promise." Technoblade nodded, and nearly snorted when the kid adopted a stubborn look and held out his pinky finger.

"You gots to pinkie promise!" He demanded, as serious as a heart attack.

Gods above this child was precious. With great gravity, Techno held up his own hand and carefully wrapped his pinky around the kids. God, it was skinny - all of the kid was skinny, all elbows and knees and stubbornness. The boy bobbed their hands up and down once with a firm nod, then quickly pulled his hand back, wrapping up the stuffed toy in his arms once more. Techno knew he should tell the boy to put it back, give him a lecture about how stealing was wrong, but he didn't have the heart. Besides, it was only one toy, probably no more than a couple of bucks. It'd be fine.

He just wouldn't tell Phil.

"Alright, it's a bit of a trip to Phil's house." Finally releasing the boy's shirt, he swung his basket off his back. It was taller than the child, and would hold him comfortably through the trip. The kid still looked unsure, but didn't bolt for the door as Techno undid the straps holding the lid on. "My friend lives where it's pretty cold too, but there's blankets to keep you warm." 

"And you're not gonna eat me," the boy said slowly, "because you're a vagan." 

"Vegan."

"A vegan." 

"Right. You ready?" 

The boy sucked a deep breath through his nose, as though steeling himself to face a battlefield, and nodded. He was still favoring his injured foot, and Techno made a note to get that tended to first, before anything else. Well, maybe second, after a bath. God, the kid was going to lose his mind when he saw Phils bathroom.

Moving slowly, telegraphing his movements, he scooped the boy up under his arms and lifted him to the basket. Despite looking rough on the outside, the inside was lined with soft fabric, the bottom padded with a pillow and blankets. The kid easily fit within the round walls, and even had a bit of room to stretch out. Gods he was tiny, barely weighing a thing. Once settled, the boy ran his hand over the fluffy blanket he was sitting on, awed by the softness. 

"We're going to use magic to travel," Techno warned him, "So it might feel a bit funny, but you're perfectly safe, I promise." The boy nodded, shifting to pull the fuzzy blanket free so he could wrap it around himself and his plush toy. He was still sniffling a bit, but the tears had stopped for the time being. When he didn't say anything else, Techno slid the lid back on, buckling it into place before easing it onto his back. 

The weight of the boy was barely noticeable.

Gods, Phil was gonna have a field day.

~*~*~*~*~

If Technoblade had to travel, he preferred to take his flying reindeer, Carl. The mystic animal had been a gift when he and Phil first went into business together, the horned man needing some way to keep up with his counterpart in the sky. Unlike Wilbur, who could fly using the winds, Technoblade was firmly earth-bound. But Carl wasn't here right now - he was at home, enjoying a well-deserved break after assisting around the North Pole for a few weeks in the rush that always hit between December fifth and the twenty-fourth. 

You'd think after the centuries of doing this, Phil would have the planning and time management down to a science, but no. There was always something that required a last-minute scramble before the big night. It was a good thing the man was so likable and had so many friends, or Christmas would never happen on time.

Still, no Carl, and he had to hurry, so portals it was. The magic was natural, innate - Mother Earth was happy to help them get around the planet quickly, as long as they didn't abuse it. But it still made him queasy, especially when he had to go long distances, like from this little British town of L'manberg to the pole. With a deep breath, he called forth the portal. It appeared, a swirling purple disc hanging in the air, just large enough for him to pass through. It made an odd buzzing noise, and just past the misty tunnel he could see the outline of Santa's Workshop, calm and still in the snowy landscape, the man of the hour having left for his one-night delivery run. 

Steeling himself, he stepped through, grimacing at the vwwoooooooop! that echoed in his ears and the feel of unstable ground beneath him. The mist brushed against him, clinging to his arms and horns, but he ignored it and kept walking, until the purple faded and he was standing on a field of snow, half a mile from his destination. The portal snapped shut behind him, and he stood still for a moment, letting the chill of the land wrap around him, comforting in its familiarity. Beyond the grandeur of Santa's Workshop (a hulking building of dark wood that somehow kept its cabin-like aesthetic despite the size) over a hill, he could see the speck that was his own humble cabin, and the speck that was Carl, cavorting with a few others of Santa's reindeer herd. 

Right, drop the kid off into the capable hands of the elves, and head home for a well deserved glass (bottle) of wine. He took one step forward, then froze as the sound of retching came from the basket. Grimacing, he hurried to pull it around, sliding one strap off so he could swing it to his front and pry the lid up. The boy (he should really ask for his name) looked up as light filled the space, a miserable sheen in his eyes. He'd vomited what little was in his stomach, and the sour smell of acid and something that was likely far past its expiration date soaked the blankets.

"'m sorry," the boy huddled into himself, clutching the stuffed toy (that had thankfully avoided a stomach-acid shower) tight to his chest. 

Techno bit back a heavy sigh. It wasn't ideal, but it also wasn't the first time a child had puked in his basket. The inner lining was removable for just such a reason. "It's fine, kid." He knelt, setting the basket down, and reached for the boy. He stiffened, but didn't fight as Techno scooped him up. There wasn't much vomit - which in itself was worrying, but he had to remind himself that the workshop had a giant kitchen and three fully-stocked larders, the boy would not be going hungry again - and cradled him to his chest. The man naturally ran hot, to combat the icy temperatures he lived and worked in, and after a moment of resistance the child melted against him, settling his head into the crook of Techno's neck.

"Sorry," he muttered again as Techno put the lid back onto the basket and slung it over his back. 

"'s okay kid." The man stood, shifting so the child was properly cradled, wrapped in his arms so the cold couldn't reach his tender skin. "I don't like portaling either." 

The boy made a noise of acknowledgment, his eyes falling closed, lashes dark against his pale cheeks. Gods, he was precious. Techno had a feeling he wasn't going to be leaving the pole, not once Phil and Wilbur saw him.

By the time they reached the large main entrance to the workshop, the boy was almost asleep, looking angelic as he rested against Techno's naturally dark skin. Before Techno could knock on the large oak doors, they were flung open, revealing the one person Techno loved and hated in equal measure.

"Krampus, you came!" Wilbur cheered, twirling through the air at the sight of Technoblade. "I was worried you were off sulking with your wine, but you came! You came!" The winter spirit, never one to linger with his feet on the ground, beamed. His pale blue skin flickered in the lamplight like ice (the whole workshop was wired and had some amazing fluorescent lights, the kind that mimicked sunlight and helped improve moods, but Phil had insisted on keeping some of his original lanterns around the entrances for 'aesthetic purposes'), and his curly white hair bounced as he swayed. He was wearing a truly outrageous yellow sweater that was too big, and had swapped out his usual trousers for sweatpants. 

"You missed dads send off," Wilbur turned and floated into the foyer, knowing Techno would follow. He did, shutting the door behind him. The kid in his arms stirred, but didn't move or make a noise, his eyes fixed on the blue-skinned spirit babbling ahead of them.

"-it was great. Tubbo got his hands on some fireworks somehow - I'm pretty sure he bribed some of the nian from Zhangjiajie for 'em. Spooked the younger reindeer pretty bad, and Rudolph was not impressed. Never seen her that mad - she chased Tubbo and Ranboo right up the central tree and wouldn't let them down for an hour!" Wilbur cackled as he led the way to the large lounge just off the main workshop floor. The room had high ceilings and a full two walls of windows - one that looked over the snowy landscape outside, and the other giving a showcase into the multi-story workshop that burrowed several stories into the earth. 

The kid had lifted his head from Techno's shoulder and was peering around, jaw dropped in amazement. He craned his neck to peer into the workshop through the windows, watching as colorfully-dressed elves (about his size, some bigger, depending on their age) moseyed about, cleaning up lazily, relaxing now that their job was done for the year. Phil always gave them from Christmas to the end of January off - they could relax, travel the world, enjoy themselves, until the toy-building resumed in February. The toys for this year had all been wrapped and packed, leaving the workshop with mostly bare workstations and empty bins. In a few months it would be back to a chaotically-organized mess, but for now it was resting.

Speaking of Tubbo and Ranboo - they were there, both holding brooms, an annoyed Rudolph keeping a close eye on the pair as they swept up sawdust around the wood carving stations. The elves both looked properly chagrined - one shorter, fluffy hair shoved beneath a green beanie, the other unusually tall but trying to fold in on himself as Rudolph continued to lecture them as they worked. Techno reminded himself to grab a few golden carrots for her - anyone who could make the Troublesome Two look that repentant deserved them. 

"Deer," the child muttered into his shoulder, watching the trio with wide eyes. Wilbur, who had fluttered over to the fireplace, making sure it was properly warming the room, froze. He turned slowly, chocolate brown eyes flecked with snowflakes going wide at the sight of the child resting against Techno's shoulder.

"Krampus," he whispered, clapping his hands over his mouth, "you stole a child!" 

"Jack Frost," Techno huffed, pulling out the others title as well, "it's literally my job description."

"He's so cute!" All at once the winter spirit was in their space, peering at the kid with big eyes and a huge smile. "Hello there!" 

The kid, to Techno's confusion, didn't immediately jump into the welcoming spirit's arms. He shrunk closer to the man, tucking his head back against Techno's neck, holding his stolen stuffy tightly. "H'lo."

"Awwww," Wilbur was reading far too much into this, his gaze flicking between Techno and the boy's face. "Hello sunshine, my name is Wilbur. What's yours?"

"'m Tommy." 

"Hello Tommy. Welcome to the North Pole!" Wilbur floated back a few feet, throwing his arms wide. Snowflakes burst from his hands, showering the three of them with soft, fluffy magic. The boy - Tommy - giggled as a few landed in his hair, and he shifted a bit, still resting against Techno's chest, but with the side of his face pressed to Techno's collarbone so he could fully face Wilbur. "You are just the cutest thing," the spirit cooed, pressing his hands against his cheeks as he floated closer. "Where ever did big ol' grumpy Techie find you?"

The only thing stopping said 'big ol' grumpy Techie' from throwing the spirit through the window was the child in his arms, and the work Phil would have to do to repair the window again.

For the fifth time.

"Techie?" The boy asked. His fist had come to rest against his chin, thumb nearly in his mouth, and Techno was reminded once again how truly young humans started out as. Supernaturals were usually born fully-formed, ready to fulfill their duty as part of the natural order of the world. Humans were born small, soft, vulnerable and unwise to the ways of the world. This child had already experienced far more hardship in his short time than any creature should. 

"That's his name," Wilbury chimed cheerfully, expression brightening when Techno didn't try and throttle him. "He must really like you," he said, sotto voce, "to be hugging you like that."

The boy blinked, then glanced up shyly at Technoblade, who was doing his best not to grit his teeth and set Wilbur on fire with his gaze. The thumb finally made its way properly into his mouth, and Tommy settled his head back in the crook of the man's neck, fully relaxing. "I like 'im too." He muttered around his thumb, closing his eyes.

Snow started falling outside the window, big fluffy flakes that were perfect for snowmen and snowball fights and winter strolls with family through the park. Wilbur's cheeks flushed bright pink, a delighted smile splitting his face from ear to ear, and Techno barely kept back a groan. He knew that look - hell, he'd been on the receiving end of a very similar look, way back before he'd started working with Phil. 

The kid wasn't going anywhere.

~*~*~*~*~

The kid - Tommy - slept through a bath, missing out on the extravagance of Phil's sunken tub and vast array of toys and bubbles. Wilbur found some small, comfortable clothes from the attic that had once been his, before his death and resurrection as Jack Frost. He'd also bandaged the child's foot, adding just a bit of health potion to make sure the cut didn't scar or get infected. Techno would have done it, but once the boy had started waking after being dressed, he refused to let go of him. So they sat in the lounge, Techno sprawled on one of the large sofas with a book in one hand, the other cradling the child resting against his chest, golden curls tucked beneath his chin. The stuffy he had stolen - a white cow with brown spots - was snuggled in his arms.  Wilbur had run off to prepare some food for the child - something light for his stomach, a broth of some kind, nothing like the rich foods usually on offer from the cooks. 

The doors to the hall stood open (most of the elves had retired for the night, and those who were still celebrating were tucked away in the elven break rooms and lounges scattered about the building, not daring to approach Phil's personal lounge without an invitation), so Techno heard when someone approached, heavy boots clomping across the hardwood. Wilbur floated everywhere, and didn't even own a pair of shoes any more, so it couldn't be him. Some of the other holidays visited occasionally - Cupid always dropped by after Valentine's day to drop off some chocolates, and the Easter Bunny had a long standing tradition of comparing travel times with Phil after his holiday. Phil was married to the Lady Death, who was a constant presence around, but she moved with the shadows, and warned none that she was coming, or let them know she had left. 

Tilting his head back, Techno watched as a short, scruffy man entered, shedding his red coat and stretching his arms over his head, back cracking. There was no flowing white beard, no bowl-of-jelly-belly, no perfect Coca-Cola image. Just Phil, dark circles under his eyes, straw hair a mess as he kicked off his snow-encrusted boots and lined them up by the door. He hung up his coat on the wall rack, then paused when he noted Krampus' infamous basket leaning against the wall, the lid off, the blankets and lining already handed over to a pleasant elf who promised to wash them. 

Phil ran a hand through his hair, grabbing his awful green-and-white bucket hat from the rack and dropping it on his head, covering up the bird's nest of hair. "Hey, Krampus." He said as he turned towards the couches, a tired grin spreading over his face.

"Evenin', Santa." Techno greeted, quietly closing his book and setting it to the side. On his chest Tommy stirred, blinking blearily, thumb still firmly in his mouth. Techno was fairly sure that five was too old to be sucking on thumbs, but he wasn't going to deny the child a comfort. 

When the man didn't jump up to greet him, Phil wandered over, curious as to what had his oldest friend's attention. He rounded the couch and paused, trying to figure out if he was surprised or not.

"That's…?"

"A child."

"Uh-huh. You have a child." Phil pinched the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. "Mate, we've talked about this, in the modern age you can't just steal a child-"

"I didn't steal 'im." Techno interrupted, shifting so he was sitting up properly, making sure Tommy was still comfortably settled against his chest. The boy huffed as he was moved, snuggling closer to Techno's chest and turning his head to the side so he could see the newcomer. He stayed silent, watching as Phil shook his head.

"Well you didn't have a child last I checked, and now you do. So either you have a wife I don't know about, or you chucked a child in your basket and brought him here. I'm sure I don't have to tell you which option I'm leaning towards." Phil was frowning now, though with the flush on his cheeks from spending the night in the cold air, and the obvious exhaustion in his gaze, it wasn't very intimidating.

"Stealing refers to something that will be missed once it's taken." Techno said evenly, tightening his grip on Tommy a bit, pressing him closer. The boy huffed but didn't protest, still staring at Phil with a tired, curious eye. "This was a rescue." 

Phil squinted a bit, before realization dawned in his eyes. The scowl fled from his face, replaced by a growing grin that held just a bit of smugness. "Techno, did you save an orphan? On Christmas Eve?" 

Before he could deny it, there was a gust of cold air breezing through the room. Tommy whined and curled up closer to Techno (despite already resting on top of him and being as close as the pair could be), a grumpy expression masquing his curiosity about Phil. 

"He absolutely did!" Wilbur announced as he flew in, a bowl of soup in hand. He set it carefully down on the table beside the couch, before throwing himself as his father for a hug. "Big bad Krampus rescued little Tommy on Christmas Eve, and brought him here to Santa's Workshop at the North Pole!" 

Phil easily caught Wilbur, chuckling as he hugged his son tightly in return. "I see! I suppose that means you must be little Tommy, right?" Once his arms were free, he crouched in front of Techno so he was eye level with the child.

Who immediately raised the hand not in his mouth and flicked him off.

"Fu'k off," he growled around his thumb, "I'm a big man!"

There was a beat of silence, before Wil was howling, rolling about in the air as he laughed, clutching at his stomach as ice dripped from his eyes, scattering across the floor like fallen pearls. Phil gaped at the child, jaw hanging open, unable to grasp the insult thrown his way by a toddler. 

Technoblade just sighed, running his free hand through the child's blonde curls. "Tommy," he said in a gently chiding tone, "we don't swear at Santa Claus." 

Tommy sniffed, shifting so his back was pressed against Techno's chest, and looked Phil up and down. "Dat's not Santa Claus. Santa is big and round and has white hair and a beard."

The familiar argument snapped Phil's dazed mind back into focus. "Heh, well, that's what the cartoons make me look like, yeah." He chuckled, crossing his arms over his knees as he peered at the boy. "Tommy, do you know your last name?" He asked as a book appeared at his side. It was large and leather bound, though it looked rather thin. When it fell open, hovering in the air, the pages seemed to go on forever, each filled with lists of names and addresses and checkmarks.

Tommy squinted at him, then at the book, before cautiously answering. "Innit. Tommy Innit."

Phil twitched a finger and the pages began flipping rapidly, until at last it lay open to a page with the title 'UNFOUND'. The name Thomas Careful Danger Kraken Innit was highlighted with a golden glow, with the address noted as 'missing' and several check marks and one 'X' beside it. 

"Let's see here." Phil raised one finger to press against the checkmarks, seeing something written the others couldn't. "Hmm, yes, it seems that last spring you shared your food with a mother duck and her ducklings. That was very kind of you, Tommy."

Tommy perked up at the words, eyes shining at the simple praise.

"And in October, on Halloween, a girl dropped her bucket of candy and instead of keeping it for yourself, you brought it back to her. Clementine was very grateful, wasn't she?" 

"She ga' me a piece," Tommy muttered, a slight blush crossing his cheeks, "a tootsie roll." 

"That was very  nice of her," Phil hummed, ignoring Wil's squeal of 'cuuuute!' in the background. "And - oh. You gave your toy cat to a lady with a baby at the homeless shelter on Church Street." Phil's eyes widened. "You - the lady cried and kissed your forehead, didn't she?"

Tommy nodded, pressing his face against the cow stuffy. 

"And that was your only toy, wasn't it?" Phil asked, sympathy dousing his expression. "You gave it away because you wanted to make the baby happy."

"'e was crying," Tommy muttered, not meeting Phil's eyes. "But - but then I couldn't sleep 'cause I was all alone. So I thought," he squeezed the cow tighter, "I thought maybe I could take a little toy and nobody would notice…"

Phil's finger traced over the only 'X' beside Tommy's name, brow pinching a bit as he saw what the child had done earlier that night. With a flick of his finger, the mark vanished, leaving only check marks beside his name. "Well, Tommy, despite not having a big beard, I am Santa Claus. But you can call me Phil." He beamed at the child as the book swung shut, vanishing in a swirl of magic. "And I've just checked my list - twice - and I'm happy to say that you are firmly on the Nice List."

Tommy squinted. "You're Techie's friend?" He asked, not seeming delighted to be speaking to the Santa Claus, or at his status on the famous Nice and Naughty list.

"Yeah, mate," Phil nodded, ignoring Wil's choked noise at the nickname, "I'm Techie's friend, and Wilbur's dad."

Tommy glanced at the winter spirit, who had finally calmed himself and was hovering behind Phil, a bright grin on his face. He wiggled his fingers at Tommy, sparkling snow falling from his fingers. Techno, meanwhile, was giving his best friend a glare that could wither fields and slay dragons, one eye twitching ever so subtly as the shorter man reinforced the nickname.

"Wilby is nice," Tommy decided, tucking himself back against Techno, hugging his stuffy close. Wilbur swooned at the name, and the other adults knew there would be a light dusting of perfect playing snow across the northern hemisphere tonight. "You're nice," he told Phil, already tucking his head back under Techno's chin. "But Techie's best." With that declaration he was once more asleep, in the way that only children could be. 

"We're keeping him," Wilbur whispered, as soon as he was sure the child was fully asleep.

Phil rubbed at his chin, eyeing the pair on the couch thoughtfully. "Wil, there's certain laws we have to abide by, even if-"

"We're keeping him." Techno interrupted, shifting so both arms were wrapped around Tommy, tucking him firmly against his chest. The child curled up even closer, thin face relaxing in the warmth. 

"Mate, there might be somebody looking for him."

"L."

Phil groaned, but Wilbur was at his shoulder, tugging gently at a strand of hair. "Dad, dad," he turned on his puppy-dog eyes, an incredibly effective tactic despite him having the form of a man in his early twenties. "I've always wanted a little brother. And you said Tommy's on the nice list - he deserves the best Christmas present ever!"

"Oh?" Phil raised a brow at this son, resolve already breaking. "And what's that?"

Wilbur's smile was blinding. "A family." 

~*~*~*~*~

He heard the beeping before he saw the damage. Techno stilled, an odd feeling of deja vu washing over him, but there was another crash and he quickly shook it off and soldiered on. The rest of the workshop was quiet, the elves having turned in after the festivities of the post-launch party. That left only a handful of people who could be causing mayhem in the lounge at this time of night. Approaching the open doors slowly (he could be impressively quiet, despite his cloven hooves), he peeked into the room.

It had undergone some changes in the last decade. There were still the comfy couches, the roaring fireplace, the windows that peered both out onto the tundra and inward to the workshop. There was also a desk, covered in papers and a gaming computer, along with several large shelves stuffed with books. Pictures and photographs hung on the walls, featuring the Craft family in all their various glories and embarrassments. Fluffy blankets were draped over the couches and chairs, ready for a cold human to snatch them up and huddle in their warmth. On top of the mantle, between family portraits and favorite tchotchkes, were several stuffed cows in various states of repair, each with a ribbon around the neck and the year of their retirement noted on a little tag. 

The biggest change was the evergreen, a squat little thing that was barely taller than Techno. Tommy had found it himself and, with the help of his best friends (the Troublesome Two had become a Terrible Trio, and Wilbur did nothing to discourage it, much to Phil and Rudolph's dismay), he'd hauled it home, set it up in the lounge, and decorated it with whatever he could get his hands on. The poor thing looked like a colorblind disco ball, but Tommy had declared it was perfect, mooning cupid on top and all. The bottom of the tree was stuffed with presents, not only from Phil (who was halfway through his rounds by now, and due back in about twelve hours), but from Wilbur, Tommy, Techno, and Kristin, all wrapped and labeled for each other, waiting for the morning. There were some for Tubbo and Ranboo too, of course - the pair of elves had wormed themselves into the family dynamic that had formed, establishing themselves as Tommy's best mates and, depending on the amount of trouble they were in, brothers. 

The trio were responsible for the beeping - the smoke alarm was going off, and Tommy was rapidly waving a tin pan on a flimsy stick around, swearing as it fanned the flames. The Jiffy Pop was still popping, the kernels exploding into soft white fluff before catching fire and falling to the rug. Tubbo and Ranboo were scrambling to stomp out the embers, yelling and swearing as they did so, giving Tommy conflicting directions on how to snuff out the flames. 

"What is going on here?" Techno demanded, using his Krampus voice to catch the younglings attention. Despite being born mostly-grown, Tubbo and Ranboo were still considered adolescents by the elves, and they quailed at the magic in his voice just as Tommy did. Tommy, however, had been following Techno around for ten years, and managed to shake it off. 

"It's not our fault!" He declared, as another flaming popcorn kernel dropped to the ground. Ranboo hissed and stomped it out quickly. 

Techno took the three in, hands on his hips. The kernel embers weren't doing much damage - just smoldering on the floor, the rugs long-ago fireproofed with magic. "Uh-huh. Pray tell, how is this not your fault?" He asked, one brow raised.

"Wilbur told us to!" Tubbo blurted out. "Then he ditched!"

Ranboo wrung his hands, glancing between Tommy and Tubbo, then back at Techno. "He - he said we should get started popping the popcorn so we could string it, but he left before explaining how to do it," he offered. "The instructions said just put it in the fire…"

"Over."

"Huh?"

"Over the fire." Techno sighed, dragging a hand down his face (a move he found himself repeating frequently around his youngest brother). He stepped forward, and to their credit the three didn't flinch, just looked even more embarrassed and guilty. Taking the Jiffy Pop from Tommy, he smothered the flames with a snap of his finger, and cleared the smoke with a wave of his hand. The smoke alarm fell blissfully silent. He dropped the burnt husk of tin pan into the trash shoot beside Tommy's desk, brushing the ash off his hands, and turned to look at the three.

"So Wilbur left you three to cook something without supervision?" He clarified.

Ranboo looked like he wanted to debate, but Tubbo elbowed him sharply in the side. "Yes. Yup. That is exactly what happened."

"He left three kids alone to play with fire. What kind of responsible big brother does that?" Tommy tacked on, resting a hand over his heart.

"Truly a monster." Techno deadpanned, and the trio nodded in agreement. Shaking his head, he moved to the couch beside the tree, sitting down heavily in the plush cushions. "Well, I guess I'll just have to supervise until he gets back." 

None of them pointed out that he would be here even if Wilbur was. They didn't point out that after Tommy had been adopted by Phil, the man had moved into the Workshop proper, leaving his cabin as a retreat only used when he needed a break from the younger boys. Nobody pointed out that he'd taken to calling both Wilbur and Tommy his little brothers, or that he had let Kristin mother him on occasion (though Phil still couldn't get away with trying to be parental towards him). Nobody pointed out the cows lined up on the mantle, each a careful recreation of the one Tommy had first stolen (Henry the First).

"Tell us a story, big man!" Tommy didn't hesitate to throw himself onto the couch beside Techno, pressing himself into the large man's side, a grin lighting up his face as he begged.

"Yeah, something with explosions!" Tubbo agreed, dragging Ranboo over to sit at Techno's feet, staring up at him eagerly. "And blood!"

Ranboo didn't seem on board with that. "Or, uh, maybe something nice?" He requested. 

"Oh, I know a story full of blood and explosions and nice stuff!" Tommy chirped, wiggling so he had one of Techno's arms draped over his shoulder.

"Really?" Techno didn't push the boy away, and he certainly didn't pull him closer, and anybody who said differently was a liar.

"Yeah. Tell the story of how you found me!" Tommy beamed, eyes crinkling up in the corner.

Techno raised a brow, taking in the boy's face. Round and healthy, with a flush to his cheeks that were scrubbed clean and sprinkled with freckles. Dressed in clean, warm clothes, free of injuries (aside from a few bruises, the kind all children going through growth spurts carried around like badges of honor) and hunger. "I don't recall any explosions in that story…" He hummed.

Tommy's expression softened a bit as he turned on his puppy-dog eyes. "Please, Techie?"

"Alright," the man sighed heavily, as though it were a great burden. He glanced at the pair at his feet, then shifted his gaze to the sparkling mess of tinsel and ornaments that was their tree. Tommy melted into his side, fitting perfectly against the man's side. "It started in this little place called L'manburg. I was keeping an eye out for trouble while Phil was on his rounds, when I heard an alarm…" 

Happiest of Holidays! I've fallen head-first into a new fandom, the DSMP, and I blame Tumblr for it. Hear that? It's your fault. Thank you so much. <3

[megcheese]

The Scrunchie Problem

Last year in August I had a brilliant idea.  I will use some scrap red sequined fabric from my stash and create a couple scrunchies for the annual Red Dress Run.  It will be easy!  I already have everything I need:  fabric, elastic, thread, sewing machine.  I can knock these out in an hour or two. 

So I pull out the quilting cutting mat and fabric pizza wheel and make 2” strips. And thinking about how I’d like my seams to be both clean and easy, I sew the short ends of the fabric to make a loop first.  Then the long edge leaving about 1” hole for turning the fabric. 

But when I go to turn the fabric after making those seams, I get stuck.  At first, I think I’m just physically stuck.  The pencil I’m using to turn the fabric tube inside out is starting to get gunked up from the sequin glue.  And I can’t seem to get the full turn out. 

My hole must be too small and my fabric tube too narrow.  That’s okay.  I will sew the next strip the same way but leave a larger hole.  But this time when the turn out won’t seem to complete, I realize what I’ve done wrong.  My wrong-side-out shape was a doughnut.  But my right-side-out shape was… tube snake.

Do you remember these toys?  IT’s a tube filled with water or gel and when you squeeze it, the inner part shoots to the outside and the entire thing pops out of your hand. 

So how did my doughnut become a tube snake?  

Both shapes are a form of a torus, or a circular toroid.  The torus has two raidii, where r is the radius of a wedge of the doughnut and R is the radius of the entire doughnut ring.  If we think of our donut ring as a latitude ring, once we turn it inside out, the latitude has become a meridian.  So, our two radii have swapped places.  Little r is now the overall radius and big R is now the wedge cross-section radius.  Our shape has a large difference in scale between the two radii, so the new shape isn’t a doughnut. We get our tube snake.  The tube snake is still a toroid, just a doughnut that has been stretched out to be tall. 

Now that we understand the geometry, how do we sew a scrunchie correctly?  I felt the internet had a lack of good instructions for this task, despite seeming so simple and like it would be a common craft idea.  So I’m here to help! 

Scrunchie Sewing Pattern Instructions

1.  Cut out a strip of fabric.  2” was a bit narrow, 4” makes a good average sized scrunchie, and 6” will make a big bold scrunchie.  The length should be about 24”, but exact measurements are not important. 

2. Fold your fabric in half “hot dog” style and pin the long edges together.  Sew the long edges together leaving a gap between 1” and 2” in the center. 

Fabric Key

Step 2

3. Now we have to bring the short edges together by pulling one end inside of the fabric tube.  We are making the tube snake on purpose!  The shape will be turned such that the right side of the fabric is the inside surface of the tube snake and only the wrong side is exposed.  Align the raw short edges of the tube.  Pin and sew the complete ring.  Please note that this seam is the entire circumference of little r and only through two layers of fabric. 

Step 3

4. Now when we turn our shape with the right-side-out, we will have one big long doughnut. 

5. Measure out a strip of elastic.  I usually use ¼” width elastic and about 8” of length, but I have very thick hair and regularly destroy hair ties.  Adjust based on your fit. 

6. Feed the elastic strip through the tube taking care not to lose the tail end.  I like to use two safety pins: one securing the tail to the opening and the second to help me feed through the tube.  Sew the ends of the elastic to each other in a flat seam. 

7. Last step is to close the opening.  If you’re feeling fancy you can breakout the hand needle and close with an invisible (ladder) stitch.  But if you’re a machine girl, tuck the raw edges in and sew a short straight seam over the opening. 

And you’ve done it!  You made a scrunchie! 

Bonus Round! 

What if I wanted to use an off-the-shelf hair elastic instead of a strip?  I had black chiffon scraps from a jumpsuit that was too long for my petite height.  My white ¼” elastic would be visible (and unattractive) in a scrunchie made from that fabric.  How would I get an already looped black elastic in there?  I under-thought my very 1st scrunchie attempt.  Time to OVER-think it!

In order to get your already loop-shaped hair elastic in your scrunchie, the elastic needs to be integrated in step 1.  That means when you fold your strip in half hot dog style, the hairtie is already in the hotdog bun.  Fold the fabric around the loop.  Part of the hair elastic will be exposed at the ends of the fabric strip. It will look like an inside-out scrunchie already.  Take care when sewing your long edge seam to stretch the section of fabric under the machine.  Don’t let the scrunchie folds get sewn in. 

When you turn your fabric to sew the short edge seam, about half of your hair elastic will be exposed with the other half inside the tube snake. This time you need to be sure not to catch the elastic when you sew the seam.

And here comes the magic.  When you turn the fabric right-sides out, the hair elastic is carried to the inner tube.  Close your last opening as before.

 

Can you even tell that I went the extra mile to use a black elastic?

Applications to other sewing projects

My most recent sewing project is a bridesmaid’s dress for me to wear at my sister’s wedding.  My requirements were fairly open:  black chiffon, maxi length.  So I decided to make my own and selected a pattern from Simplicity, S8870 in “View A.” 

You’ll notice that the dress has a one-strap design with a loose drape that is attached at the left shoulder and then hangs over the right arm.  The steps of the pattern have you sew that drape into the shoulder seam before any other steps that associate the overlay and lining or front and back of the bodice.  Next, I had to understitch the neckline.  Then came my secret application of The Scrunchie Problem.

“38. Tightly roll up drape for View A or Sleeve for View D.  FOR VIEWS A, B, D- Stitch lining to bodice at entire armhole edge being careful not to catch drape for View A or sleeves for View D.” 

I couldn’t see the drape anywhere in the diagram for that step so I rolled my drape cinnamon roll style and pulled it out of the way of my new seam.  But I made the mistake of pulling it to the outside of my new seam.  I did it again! I created a new tube snake that I can never pull my drape all the way out of! 

The correct interpretation of that step was to roll the drape dosa style and hide within the shoulder section.  That’s why I couldn’t see it in the diagram. 

Wrap up

I hope I've inspired you to make a scrunchie. It’s a great use for scrap fabric. Especially from maxi dresses that us unfortunate, short ladies had to cut several inches off of the bottom. 

What should I share next? Finished bridesmaid dress? Finished wedding present quilt? Or something I haven't even decided to make yet?

[namig42]

Still not done with writing about Vincent and his plight because gods, he's just so compelling. I wondered what it must've been like for him after he was disembodied and I decided to explore that even more in my own take. Please enjoy!

Vincent (Disembodied Thoughts)

Read it on Ao3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Summary: Vincent's experience in his jar.

TWs in tags

---

Flashes of memories were all that were left for Vincent. The memory of being thrown over Thisobald Thorm’s massive shoulder and taken somewhere dark and cold. The feeling of an immense saw digging into his neck with jagged, tearing strokes. The sight of his body being torn apart limb by limb as he watched from across the room. The buckets of blood that were gradually drained from his mutilated body and taken away by Thorm and his zombies.

There was the sight of the Sharran woman being forced to drink a concoction that left her delirious. Her narrow pupils widened until her eyes were entirely black with a faint, red glow, and she sat across the room with a vacant, happy stare. Though she looked at Vincent, she didn’t see him. Her mind looked to be somewhere not of this realm, perhaps in another plane entirely. Her canines grew and left her with smiling fangs as she sat limply in a chair, mumbling something that Vincent could never hear through his new glass encasement.

Then there was the memory of the Sharran woman being beheaded. She was laid on that same lab table that Vincent’s body had been left on for days on end, draining itself of what little blood was in those veins that were once his. Thorm took that same jagged saw and dug into the Sharran’s fair neck. Her life ended in that moment, while Vincent was forced to live in this state of purgatory. Thorm mumbled to himself in disappointment as he left the room without disposing of the woman’s body, leaving her corpse to rot on the lab table in the center of the room. The stone door shut behind him, and Vincent was returned to darkness along with the vision of a familiar stranger, now dead.

He never even learned her name. He never knew what brought her to this place. What misfortune it was for them to meet and for her to show any kindness towards Vincent. Despite not knowing what was happening, she had tried to help Vincent escape. Vincent never knew why, and now all he could wonder was if this was Shar’s punishment for kindness in her followers. The woman’s empty smile from only moments before flashed through his mind again, and Vincent willed his mind to quiet.

It didn’t work. Instead, the darkness was filled with haunting images of the woman’s delirium. I’m sorry… I’m sorry… was all Vincent could think as he sat in darkness, his blood being drained by the tubes Thorm had stuck in his neck at some point. Vincent couldn’t remember when the tubes had been inserted. They felt like they had always been there, just like the visions and warping memories that now plagued him.

There were disgusting visions of entrails running around the floor of the dark room like skittering rats, of fungus growing in the cracks all around him, of wood rotting over decades as Vincent simply sat here, trapped for an eternity as a solitary head. He couldn’t make out what was real and what was a conjuring of his mind anymore.

Sometimes Thorm would return to this abandoned lab, growing more and more massive each time he came back. He would come for more of Vincent’s blood every now and then, tapping at the tubes and trying to get every last drop out of them. It seemed like there was never enough vampiric blood in the buckets for Thorm’s tastes. “Bleed, be bled, be bloody, you useless spawn,” he would groan as he thumped Vincent’s jar with a thick, bulbous finger. Vincent would be rattled and brought back to an odd sense of reality every time the cretin treated him like a dying fish in an aquarium.

The monster grew more grotesque over the years, eventually donning a mask to hide his deformed features. Vincent was glad that he was spared from one less horrible sight in this cursed realm, but Thorm’s face was already etched into his memory well enough and had warped into even more grotesque forms over the years. Vincent didn’t need to see the horrors anymore to remember them in vivid, horrific detail.

Thorm would eventually leave the lab with heavy footsteps that shook the room and leave Vincent in the darkness with his mind and the figments of his immortal imagination. There were twisting visions of the Sharran, one moment aggressive and blaming Vincent for her agony, then the next as dumb as a drunken loon, staring into Vincent with those black, empty eyes. Images of his master sneering down at him - telling Vincent that this little tank of his was fitting for such an insignificant, useless pet as him - would come and go as well. Then there were the vivid thoughts of Thorm returning with that terrifying saw of his, ready to dig into the flesh Vincent no longer had but could still feel like a phantom. The vision that hurt Vincent the most was the terrible imagining of his friend who was angry that Vincent never came home and broke his promise. “You left me to suffer alone under Cazador, you useless bastard. How dare you? I thought we were friends, but I should’ve known better. You were always a useless coward. You can rot for all I care.” Vincent could hear the spite in that familiar voice as clear as day, and that’s what drove him into the deepest of agony.

There was no end to this existence. There was nothing to be done. All Vincent could do was close his eyes, endure the horrors, and wait for something to change.

A few times within the beginning of this hellish existence, Vincent could muster the strength to scream, trying to call for help, but it was all for not. He had no lungs, no larynx. If he screamed, the only sensation was the feeling of fluid moving around his mouth and flowing through his open windpipe.

No, all that was left was to sit. Sit and watch an eternity pass in a dark, decrepit room. Vincent wondered if death for a vampire was anything like this cursed eternity, or if it would’ve been a blessing to finally die. No one would come for him, after all. No one would find him. No one would help him return home. There was nothing left to hope for now except for his life to miraculously give out and allow him to finally perish.

Then one day, something different happened. Vincent sensed someone open the stone door and enter the room. He opened his eyes, curious to see if it was Thisobald Thorm again, even bigger than the last time he came.

It wasn’t though. A much smaller silhouette crept into the room and took quiet, creeping steps closer to his jar. Vincent’s eyes were blurry and dazed as he curiously observed the stranger.

“Hello Vincent,” said a familiar, lilting voice.

That voice… Vincent’s mind tried to place where he had heard it before. It was so smooth. The way his name rang from their mouth… It sounded so familiar. There was a warmth to it, something that soothed the back of what was left of Vincent’s neck.

Vincent’s dazed eyes slowly focused and he spotted a face so pale it nearly glowed amidst the dark, dreary laboratory. That silver hair, that awkward, nervous smile, that anguish that came from those red eyes. 

Astarion, Vincent thought. He was here, really here. Or maybe it’s another vision… Vincent waited for this vision to curse him as all the other ones did, but it never came. Astarion looked at him with a bittersweet stare and that soft crease in his brow.

It… It’s him… isn’t it?

If he could move, Vincent would’ve cried tears of joy. He was so afraid to get his hopes up since nothing felt real anymore, but he so desperately wanted it to be true. Astarion, he’s here. Really here… Vincent tried to move his lips, to show signs of life, but his face was stiff. He couldn’t tell Astarion how happy he was to see him after all these years. All he could do was keep his vision focused and watch Astarion explore the lab, unaware that Vincent was conscious and watching his every move.

Then, loud stomping followed. Three more silhouettes entered the lab, and the noise seemed to wake something in the floorboards. A rumble occurred from below Vincent, then suddenly, a body that Vincent wasn’t aware he was a part of sprang to life after decades of sitting and rotting in this lab. Though he was the only part with a brain amidst the fungal monstrosity, Vincent had no control over what came next.

The monstrous form attacked Astarion’s companions and was slashed, bitten, blasted with magic, and surprisingly embraced by something that felt like the equivalent of firmly grasping a hot coal by the three of them. After enduring a fair deal of damage, the monstrous limbs suddenly gave way, and all that was left was Vincent and his jar sitting in the middle of the pile of decay and rot.

There were muffles and movement around the lab, all while Vincent lay in his bodiless delirium. If he wasn’t sure that this whole situation was real, the violent shaking from being forced into a monstrous battle made him certain that this was happening. This surely wasn’t a figment of his imagination, and for that, Vincent could not be more grateful.

Unknown voices said his name from around the room and brought Vincent closer and closer to reality. He so desperately wanted to speak, to tell Astarion and his friends the story of his disembodiment, but it was all for not. Instead, he listened more intently to what was being discussed amongst the adventuring party.

“He’s sort of part of the family, and actually, I’d like to know what happened to him,” that familiar voice of Astarion’s stood out amongst the commotion. If only I could tell him myself…

“We gonna bring him along, then?” A woman spoke with a deep voice.

“Well he’s not really… he’s sort of not really… I’m quite worried because he’s been disappeared for a long time, and I don’t know what’s happened to him. It would be of great, personal joy to me if we could find out why he’s ended up in this jar.”

“Ooo, speak with the dead, speak with the dead!” A green woman began to chant.

“He’s not dead, he’s in a jar!” Astarion said dramatically. It sounded a bit silly. If Vincent could smile, he would’ve laughed at Astarion and his brash companion.

“Speak with animals, speak with animals!” Oh, that’s even funnier, Vincent thought in amusement. Gods, when was the last time he felt that feeling?

It likely was with Astarion before he left the city.

“Can he not communicate at all?” A horned man asked with a smooth, charming voice.

“You know, I actually hadn’t thought of that. Why don’t we see if we can snap him out of it?” Suddenly, Astarion’s face was only a few inches from Vincent. Though everything was a haze, Vincent could recall that last, loving face he saw the night before he ended up this way. Astarion took a finger and gently tapped on the jar. “Hello~? Hello in there…”

As much as Vincent wanted to respond, to show any sign of life, he couldn’t do it. His lips wouldn’t move. His eyes wouldn’t twitch. Nothing would give way to show that he was alive and conscious. He saw the disappointment on Astarion’s face and felt it tenfold.

“Alright, let’s stick him in a sack, take him back, and get this antidote sorted.” That first woman’s voice came said.

“Sure,” Astarion said with a sigh.

Wait, Astarion! Vincent thought as Astarion broke eye contact. Astarion lifted Vincent’s jar and placed him in a sack carried by the large, red tiefling. Though the pack was full, they secured Vincent with a bit of rope and left the top part of his jar poking out slightly from the pack.

Astarion, I’m here! Please… Vincent tried to will his body to react in any way possible, but it proved useless.

Vincent was almost entirely lucid for the first time since he had been disassembled, and as he watched Astarion and his companions investigate the lab, he couldn’t take his dazed eyes off of his old friend.

It had been so long. How long though? And what was Astarion doing here? Who were these people with him? Was the shadow curse gone? No… Vincent could still feel its chill in the remains of his neck. Astarion and his friends didn’t seem to have that lantern that the Sharran had though. Was that necessary anymore? Had the shadow curse weakened over the years?

In the midst of his busy, confused thoughts, Vincent watched Astarion explore the room, peeking through the bits, bobbles, and bottles that lined the shelves around the lab. Then suddenly, Astarion spotted something and he froze. His eyes focused on a work table pushed against the wall, and he hesitantly picked up something that glistened amidst the dreary space. Vincent willed his eyes to focus so he could see what it was that Astarion now held.

It was a ring. A silver ring, to be precise, with a red stone embedded in the band. It was the same ring that Vincent was wearing that night they said goodbye to one another back in Baldur’s Gate. Astarion looked at it with that familiar pain in his eyes that Vincent remembered from before. He gingerly turned it over in his hands, then suddenly, a stray tear fell from his eye. Vincent watched Astarion wipe it away softly before putting the ring on his pinky finger, the same finger Vincent himself wore it on when he still had hands of his own.

“Any luck, finding the um… thing?” Astarion said with a lingering sadness in his voice as he turned back to his party. Despite his melancholy, his friends seemed oblivious to his plight. The green one was licking sludge from the floor, and the red one was blowing her nose into a ripped page from one of Thorm’s journals.

As the party continued their investigation and chaos, Vincent watched from his spot in the tiefling’s pack with a range of emotions. If he was capable of it, Vincent would’ve wept fully and loudly. He was found. The person he cared for most was here. He would be taken away from this dreary eternity he had endured for so long, and maybe even be given a second chance at his undead life.

When Astarion’s party found whatever it was they were looking for here, they left the lab and made their way back into the horrid tavern. Vincent, despite the shadow curse still chilling him to the bone, was so immensely grateful to finally be in a place that wasn’t that cursed lab after all that time. It was refreshing to see the dim glow of shadowroot sacs that lit the tavern.

The party made their way to that open floor that Vincent once walked on many moons ago, and watched as Astarion’s friends drank some sort of concoction that was mixed with all the things they found in Thorm’s laboratory. Their fangs disappeared and their eyes turned distant. It seemed that they were all having some sort of vision simultaneously. Vincent was curious if they drank Thisobald’s drink before and why they were drinking this strange concoction, but that curiosity quickly disappeared when Astarion suddenly began to weep.

What? What happened? Vincent was baffled as to where Astarion’s weeping had come from. He watched in astonishment as Astarion spoke to his friends, “Yes… well… My life hasn’t been the easiest, as you know, and the fleeting moments of joy I had with some of my… siblings, was the only levity that we enjoyed. Poor Vincent,” Astarion spoke as he looked towards the jar that Vincent floated in. Vincent couldn’t communicate anything to his friend. All he could do was watch uselessly as Astarion looked at him with eyes full of tears. Vincent could do nothing to wipe them away, only watch them fall down his friend’s pale, thin face.

Vincent was useless, but his mind wasn’t. He was still here, but what good was it if he couldn’t make himself known? Why did Astarion suddenly begin to weep and speak of Vincent? What did Astarion see? Were his friends able to see it as well? Vincent had many questions and absolutely no answers to a single one of them.

“I’m sorry… I’m going to need a moment.” Astarion excused himself from his friends and took a seat at the opposite side of the room. Vincent watched as Astarion wept for him, for the friend that he lost. What must’ve he endured in the years since Vincent disappeared?

What had happened to Astarion?

Then, Vincent watched as Astarion’s friends all followed him and came to hold his hands. They all sat there together in the tavern, holding the vampire spawn, and then all at once, they all gave Astarion a kiss on the cheek. Whatever they saw in those flashes of vision they shared, it brought them closer to one another.

Though Vincent grieved for the years he had lost, there was a comfort knowing that the person he cared for most had found new friends to make up for his absence. Watching the band of four, Vincent felt a twitch of his lip, almost as if a smile was on his face. Yes, for the first time in an eternity, Vincent felt something that wasn’t sadness or despair.

He felt happy to see his dear friend be loved.

[fandomficsnstuff]

Redemption For All - 6

(Warnings: Some fluff and honestly this isn’t a horrible chapter, it’s a bit more wholesome lol)

Notes: I do NOT speak spanish but I think it is a very beautiful language and sadly all I can say in spanish is ‘I can’t speak spanish’, so I used google translate, sorry. Some words are in Italic, which is the translated words, and others are just straight up spanish.

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Leah was quiet as she read one of the books Hosea had lent her while sitting near her tent, enjoying the warmer air at Clemens Point, already half-way through Hosea’s book. Most of his books were crime novels, but she didn’t mind, she was actually enjoying this one when Dutch sat down next to her “so, Hosea…” he began, Leah smiling at him softly “I suspect it’s just asthma” she stated, closing the book and placing it on the table, turning to face Dutch. “The lungs are sort of like an upside-down tree, I guess” she got out a set of dominoes, laying out a long line, gesturing to it “that’s your throat, both food and air travel this way. Then, two tubes branch off,” she proceeded to lay the dominoes like two stretched long bubbles one on each side of the line at the end “and there are the lungs. Asthma makes these,” she gestured to the small lines leading to the ‘lungs’ “narrow, and it makes your body produce more mucus - snot and such, to make everything smoother. It can also cause a shortness of breath as we need air to oxygenate our blood and a lack of this can cause fatigue, which is why when you’re strangled you pass out. Anyway, asthma causes the airways to narrow, making it harder for air to pass through. It can also make you cough or wheeze. It can also be helped by the weather, or made worse by it. The cold air up in those mountains wasn’t good for him, that’s for certain, but this air is much better. I really don’t think you need to worry about him dropping dead because of it. He’s most likely had it since he was a child, maybe even when he was born. Or it could have appeared in his younger years and not when he was a child. Either way, he’s managed it remarkably well so far, I trust that he knows his own limits, and by that I mean that I don’t think he’ll run a triathlon” she stated the last bit jokingly, her smile fading when Dutch didn’t laugh “it’s a really long exercise thing. You, like, run a certain amount of distance, then swim that distance or twice that distance, then all other kinds of things” she explained briefly, Dutch frowning “why?”

“Uh, sometimes it’s just for fun, sometimes it’s for a cause, like charity, sometimes it’s just competition, other times it’s just to push the limits of what you can do, see how far you can get” she admitted with a shrug, Dutch humming as he nodded “so, I don’t need to worry?”

“No, no I think Hosea will be here to nag you for a lot more years to come” she teased, Dutch chuckling hoarsely as he leaned back in his chair “thought so, that man could con the devil” he muttered, Leah chuckling “I bet” she hummed before picking her book back up, sighing softly as she stared at the cover before looking at Dutch “will you teach me all this?”

“Teach you what, dear?”

“All of this. The-... conning, the robbing… okay maybe not the robbing… or the conning… just-”

“I thought Charles was teachin’ ya how to hunt?”

“He was! And then all of this happened and I don’t know…”

“You really wanna learn all of this? It ain’t a pretty way to live” Dutch warned with genuine concern, Leah hesitating before shrugging, looking down with a small frown “it’s just-... Herr Strauss arriving with a gunshot wound, it-... god, Dutch, it made me feel so much like I was home” she admitted with a huge grin “I mean, I know it’s something you all could have done and I’m grateful that you let me handle it-”

“You’re the actual doctor out of all of us” he reminded her with a smirk and she chuckled lightly, nodding “yeah, I just-... I feel like I could be doing more, you know? I want to do more…”

“You really want that? You know what it’ll mean?”

“My name on a poster with a drawing of my likeness that they got horribly wrong?” she asked half-jokingly, Dutch chuckling with a smirk “if you really want to…” he trailed off, Leah leaning her arms on the table, subsequently a little closer to him “I do… I have been with you guys for almost three months now…” she muttered, Dutch studying her before nodding “alright, if somethin’ comes up, I’ll let you know-”

“I want this, Dutch” she interrupted him, a stern look in her eyes that made Dutch smirk a little more “I know, sweetheart. If something comes up, I promise, I’ll rope you in, deal?”

“Deal” she said quickly, a smile forming on her lips “thank you, Dutch” she said softly before sighing “there’s also another thing…”

“What?”

“I don’t know who the hell Colm O’Driscoll is, or what happened between the two of you, but meeting in some desolate, isolated place… it sounds perfect for an ambush… that’s all I wanted to say” she said softly, getting up and walking to the lakeside, placing Hosea’s book by his bedroll as she passed by it, her arms crossing over her chest as she watched the water ripple, the gentle waves, the insects buzzing about just above the water.

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Leah was grinning as she placed the stethoscope against Abigail’s chest as Jack was wearing it. “Now, listen really closely, you’ll hear a thumping” Leah spoke softly, letting go of the stethoscope once Jack held it in place, his mouth open in a grin as he waited and he giggled when he heard the thump, looking up at Abigail “mama! I can hear your heart!” he exclaimed with amusement and joy, Abigail chuckling as she looked up at Leah before looking back at Jack “well, would you look at that! What do you say, doc? Does it sound healthy enough?” she asked with a smirk, Jack’s brows furrowing as he listened intently before he nodded and grinned “it does! Doesn’t it, miss Riverra?”

“Leah’s a doctor, honey-”

“It’s okay. And hey, since we’re fellow doctors now, you can call me Leah if you want” she said with a grin, Jack beaming up at his mother before giggling “I wanna listen to uncle Hosea!” he exclaimed and you grinned, Jack about to run off when Abigail caught him “hold on now, that thing belongs to Dr. Riverra, remember?”

“Sorry… Can I borrow it?”

“If you promise to be really careful with it, I only have that one. And remember what I taught you, those buds in your ear, that round thing on the upper chest, and…?”

“Be quiet!” Jack exclaimed and Leah smirked “exactly. Go on” she urged, Jack giggling as he ran off, Abigail looking up at Leah “thank you for doing this, John’s a miserable father… it’s good that Jack has some adults who actually care about him” Abigail stated softly, Leah sitting down next to her on another box, shrugging lightly “maybe he just needs time?”

“How much time? The boy is already four” she pointed out, Leah sighing as she nodded “fair enough… a DNA test would be wonderful right about now, to make him step up, I guess, even though Jack’s his. A DNA test could maybe help bang it through that thick skull of his.”

“A what?”

“A DNA test. It’s a test that matches one set of DNA against another. Your DNA is everything that proves you’re, well, you. We all have a specific genetic makeup unique only to us. Like a single shirt, the only one of it’s kind. Your DNA can be taken from your hair, skin, any bodily fluids including blood and saliva, nails, everything like that. It’s the same as your fingerprints” she said with a shrug, Abigail scrunching up her nose a little, looking at her fingers “what’s that mean?” she asked, expecting Leah to roll her eyes at the uneducated woman but Leah just leaned closer, gently taking Abigail’s hand, holding her fingers and pointing to her forefinger and the tip of it. “If you look really closely, you can see these almost sort of rings and swirls. These sort of swirls and patterns are your fingerprint. No fingerprint is the same, not even on the same hand, so let’s say you… well… broke into a house. You touched the window or the door, then later the police can apply a layer of something like powder over that surface and use it to get a print of what that pattern looks like, so if they caught you, they could look at your fingers, take prints, and match them” she said calmly, Abigail looking at her with wide eyes “ain’t never heard of a thing like that!” she gasped, Leah smiling softly yet with a hint of sadness to it. Abigail was the only one who actually believed her, looking at the evidence instead of how improbable traveling back in time was. “It’s not that far away here, I think… so uh, don’t commit any crime in the next decade” she joked, Abigail laughing briefly, shaking her head “ain’t plannin’ on it” she said through her laughter, just as Jack came running back with a grin and the stethoscope around his neck “mama! I listened to uncle Hosea’s heart” he beamed, handing the stethoscope back to Leah who took it with a smile, Abigail grinning “and how was it? Is he healthy? What’s the verdict, doc?”

“He’s healthy” Jack decided, Leah chuckling along with Abigail before nodding “then we’ve got nothing to worry about, Doctor Marston is here” she teased, Jack giggling. The sweet moment was cut short at the sound of horse hooves, everyone lifting their heads to see who had arrived. Dutch and Micah saddled off, Leah approaching with a smile “so, you didn’t die” she stated shortly, Micah smirking, hands on his gun belt as he took a step closer “you worried about me, sweetling?” he asked with a creepy smirk in an attempt to be charming and alluring, Leah doing everything in her power to now cringe and gag “you? Not particularly, no” she admitted before turning to Dutch, taking in his sour expression “didn’t go as planned?” she asked, Dutch just glancing at her before leaving, Leah nodding “that’s a no, then…” she muttered, looking behind them before looking over her shoulder at Dutch “what about Arthur?”

“Don’t you worry ‘bout old cowpoke, he’ll be around” Micah stated with that same creepy smirk and this time Leah cringed and glanced at him up and down with disgust, casting a final look over her shoulder at him to make sure he stayed in place and didn’t follow her as she went over to the fire, sitting down next to Charles, smiling at him and he smiled in return.

Leah was gently patting Pru, one of the unnamed horses that she'd chosen a name for, when she noticed the horse approached, a slouched figure on top, her eyes widening. “Dutch! Miss Grimshaw!” she called, running up to the horse, stopping it, catching Arthur as he fell off, lessening his descent to the ground as he kept mumbling about the meeting being a set-up. “Help me get him to my tent and on my cot” she ordered, the men arriving to help lift Arthur, helping him to that exact location. “Miss Grimshaw, my bag.”

“Got it.”

“Abigail?”

“I’m here.”

“Good. Swanson?”

“I’ll get the morphine-”

“Lots of it” she ordered before hurrying to Arthur’s side the second she could, examining the wound with a frown “holy shit, Arthur!...”

“What? What is it?” Dutch asked with worry, Leah just staring at the wound before finally tearing herself from the wound to look at him “he-... jesus christ!”

“What, Leah?!”

“He cauterized the wound with some sort of fire or miniature explosion!” she snapped, Dutch’s eyes widening as he looked at Arthur “oh, my boy” he mumbled with despair as Miss Grimshaw arrived. “Alright, everyone but Miss Grimshaw, Abigail, Swanson and me, OUT” she ordered, Miss Grimshaw chasing the others away and closing the flap of the tent, Abigail already having lit the lantern to light up the area, hanging it up on a small hook that was there for that very purpose in the tent, hanging it over Arthur and the cot. “Reverend Swanson, administer a dose of morphine. Miss Grimshaw, I think I’ll actually need another lantern… Abigail, I need you to get a bucket of hot water and a cloth” she ordered, the women running off to get what was ordered as Swanson was about to give Arthur the morphine when he grabbed his wrist before he could get to it. Leah frowned and leaned over Arthur so he could see her “Arthur-”

“I need to tell Dutch-”

“It’s okay-”

“He would’ve used me, as a trap, I didn’t let ‘im, I didn’t” Arthur mumbled, his words slurring together and Leah sighed “Reverend Swanson will go tell Dutch that, so you can relax” Leah said softly, looking at Swanson who nodded and put his morphine tools down. “There. You’ve been through enough pain, Arthur… will you allow Reverend Swanson to administer morphine to you?”

“No-”

“Arthur-”

“NO!”

“Arthur, your wound has some burnt flesh that has to be removed… I’ll be prodding and poking in that wound… was it a gunshot?”

“Shotgun” he muttered, Leah nodding “what did you use to cauterize it with?”

“Shotgun shell… opened it… gunpowder and a candle…”

“Jesus, Arthur” she muttered, her hand on his shoulder “you really have a thing for pain, you know” she joked lightly as Abigail and Miss Grimshaw arrived with the hot water, cloth and new lantern, Miss Grimshaw lighting the lantern and hanging it, barely, on the hook with the other lantern, making sure they were steady as Abigail put the hot water by Leah’s right side on the grass. She sighed softly, looking at Swanson who appeared again, closing the tent and once again getting out his morphine tools “please, Arthur… you’ve been through enough pain. Let us take care of you” she spoke softly and Arthur shook his head, making Leah sigh as she looked at Swanson, hesitating before forcing herself to nod him outside the tent “I don’t have the patient’s permission for the morphine, I’m sorry, Swanson… Arthur, will you at least allow a regional anesthetic? It’ll numb the area” she offered, Arthur nodding as Swanson left the tent and Leah sighed “Miss Grimshaw, find the small bottle with what I used on Strauss and the same needle, did you see the dosage I gave?” she asked, Miss Grimshaw nodding and Leah nodded in return “then get it. Remember to shake the vial first, stick in the needle, then hold it upside down, get the dosage, put it down, needle out and then give me the needle, handles first” she ordered, Miss Grimshaw doing as told flawlessly and Leah took the needle, doing the same as with Strauss, injecting the area around the wound. “It should work soon” Leah said softly, looking at Grimshaw who already had out the rubber gloves, having blown in them and Leah put them on before turning to Abigail “gently wash the area, wash away the dry blood so I can see what I’m working with” she ordered softly, Abigail nodding, doing as told and Leah turned to Miss Grimshaw “I’ll need the forceps again” she spoke softly, Miss Grimshaw quickly finding them, handing them to Leah who leaned over Arthur again, gently poking the open wound “feel that?” Arthur shook his head, Miss Grimshaw and Abigail sharing a brief shocked look before looking back as Leah gently used the forceps and her fingers to examine the wound, her brows scrunched together in a frown. “There’s a pair of scissors in there with a curved blade” was all Leah said and soon Miss Grimshaw presented the right scissors, Leah taking them without a second glance, lifting up a burnt piece of flesh, cutting it swiftly, Abigail wincing a little at the sight, watching the dead flesh be carelessly thrown into the bowl with water by her feet, at least two more pieces following before Leah seemed somewhat satisfied. “There… Arthur? I’ve removed some tissue just to be on the safe side… I didn’t want to risk them dying and turning necrotic… they probably wouldn’t have, but-”

“I got it, doc” Arthur mumbled quietly, nodding ever so slightly and Leah sighed softly, nodding “Miss Grimshaw, gauze and bandages. Is there anything else that hurts, Arthur?”

“My side…” he admitted, Abigail helping Leah undo the sort of… bodysuit, opening it down to his hips and Leah studied the bruises, gently pushing, taking note whenever he winced “you have a bent rib, you’ll be fine but I still want you to be weary of it, you might have internal bleeding if it’s worse than it looks. You won’t be able to feel that particular area of your chest for a few hours at least where I injected you, what I gave you is also called a nerve block, for obvious reasons. You should be fine. You’ll have one hell of a scar, though, but I think removing the burnt tissue will make it less-... gruesome” Leah muttered, Arthur scoffing with as much amusement as he could muster, Leah smiling at him “you can have my bed, I won’t drag you all the way to your own.”

“People might talk…” he rasped jokingly, Leah rolling her eyes “talk is cheap, Arthur” she joked back, smiling at him before leaving, pulling off the rubber gloves, Abigail taking the used instruments to clean them while Swanson walked into the tent to help Miss Grimshaw bandage Arthur’s wounds, Leah exiting the tent to see pretty much everyone waiting, her eyes a little wide as they all looked at her. “Well?” Hosea asked, Leah frowning “what? He’ll be more than fine” she stated the obvious but it still made them erupt with joy, uttering their thanks to her and she nodded awkwardly “well uh, he’ll need a lot of rest, though. And no visitors! Not even you, Dutch. Or you, Hosea” she stated sharply, looking over her shoulder at Swanson as he exited the tent “Miss Grimshaw will look over him for most of the night, I promised to take over around midnight” he admitted, Leah nodding with a smile “good. What most to look for is mostly if the wound gets infected but I highly doubt it. He did quite well on his own, what we did was more to make it easier for his body to heal faster” she admitted, Swanson nodding as he walked off, Abigail returning with the cleaned instruments, giving Leah a smile on her way into the tent, exiting soon after with the bowl of water and the cloth, as well as about three pieces of floating, burnt flesh no bigger than a penny each.

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It was night when she heard groning, her eyes moving from the book Hosea had lent her and to Arthur as he was laying in her tent, a smile forming on her lips at the sight of him awake “good morning, sleeping beauty” she teased lightly, remembering what page she was on before putting it away, turning to fully face him as he tried to get up. She quickly got up and placed her hands on his chest, being careful around his wound, gently pressing him to lay back down, sitting by his side on the cot. “Easy, easy. You took a shotgun to the shoulder, Mr. Morgan” she soothed softly, Arthur reaching up, taking her hand in his, an attempt to lift it so he could get up but Leah felt warmth shoot through her at the touch, though it wasn’t enough for her to let him sit up “Arthur-”

“Gotta tell Dutch, it-”

“Was a trap. We know, it’s okay” she soothed, Arthur looking at her, slight confusion evident in his tired, exhausted eyes. “You don’t remember anything?”

“I remember Colm… he was gonna use me… ‘ter get to Dutch…” he mumbled, eyes closing as he relaxed again, but he didn’t let go of her hand, her heart racing at the feel of it on top of hers, holding it. It was massive compared to her own hand, covering it almost entirely. “It’s okay, you escaped. You got back to me- us. You got back to us” she corrected herself quickly, hoping and praying he was too exhausted to notice the slip-up, which she hadn’t even expected herself. “You’re okay” she added in a whisper, Arthur groaning quietly and she frowned, edging a little closer to him “are you in any pain? Arthur… if you’re in pain, please tell me. I can give you something for the pain but you have to let me-”

“No.. no, just-... sit with me” he slurred, probably too exhausted to really think things through and trip over his own brain, as he sometimes seemed to, holding himself back from being soft or caring, putting on a tough facade, btu the way he squeezed her hands, the way his slurred words made their way past his lips, somehow clear, it made her heart melt. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, I promise… I’m staying…”

“Mary said that too” he slurred, his eyes closed and Leah frowned deeply. “Who is Mary?...”

“You’re nothin’ like ‘er… ‘s soft ‘n warm… too good ‘fer me, married another guy…” he continued to slur and Leah frowned even more, her mind racing and she quickly rolled up his left sleeve, finding the crook of his elbow and what enraged her more was that she found a needle mark. “Son of a…” she was almost shaking with anger but she sighed heavily, turning to look at Arthur with sad eyes “it’s okay, go to sleep. I won’t leave you, not until you want me to” she whispered. She’d taken over watch from Swanson around midnight, Arthur having apparently fallen asleep while Swanson was watching him, despite being in pain all night. “Bastard… I should’ve known” she muttered bitterly, clutching the hand that held hers, reaching over and gently brushing some of Arthur’s hair out of his face “you’re okay, Arthur…”

“‘M okay” he slurred, making Leah nod “yeah, you are…” she muttered to herself before staying put, keeping watch over him for the rest of the night, even when Grimshaw came to take over, Leah insisted that she wouldn’t mind taking the watch so that Miss Grimshaw could get some sleep.

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“Well hey there, doc” Leah turned around at the greeting, smiling at Arthur as he walked over, a chuckle escaping her as he tried to roll his shoulder but stopped and winced “easy now, Mr. Morgan. You’re a good patient, one of the best, but I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to reattach a limb or dig a bullet out of you any time soon” she teased, Arthur chuckling a little as he stopped next to her on the small pier, looking out over the water “I wanted to thank you… for saving my life-”

“You don’t have to, and I didn’t. I didn’t save your life, you did that all on your own… I more or less just helped with cosmetics.”

“Sure as hell felt like you saved me, cosmetics or not” Arthur managed to get out through an amused scoff, making her smirk and blush a little “thank you, but all I did was make things easier for your body to heal. It’s good to see you up and about, I’m guessing you’re not taking a break before going out there again?”

“Ah, you know me, doc, I’m a sucker for pain” he joked, Leah chuckling lightly “masochist.”

“Ma-what?”

“A masochist is someone who particularly enjoys pain, usually in a sexual way” she described with a smirk, her smirk only growing wider when his cheeks got beet red “well, ain’t that somethin’” he mumbled under his breath, Leah chuckling lightly before looking out over the water again. There was a small silence and Arthur studied her, a small frown forming on his brows “you okay, Leah?” he asked softly and she frowned, her eyes locked on the water and she hesitated before speaking “I-... ever since my mom died, I haven’t really felt-... content…” she admitted, turning to look at Arthur, the same frown on her face as her eyes studied him “but I think I am now…. with you… with Abigail and Jack and John and Charles and Javier and-... all of you… except Micah” she stated with a grimace, looking back out over the water “I wouldn’t even piss on him if he was on fire” she muttered, Arthur breaking out in a laugh, coughing a little, making her frown yet smile at him, placing a hand on his shoulder “easy, Arthur. Are you okay?” she asked through a laugh of her own, Arthur nodding as he held up a hand to signal that he was fine “I sure as hell am after that” he muttered through a chuckle and Leah laughed briefly before looking out over the water. “Rest a few more days, then I’ll sign off on you running around with the big boys” she teased, turning to look at him and he nodded, smiling at her, the two of them almost just-... getting lost in each other…

“Uncle Arthur! Uncle Arthur!” Jack called as he ran over, Arthur turning to look at Jack, as did Leah, as he ran over with a dog hot on his heels “look what I found!”

“A dog?”

“A dog!!” Jack confirmed with utter joy, making Leah chuckle lightly. She placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder as she passed by him “just a few more days” she reminded him, ruffling Jack’s hair before walking away, Arthur watching her leave and Jack watched Arthur watch her leave, frowning. “Why are you looking at her like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like mama she looks at pa when she’s not mad at him” Jack stated and Arthur’s cheeks turned red as he cleared his throat, gesturing to the dog “where’d you find this one, anyway?” he asked, desperate to change the topic.

[arjaandsimoni]

The Good Doctor

Twenty years ago

Doctor Simmons was not a man who lost his composure easily. Years of academic study and training honed his mind into a scalpel, and he took pride in suppressing the same emotions that often led his peers to failing. For example, many would blanche at the thought of using a newly discovered type of creature, one with mythical origins, as a crude science project more than anything.

Simmons, though, was one who saw that as the only logical path to take. Age was beginning to wear on him, thin lines around his eyes and mouth, whitening hair that was once blonde and bright, and those once rich brown eyes had begun to dull. Still, as he stood in front of the containment tube that was humming to life he felt like a young man again.

Here on this off the books research base, even for the normally amoral Cheiron Group, he ruled over it like a lord given a fief by his king. Freedom to study what he needed, as long as he brought profit back to the mainland nobody questioned him. It was perfect for a man such as him. Now he could feel the project he wasted who knows how many lifetimes on before finally coming to an end.

Outside the facility things were much less calm. A storm was washing over them, winds powerful enough to make the sturdy support legs of the converted drilling platform rock. Lightning was crashing into the metal frame nearly every second. The good doctor and his team safely grounded inside, but outside every strike was sending jolts, even dulled ones, through the team at work.

They had to contain the storm, but first it had to be weakened. Simmons didn’t care how, that was for the ‘outside team’ to handle, led by those young… contract workers. They promised him results, and like his corporate masters he didn’t much care how those results came about as long as they could be exploited.

Present day

Doctor Simmons was starting to lose his composure.

“Seal the damn doors, I want guards on every entryway, windows too! If ANYTHING not in a lab coat moves, destroy it!” Simmons shouted as he slammed his hand down on the console he stood at, glaring at the screen that showed that once again a storm was rolling over his research station.

“It shouldn’t be coming this soon…” he hissed, rich brown eyes narrowing as he ran a hand through his bright blonde hair that almost shone in the fluorescent lighting of the command center. “It could barely swim when it left… unless…” He squinted, slapping the guard running the console’s arm. “Pause, pause that frame and rewind it five seconds.”

His eyes widened in horror as he saw the sight on the screen. Lit by an explosion of lightning it was still hard to make the figure out fully, but he could see certain things. Long black hair, dark blue eyes, fangs like a serpent’s that were grinning with sadistic glee…

“God… there’s another?!”

Twenty years ago

“Another!” Ryan shouted from the hook of the crane he was hanging off, pressing the magazine’s quick release on the rifle he was shooting, sending the spent container falling down into his waiting wife’s hand. “Hurry up! We’re wearing her down!” He added as the crane swung around, piloted by Ana who was still recovering from her last fight with this storm.

A sigil painted on the magazine with blood and soft chanting later Ilsa sent the now filled clip up to Ryan again, carrying on a cool breeze that did the work of sliding it back into place for him as he used both hands to simultaneously hang off the hook and hold his gun.

“Damn it…” the northern witch hissed softly as she watched the bright blue trail of ice infused bullets sail into the storm. “Hurry up with that containment, Simmons! I swear to the ancestors if you try to fuck us on this I’ll haunt your children’s children…”

The bullets were working, at least. They learned long ago that conventional weapons were of little use against this target, but like most beings of the sea it was sensitive to temperature changes. The ice bullets didn’t do much damage proper, in fact they mostly shattered against the creature’s skin and scales, but the enchanted chill that soaked into its bones was more effective at slowing it than any mundane bullet hitting the target could be.

Inside the station it seemed that Simmons was at least being a man of his word, watching the newly designed containment tube slowly come to life.

It was a prototype, a design once just a theory meant to contain the most dangerous ‘materials’ by putting them into a form of stasis. ‘Form’ being the key term there, due to the intended tests for this creature they needed its blood and nerves and other functions to be performing as normal even if it was contained, so this tube was designed to functionally trap its inhabitant in a state of full sensory helplessness.

Unable to move or communicate, it’d be feeling and experiencing everything regardless. Again, a proposition that any ethical scientist would consider too horrific to humor. Simmons, however, knew that ‘ethics’ and other such concerns were just emotional appeals that held progress back. The creature would endure it, even if they had to pump it with enough healing solutions to keep an entire mundane hospital supplied for a year. It had to! This was his only shot!

Present day

“I don’t understand…” Nessa frowned on the small boat that was currently bouncing along the waves and foam of the churning sea around them. “Why is she sending a storm already?”

Nessa and Alice had changed from their formalwear to ‘work clothes’, both dressed for more comfort and ease of movement than anything else. Nessa, after drying off, changed into simple jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt under a heavy matching coat. Alice had changed into a long black skirt and green turtleneck sweater to keep her warm in the cold ocean wind.

“Isn’t this going to scare your aunt’s agent off?” Nessa continued, flexing her gloved hands.

Next to the boat, keeping up with the breakneck speed that Harlow was piloting it at, was their ‘guest’ from before. Thea Aquamarine, princess of the sea, was swimming through the boat’s wake like a dolphin, body twisting and rolling as she cut through the water with speed. The main source of this speed was the large blue fish tail that replaced her legs the moment she stepped into the ocean water. Sparkling blue scales shimmered in the moonlight like gems every time that powerful tail breached the surface to propel her along. If not for the rather rude first impression she made, Nessa could almost confuse her for the more traditional stories of ‘mermaids’ and their beauty and grace.

“The storm is not to keep them out, fool…” Thea huffed angrily, instantly destroying any illusions of tact and sweetness one may have about her people. “My aunt’s agent is already within the walls of your people’s tumor on the sea. The storm is to keep them in!”

Indeed, currently inside the station, watching in horror as the guards and other scientists ran around her to take up positions, a young scientist by the name of Theresa was trying her best to look as busy as possible.

She never expected things to get this far out of control when she took the offer. It was supposed to be a harmless, easy, job. She was approached by someone claiming to speak for some kind of… well truth be told Theresa didn’t really follow. She had a lot of titles, but she sounded like some kind of nobility. They just wanted her to smuggle something out of her boss’ office for them and she’d make enough to pay off her student debt and take care of her family for life! It wouldn’t even matter if Simmons fired her after that if he found out!

Now there was a storm shaking the building, and the guards had taken out their heavy-duty weapons. She quietly ran a hand along the bundle pressed against her side under her clothes, taking a deep breath to calm herself as she felt the small leather pouch was still secure. Just had to get out, get to the drop off, and she’d never have to think about this job again!

Twenty years ago

“Just gotta get home, one more good hit and we'll never think about this again…” Ryan groaned, his arm wrapped in the chain for support, having lost his ability to hold it proper about five swings ago.

Ana was good at avoiding the strikes of lightning that would kill him instantly but the endless torrent of wind, rain, even razor-sharp sleet in a few passes, was wearing him down. He heard the click of a fresh magazine sliding in, his eyes heavy with exhaustion as his muscles burned. “One more… good hit…” he repeated as ice streaked through the darkness around them once again.

“It’s ready doctor!” One of Simmons’ assistants called, the containment tube glowing brightly as it was finally primed to accept its occupant.

“Wait for the signal! We only get one shot!” Simmons growled, gripping the edge of the console tight enough to make his knuckles white as he watched the fight outside. “Damn it Roche, you promised me results, don’t fuck me on this…”

One final swing was all Ryan could handle, his last few shots going wide as he slumped, gun splashing into the sea as he dangled helplessly in the chain. Ilsa grit her teeth as she signaled Ana to bring him down. She couldn’t see if any of those hit home. The storm was less severe but still going, she had no idea what ‘weakness’ even looked like in a being this powerful! Still, Ryan was spent, Ana was recovering, her magic was strong but not nearly strong enough…

“Now!” She called, waving her hand at the camera behind her.

“Now!” Simmons repeated as a flurry of activity around him as the tube dropped into the ocean under the facility and opened to suck in the seawater around it. “Come on…” Simmons whispered, for once in his life sounding genuinely desperate as he watched the monitor.

For a long moment it looked like nothing would happen, the tube simply dangling in its supports, filled with water and glowing but doing nothing else. After a tense minute, though, movement would be seen on the sonar.

“It’s moving!” The scientist manning it called.

“Away or to us?” Simmons asked quickly.

“To us, but it’s jerky, like it’s trying to move away! I think it’s working Sir!”

Simmons felt the manic smile crack his normally stoic face as he watched with rapturous delight. It was happening, he saw a shadow at first before a glint of red scale, a flash of red hair, a hateful green eye glaring at the camera as if it knew, and then the call came.

“Subject secure!”

“Reel it in then! I want to see my prize up close before those mercenaries come looking for pay…”

Present day

“Wonder how much it was…” Nessa asked casually as the boat came up on the center of the storm where the empress was waiting for them. “I mean, taking the wrath of all this must have been expensive right?” She asked as the boat got a good view of the empress at last.

She looked quite beautiful really, the upper half of a human was all that could be seen as her tail kept her upright under the dark water. She looked young for her power but still older than anyone else who had come to her at least. Matronly even, her creamy, almost pale, flesh contrasted so starkly with that oil black hair and intense green eyes. Yet, despite those features and the storm around her she smiled so warmly when she saw Thea, holding her arms out to embrace her daughter even in all the chaos.

“Beloved daughter, I’m glad you were successful.” Her voice was so calm, and sweet, the voice one associated with a siren, and Alice could feel her body relaxing around the woman as she heard it…

“Of course mother.” Thea said in a softer voice as well, burying her face in her mother’s chest for a moment before ‘composing’ herself again, straightening up with that haughty smirk back on her lips as she turned to face the boat. “Sir Harlow, knight of the Roche family, Lady Alice, heir to the Roche family, and… the other…”

“Nessa is fine.” Nessa glared back. “I’m sure your snake tongue struggles to speak a language like Nahuatl.”

“Yes.” Thea huffed. “Primate languages are so vulgar to learn anyway, I’ve done well enough with the handful I’ve needed. Nessa… guardian of the Roche heir, may I present Empress Azhu, queen of Lemuria, archduchess of the eastern seas, viscountess of the frozen south, first spawn of…”

“Enough, my heart.” Azhu said, placing a hand on Thea’s shoulder. That voice remained so calm and serene, yet there was authority in it now as she cut her daughter off. “These are not titles the land recognizes. Simply Empress Azhu, or Azhu alone, will do. Your family is sworn to mine, we should speak as equals.”

Thea let out an annoyed sigh at that, clearly not a fan of such a view, but not daring to argue with her mother in front of ‘company’.

“I trust my daughter has explained things?” She continued, smiling at Alice. “My, a blind one. Forgive me but I don’t think I’ve ever worked with a fully blessed member of your bloodline. I am humbled you came personally.”

Alice was actually taken aback by that, so used to Thea’s superiority and aggressiveness, to have her even higher-ranking mother act so… down to earth… was genuinely shocking.

“Y-yes, of course.” Alice coughed lightly as she composed herself. “According to my father this was a huge undertaking for him and his, it’s only right we send our best to finish it.” she smiled lightly before looking to the empress with a more sympathetic expression. “Your daughter also mentioned the losses your family took, may their memories be blessings.”

“Thank you, dear.” Azhu responded as a cold, clammy, yet still somehow nurturing, hand took Alice’s. “That means a lot, I know both our families are no stranger to loss at her hands. Yes, Thea’s father was one of my most beloved mates, and her sisters… well one never forgets their first spawning. We will avenge them, and the losses your family took.”

Alice could see this woman’s danger up close now. Without sight she could hear that voice so much more clearly than the others.

There’s genuine empathy there, kindness, softness even, but under it all is the voice of a predator. Thea is a shark, crashing through a school of fish to fill her mouth as best as possible and relying on raw power and passion to win. Azhu, though… this woman’s an eel.

She lies in wait, hidden in a rock, so calm and serene looking… right up until prey passes by and lets their guard down. Then Alice could imagine her striking with deadly accuracy, the kind you only get when your victim trusts you completely…

“Of course.” Alice said as she took the woman’s hand in return. “So, I’m told you believe her agent is in there already?”

“Yes, I can feel my sister’s artifacts, and I felt the one within moving already. I know these humans are too stupid to understand the power it holds… it must be her agent within them taking it.”

“I see.” Nessa nodded. “Good logic, so you want them alive for questioning?”

“If possible… I have many ways, though.” the woman grinned softly. “Their life is… appreciated, but not required. I do not wish to tie your hands. Simply keep their head intact and I will be happy.”

“I have your father on the comms.” Harlow spoke up, having been working the radio equipment since they came to a stop. “He has experience with these facilities and likely can guide you to the object.”

“As much as I dislike having a babysitter I agree, he likely knows the artifact we’re looking for.” Alice huffed, clipping the camera he gave her onto her sweater and hooking the communicator into her ear.

“The elder Roche is with us then?” Azhu asked, sounding genuinely pleased. “Wonderful. Please tell him I am thankful for his assistance again, and I apologize for any rudeness my daughter displayed in his home.”

Alice chuckled softly, putting a finger to her ear for a moment. “He hears you, and he says she was fine, by her standards at least.” She smirked as Nessa laughed next to her.

“I shall dull my storm then…” the empress nodded. “You’ll have an easy trip to the station proper and I will keep watch for any escape attempts.”

Alice was about to ask if she needed help keeping watch before an elbow from Nessa snuffed that question out. Alice couldn’t see the glowing yellow eyes that lit up the water around them like stars in the night, only seeming to open when the empress acknowledged them… Probably for the best she couldn’t see them, as Nessa shuddered softly.

“There’ll be guards.” Ryan said into Alice’s ear as the pair hopped off the boat, only to be met with rifles thrust in their face by black uniformed Cheiron security.

“Yea, finding that out.” Alice frowned behind her glasses, using her cane to push the gun barrel from her face. “I’m a hunter! I’m here to solve your security breach! Tell whoever’s in charge that Alice Roche is here and stop pointing guns at Nessa and me before you lose a hand.”

Alice’s voice was firm, not just because she knew the best way to handle nervous security was with authority, but also because she truly hated this situation. Helping Cheiron, even to help herself, left a bad taste in her mouth. She still couldn’t imagine her father and mother working with them, even in desperation. They seem to actively do everything they can to give hunters a bad name in every community possible. Profit driven, exploitative, downright cruel even, they only cared about the supernatural world as a means to an end.

“Doctor Simmons will see you.” one of the guards said after listening to his own communicator.

“Simmons?” Ryan whispered just loud enough for Alice to barely hear. “Did he have a kid? A sibling? Impossible, none of his records…”

“Shh…” Alice hissed as faintly as she walked, following the footsteps of the guard ahead of her. “This place is like a maze. I need to hear to get my bearings, I don’t care who this guy is.”

“No, Alice this is important.” Ryan responded before they turned a corner to reach the central command center. There Ryan saw him through the camera. Doctor Yuri Simmons, in all his youthful prime, stood in front of Alice with an annoyed look on his face.

It was impossible, if Ryan and Ilsa hadn’t researched him so well before taking the deal. It'd look like it really was the son of the Simmons he worked with, the spitting image of the older man. Ryan knew he didn’t have a spouse, though, or family on file. Moreover, he had seen the pictures of Simmons’ past works, his initial projects that got him the respect and authority needed to oversee such a secret location, when he was a younger man. This wasn’t the spitting image of Simmons’ youth, this WAS Simmons, just… young!

“Alice, get out of there! We’ll find a new way, this is bad, abort the-…”

Ryan was cut off by Simmons chuckling softly, tapping his own communicator in his ear.

“Same frequency as always, Roche. Enough though, you’ve come to do a job, and I expect the job to be done… Just like old times, right?” Simmons sneered a bit, voice dripping with spite before he focused on Alice.

“Did your father ever talk about me by chance? His old pal Yuri? It’s a shame really, if he just stayed in contact I could have been uncle Yuri with how close we used to be… Well, I guess that’s what happens when you kill a guy, though. Leaves a bit of a rift in the relationship. Well, bygones. Let’s begin. You’re here to snuff out my rat infestation, yes?”

Alice felt her blood run cold as the men behind her and Nessa cocked their rifles.

Twenty years ago

Yuvia roared in anger as her fists banged against the glass in vain. Every time she touched it a shock ran through her body. Not like electricity proper, more like her nerves themselves were lit aflame for just a moment.

Even out of her storm she was the picture of ‘the wrath of the sea’. Fiery red hair and gleaming ruby scales went with her light skin and dark green eyes to make her almost too bright to fully look at in the lab’s lighting. Still, as the containment device went to work pumping the water with the solution Simmons had created her movements slowed. They’d stop, finally, as she hung there, still glaring out with hate, but unable to move even a finger as she bobbed helplessly in the water.

“Excellent, she’s just how I imagined her…” Yuri smiled, putting a hand on the glass. “You’re the secret, the wrath of the sea that never dies… you’re the missing puzzle piece I’ve been looking for all this time. So don’t hate me too much. I’m doing this for a greater good, your sacrifice will be remembered, my vodyanoy.” He sounded almost dreamy as he spoke before stepping back, adjusting his coat before nodding to an assistant. “Prepare the first test, I’ll need five centimeters of flesh, seven scales, and thirty milliliters of blood.” he smiled as he made his way out to the now calm night outside, taking a deep breath of the sea air as Ana and Ilsa worked to keep Ryan on his feet.

“Wonderful work, all of you! Ilsa, as terrifying as ever, and Ryan… well I doubt he can hear me in that state so I can admit his little acrobatics display was impressive.” he chuckled, nodding to Ana as well. “And you, good work with that crane, useful all around… We should make this a more permanent agreement, shouldn’t we?” He smiled, looking at Ilsa again. “Come on, Ilsa, wasn’t this fun? Like the old days, all of us, hunting? What do you say, while Ryan’s not awake to be a stick in the mud. He listens to you, you can tell him my team isn’t bad. I don’t give a shit about the rest of Cheiron… those idiots are just tools, but I’d like to have people I can trust on my team.”

“If you cared about trust you wouldn’t work with Cheiron at all!” Ana spat back angrily, Ilsa nodding as she did so.

“Yes, Yuri you know I love you but I cannot support what you’re doing here. I… I understand your circumstances, believe me, if anyone does it’s me, but…” She sighed softly, shaking her head. “There are right and wrong ways to do things, and Cheiron is the wrong way.”

Yuri felt his jaw clench, glaring at her as she spoke. “WRONG way? The wrong way is living like this! It’s this…” He stopped himself, taking a breath to refocus. “When you’re ready to be an adult, call me. I can always use more intelligent people on my team, and despite your narrow-mindedness you three are that.”

“Hey…” Ryan groaned as he woke up, staggering to his feet fully. “What about the pay?” He called as Yuri had already turned his back on them.

“Oh I’d never dream of insulting you, my old friend, with my filthy Cheiron money. Your pay is the helicopter waiting for you, keep the fucking thing for all I care.”

“Fuck you…” Ryan spat back, pushing away from the women to shove Yuri. “You think you can treat us like that because we don’t agree with you selling your soul?! You promised us money at least for all this crap, don’t you ghouls have a finder’s fee?”

Yuri’s face twisted in anger as he turned back, returning the shove to Ryan. “Ghoul?! I am working for a better future for HUMANITY! You know, the beings you come from too? If you want to get weepy over the fate of a monster that killed your siblings go ahead but don’t you dare accuse me of selling my soul when you’re defending the ‘dignity’ of th-…”

Whatever else he was going to call the creature in the tube was cut off by a shockingly harsh punch from the barely standing Ryan landing right across his jaw.

“Keep my siblings out of your mouth! You have no idea what it’s like t-…”

Again his threat was cut off as Yuri lunged at him, grabbing Ryan around the neck and slamming his back into the railing behind him. “Tell me, tell me what I have no idea of! Is it watching family die? Is it seeing these things victimize me and my loved ones? Go on, Ryan, finish the sentence! Show me how stupid you really are by thinking I don’t know anything about what you went through!”

“Yuri, stop! Let him go!” Ilsa shouted, hitting him on the back but unable to break his grip as Ryan choked for air.

“No! I want to hear what this glorified mercenary you abandoned your family for thinks we don’t know about loss! How many siblings have you lost, Ryan?! How many parents?! Children?! Lovers?! CITIES?! I’ve lost ALL OF THEM and you care more about the creatures that would take them from you than me?! For god’s sake Ryan we’re fami-…”

This time it was a gunshot that cut someone off. Ana stood behind the struggle, holding a smoking pistol as she panted. She had meant to aim for Yuri’s side, a bad hit for sure but one his medical team could patch up right away.

The struggle was intense, though, and she was having trouble standing so long thanks to the still fresh scar up the side of her body…

The bullet had gone up too far, hitting him right in the back of the head. Blood splattered against Ilsa as she screamed in horror, Ryan groaning as Yuri’s limp body covered him.

“Fuck… get him off me… he’s gonna knock me over…” he coughed as he pushed Yuri off, Ana running over to help.

“I… I meant to… I was aiming for…”

“It’s… It’s okay,” Ilsa said, tears welling in her eyes even as she said that. “It’s okay. He was… I don’t know what, he was going crazy. I just…” She let out a ragged breath, wiping the blood off her face as best she could.

“Damn…” Ryan sighed, looking at Yuri’s dead body with surprising pity for someone who was just being choked by him a moment ago. “What happened to you man?” was all he could say.

The three left quickly after that, they knew Cheiron couldn’t exactly call the police over a technical self-defense shooting that happened on an off the books highly illegal research lab, but nobody really wanted to stay around after anyway.

The hunt was, despite everything, a success. Yuvia had been contained, Cheiron got its ‘subject,’ and the creature that killed Ryan’s siblings and so many others was no longer a threat. Still, it didn’t make the hollow victory any better as the trio rode home on the helicopter in silence.

Somewhere across the world, at the same time as that silent helicopter ride, for a brief moment over America a glowing aurora could be seen despite being far from where it should be. Shortly after, a baby was born, as so many had been before, and somewhere deep in the void of the abyss, a voice laughed.

Another spin of the wheel, huh?

Next Story

Previous Story

[grantgoddard]

Knock me down with a mugger : 1986 : Share A Capital Christmas, Capital Radio, London

Blam!! A sudden force on my back knocked me over in a second. No time to figure out what had just happened. I was sprawled front-down on the floor with a weight on my back. I shouted. People around me screamed. I could sense a struggle taking place overhead. The object on my back lifted and, from my ground level line of sight, I made out the feet of someone running ahead of me into the crowd.

“Are you alright?” asked one of the group of people standing around me, looking concerned.

“We saw that man push through the crowd,” explained another, “then knock you over and jump on top of you. We managed to pull him off but he ran away.”

They helped me to my feet and I realised that I was indeed alright and thanked them profusely for their swift action rescuing a complete stranger. I was wearing a thick winter coat that had broken my fall. I had been lucky not to have hit my head and to have landed on the soft bag I had been carrying in front of me. Nothing appeared broken. As I rejoined the throng of commuters journeying home, one of the Good Samaritans added:

“It looked as if he knew you were there amongst the crowd and targeted you. It was very strange.”

Indeed, it was. I had travelled this same journey every day and nothing untoward had happened. I always left work at the end of the afternoon, walked across Euston Road to Warren Street tube station, caught the southbound train and alighted four stops later at Charing Cross, one of London’s busiest hubs. I had been walking through the narrow, low-ceiling tunnel that led up from the Underground platform to the railway station concourse when I had been jumped. The train and tunnel had been more crowded than usual because it was Christmas Eve. It seemed bizarre to be jumped on not when I was alone in the winter darkness outside, but amongst a tightly packed crowd inside a well-lit underground travel conduit.

There was one significant difference between all the other days I had travelled home without incident and that day. Stuffed down the front of my underpants was a white envelope containing a substantial amount of cash representing payment for my last six weeks’ work. I had requested my employer’s accounts department pay me by bank transfer but, for reasons unknown, it had insisted on paying cash and only at the conclusion of my contract. If this money was the reason I had been attacked, then only the accounts department staff and the handful of people in my work team knew I had been paid that day. But the latter had just been paid that same day in the same way. So had I been merely a random victim of violence … or had something more sinister happened?

A few months previously, I had applied for a full-time job at ‘Capital Radio’. I was interviewed by Steve Billington, a social worker who had left his job in 1984 managing a social work team in Harrow to become the station’s head of community affairs. Although my application was unsuccessful, he contacted me weeks later to ask if I wanted to manage its Christmas charity appeal. I was soon to finish a non-renewable, twelve-month job creation role managing a team at ‘Radio Thamesmead’ so it was an ideal time for me to switch to a ‘proper’ job. I had dreamt of working at London’s only commercial music station since it had opened in 1973 and had even contemplated not going to university in order to take a programme production role there like Annie Challis on Tommy & Joan’s daily ‘Swop Shop’ show. Back then, I was innocent of the fact that to secure such a job in the media it was rarely, if ever, WHAT you knew about radio but WHO you knew.

Now, thirteen years after its launch, I was finally working at Capital Radio. My first two weeks were spent in the office, sat opposite the amiable charities manager Millie Dunne who helped me organise files of paperwork for the huge volume of goods she had persuaded businesses to donate, a task at which she was extremely proficient. During the subsequent four weeks leading up to Christmas, I worked in the station’s foyer, organising the receipt of donated goods and their delivery to London charities who would distribute them as gifts to needy families. I managed a small team that Steve had already appointed, all of whom were incredible and worked hard collecting and delivering goods as needed.

Steve had also appointed a ‘deputy’ to help me with the project’s management. His name was Pol. Never call him ‘Paul’! Unlike me, he was loud and extrovert, networking relentlessly with anyone remotely important who passed through the revolving door entrance to the foyer. He seemed to view the job as a sinecure that would permit him to further his ambition to be … something famous. While the rest of us worked long hours and weekends, Pol was AWOL for chunks of that time, claiming that he had had to attend appointments for this or that. In the pre-mobile-phone era, it was impossible to call someone to demand “where the hell are you?” I was regularly tempted to complain to Steve about this young man’s work ethic deficiency but I had no inkling if he had been recruited by some friend or relative within the company. He appeared to possess no relevant skillset for our work so I just had to grit my teeth and hold my tongue.

Despite this frustration, the job turned out to be one of the most enjoyable and rewarding I have done. Knowing that the radio station was making a practical difference to Londoners’ lives was incredibly heart-warming. The foyer – our ‘office’ – was enormous, more than 1000 square meters, with a ridiculously high ceiling and permanent home to three freestanding stalls: the ‘Capital Radio Shop’ sold station merchandise, ‘Capital Radio Jobspot’ offered job vacancy details and ‘Capital Radio Flatshare’ produced a printed sheet every Thursday afternoon listing rental accommodation available. The building’s ground floor full-length windows on a corner site enabled traffic passing on busy Euston Road and Hampstead Road to view the impressive Christmas decorations within, including a massive, illuminated pine tree. Pedestrians would stop and peer through the glass at us working inside.

Capital Radio’s decision prior to the station’s launch to rent the foyer and first floor was a brilliant marketing strategy, as its logo and name were emblazoned across the building at ground level around one of London’s busiest road junctions. To passers-by, it appeared that the station occupied the entire 36-storey tower, the capital’s tallest office block when completed in 1970. In reality, its upper floors were filled with unconnected businesses including the UK government’s military intelligence department intercepting mail. Capital Radio’s high-profile visibility was in stark contrast to its competitor ‘Radio One’ which had operated from an anonymous outbuilding (Egton House) since launch in 1967. BBC bigwigs had feared its youthful staff (including former pirate radio ship presenters) might scare the ‘serious’ broadcasters in Broadcasting House employed on its existing talk and classical music networks.

Another significant difference with its competitor was Capital’s open-door policy, permitting anyone to enter its impressive foyer through the revolving doors without a security check. Music fans would stand around hoping to get a glimpse of pop stars visiting for interviews. Radio presenters walked in and out and up the grand curved staircase to the first-floor studios. During the charity appeal, many generous listeners ventured in clutching their donations of toys which we added to the piles of presents. For amusement, we unboxed and put batteries in one state-of-the-art toy mouse that ran around on wheels with a movement sensor, enabling it to independently charge at speed across the polished floor towards anyone who entered through the revolving door and then chase them wherever they walked. Only on one occasion did we have to close and evacuate the foyer for several hours due to a bomb scare.

Christmas Eve was a sad day when the team had completed the charity appeal and parted ways for the final time. Following my mysterious attempted mugging, I reached home and found I was lucky to have escaped with mild bruising on my forearms. I packed a bag and headed to Deptford railway station, only to discover that the last train had already left. I had to return to my rented room, phone my mother and ask if she would come and collect me as there was no public transport during the next two days. Though she hated driving through London, she kindly drove fifty miles from Camberley to pick me up on Christmas morning so that I could spend the holidays with her and my sister.

In the New Year, I returned to the Capital Radio office to type up a report that catalogued, with Millie’s help, the volume of goods we had distributed during the Christmas appeal and the number of charities and families we had helped. Though no such post mortem had been requested, I considered it ‘good practice’ and I hoped to impress my boss with my thoroughness as a manager.

Much later that year, Steve Billington requested a further meeting in his office. Perhaps a full-time vacancy at the station had arisen? Sadly, it had not. I was asked if I would work on the next Christmas charity appeal. I was grateful for the opportunity. However, I was flummoxed to be told that I was to be demoted to the role of ‘deputy co-ordinator’ despite me having believed I had achieved a satisfactory job the previous year. Then I was gobsmacked to be told that the co-ordinator that year was to be … Pol. It seemed like some kind of voodoo that the person within our team who had demonstrated the least commitment last year should now be appointed to manage the rest of us.

Once activity started in December 1987, did Pol step up to his promotion and manage everything smoothly? No change of spots was evident. The only thing he seemed interested in managing was his own social calendar. It was Hobson’s choice: either the charity appeal would rapidly descend into chaos or I would have to manage it, just as I had the previous year. I took the reins informally, even though it proved frustrating when the most regularly spoken phrase by everyone involved was “Where’s Pol?” The charity appeal proved as successful as the previous year, though on this occasion Pol would take the credit. Did he write a report afterwards, as I had done? Er …

With the exception of the baffling change of co-ordinator, Steve Billington had been a fantastic boss and, in the New Year, he invited our whole team to reunite for a lunchtime meal at a restaurant in Tottenham Court Road to express his gratitude. I was appreciative of the start he had offered me at Capital Radio and the opportunity it presented to further develop my management experience. I had thoroughly enjoyed my time working there and, like my earlier job at ‘Metro Radio’, it taught me a lot about the problems that can befall a commercial radio station.

And so to ‘The Epilogue’:

• In 1988, Camilla ‘Millie’ Dunne (daughter of Sir Thomas Dunne) married The Honourable Rupert Soames (grandson of Sir Winston Churchill) at a society wedding attended by her friend Lady Diana, Princess of Wales.

• In 1989, I co-ordinated and wrote former pirate station ‘KISS FM’s successful second application for a London commercial radio FM licence, beating 39 competing bids.

• In 1990, Capital Radio closed its community department as a result of the new commercial radio regulator ‘The Radio Authority’s ‘light touch’ strategy no longer requiring commitments from licensees to community activities. Steve Billington left Capital Radio.

• In 1991, I attracted a weekly audience of more than one million listeners a week to black music station ‘KISS FM’ within six months of its successful launch, as its Programme Director, exceeding the Year One target.

• As for Pol …

[whennnow]

A Regency Petticoat

July 16, 2020

[Image ID: a photo of the interior of the waistband of the Regency petticoat, where you can see the pleated and tied back of the skirt along with the back pad.]

I made my first half-hearted attempt at a Regency petticoat last year. I was trying to use up scraps of the same muslin I made my shift out of, but it was way too much piecing and I was tired of looking at beige and would a beige petticoat even look good under a white dress?

So I gave up on it.

Until recently! I finally got around to ordering fabric for a basic white neo-classical Regency dress. Decisions were made, and I ended up with just enough fabric to make a petticoat. And I do mean just enough.

I was able to get two yards of 90" wide cotton muslin from Joann's. One yard has been set aside for lining the dress bodice, and the rest (about 90"x33") became this petticoat.

With my short stays, my underbust measurement is about 28.5", and I wanted the length of the skirt to be a little over 40". I split my fabric into two 45"x33" panels, then split one of those panels into two 45"x16" panels.

Confused yet? I was.

The 33" wide panel was seamed to one of the 16" wide panels to make up the petticoat skirt. I left the top of one of the seams open so I can get in and out gave the un-seamed edges a rolled hem. I used french seams on the panels because I wanted a quick, clean finish, but I would have used felled seams if I was finishing it by hand.

I used the remaining 33" panel to make three 3" wide strips - for the waistband and shoulder straps - and a back/bum pad.

The opening was designated Center Back and I used that to find and mark Center Front. A .75" pleat was pinned a few inches to each side of Center Front, and I put two more pleats of the same size (forming a box pleat) a few inches beyond that. The top then got pinned to the waistband so I could pleat down the back to fit.

Once the waistband was attached to the skirt, I added a short ribbon drawstring to the back, just over the pleated area, to act as a closure and make the petticoat slightly adjustable.

The 3" wide strips for the straps were sewn into tubes, turned, and pressed. I attached one end of each strap to the back of the skirt, then tried it on to figure out the exact length and placement of the straps in the front.

When I tried it on, I also made note of how much shorter I wanted the skirt to be. I was aiming for about ankle-length, but at that point it dragged on the floor. (I had hemmed it some point prior to this, folding a half-inch up twice to conceal the raw edges.) to shorten the skirt, I added five tucks, alternating between a half and a quarter inch.

And then it was done!

I mentioned something about a back pad though...

In later 1790s and very early 18-aughts, skirts might have a small back or bum pad to poof out the back of the skirt a bit. I used the pattern from "The American Duchess Guide to 18th Century Dressmaking," which results in a half-circle approximately 6" wide and 3" deep, and stuffed it with scrap fabric and thread (in white only, so it wouldn't show through the fabric). I then sewed a small bar/eye at each corner of the pad, and put corresponding bars in the petticoat. Corresponding hooks were sewn to the bottom edge of the petticoat waistband.

I'm terribly pleased with how my petticoat came out and more than a little in love with the tucks near the hem! I do have one concern though - the circumference of the hem. The skirt is just a rectangle pleated down a little at the top, it doesn't flare out at all, which limits my stride a bit. I can walk (even scurry), but running and jumping isn't likely to happen without my hiking my skirts up a bit. (How scandalous!!)

Stay safe and stay healthy.

[Image ID: a photo of Alex from the neck down wearing a narrow white Regency petticoat with tucks at the bottom over a petticoat and short stays.]

[sacredcynic]

Yeah, Freedom !!

 Maybe all of these things revolve around the thing for which I am very thankful – freedom. It is a historical anomaly to live in a place and time when it is considered normal to pursue your own interest, worship the god of your choice, and choose the vocation of one’s choosing.  Perhaps more than these important ideas, I love the little blessings of freedom. I love driving up the west coast of Michigan. I love the ability to get in a long, metal tube and emerge a few hours later in a completely different part of the globe. When we think about freedom, we tend to think about all of these things we can do personally, but that was not the idea of freedom when the country began 250 years ago. They pursued the freedom to govern themselves.  This is not what my purple-haired, eyebrow-pierced, dragon-tattooed self thinks about as I drive away in my blue, 57-Chevy. 

    I think there is an idea that has been abandoned in recent decades. We have forgotten a core ideal of freedom. We all love the idea of freedom, but we are not as excited about the flip side of freedom, which is responsibility. This can be seen throughout multiple levels of our culture. We want the freedom that a job can provide, but we do not want to put in the work that goes behind the job. We want the freedom of college without having to study in a way to make the education valuable. We want the benefits of a sexual partner without the meaningful responsibility of marriage. We want the freedom an anything goes sexual culture without having to think about the new life that might emerge. We want the freedom to say whatever we want online without having to responsibility of seeing the hurt and damage those words might cause on the face of another. Much of our division results from this refusal to accept responsibility. 

   In a time with more wisdom than today we used to know that it is impossible to separate responsibility from freedom. If you separate the two, you will end up with neither. When chaos emerges from people avoiding responsibility someone steps into the vacuum to take the responsibility. A parent must step in to take the responsibility, a policeman may be called to restore order, or a tyrant steps into the void. Without responsibility to govern that freedom, substance abuse, serial relationships, or ungoverned consumerism quickly runs wild. Without accepting a level of responsibility, freedom becomes unhinged from anything of value. Without responsibility the organization that provides jobs ceases to exist, and a host of other jobs goes with it. Without responsibility the possibility of an edifying relationship between people seems impossible, and the existence of future generations disappears as well. If you think that is hyperbole, look at the demographic trends in most of the world right now. 

   Let me take this one step further. While we all recognize the benefits of freedom, the real blessings actually align with the responsibilities of life.  It is not the whirlwind romance or the fairy tale wedding that impacts life as much as the life built between two people. We have many who decide at age 25 or 27 that they never want to lose what they perceive as freedom, so they decide to forgo family. The tragedy of this decision is that life at 45 or 57 does not look at all like life at 26. Without a family or the existence of a people that you have responsibility for, life starts to become narrow very quickly. While some reflexively pull away from responsibility, it is commitment to a group or a cause that gives life meaning.  

   One common theme that can be found is how responsibility changed lives. There are so many people who did not plan to become parents but found themselves facing an unplanned situation. While they say they would not go through the same process again, the child or responsibility of family was the biggest blessing in their lives. Perhaps the saddest trend today is that so many people casually abandon or extinguish the very thing that would bring them the most joy in a longer life than they can imagine in the immediacy of now. 

     This misunderstanding of the nature of freedom has crept into the Christian world as well. In Galatians 5:1 Paul declares, “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free.” In the church we often hear the word “freedom” and immediately think of freedom from a host of bad things. This is not what is envisioned in Galatians. The good thing for us is that Paul tells us what he has in mind. The freedom Paul describes enables us to love and serve one another. The ability to love each other is diminished, if destroyed by greed, anger, selfishness and pride. The meaning of a long life is illuminated by serving each other - a service that is not possible when I am in the center of every decision I make. I live in a culture that tells me the first order of business is to learn to “love myself.” The culture in which I am immersed has long ago learned to love itself, and the results are evident to anyone who cares to see. 

    I have lived long enough now fore others to start attaching curmudgeon to my name.  I live in a time when marriage is viewed as the end of “freedom” and parenthood as some type of unpleasant obligation. Children have long ago ceased to be a blessing and are now some burden that must be avoided. I am also attached to a church that people view as an unnecessary impingement on life.  I cannot imagine life without these toilsome obligations to slow me down. Every good thing, every truly meaningful thing that has happened has been in direct relation to these people.  Without these people, and the faith that illuminates everything, I can think of many words to describe how my life would be. “More free” are not the words I would choose at all. 

[acodexofourtime]

Stink, Stank, Stunk

Doctor Orfeo knew when opportunity knocked on his door; he wasn’t all serious business at the end of the day. He knew that the note he had in his grasp was written by Doctor Ione, his heart of hearts, and it had been far too long since the two of them had met down by the water, the place of Doctor Ione’s usual emergence. The Doctor’s heart felt a crush of emotion as he flopped his long quiff back, and smoothed out his onyx colored coat of brocade.

This was the very coat he’d sent away for twelve years prior while visiting an ancient merchant spirit on the high street of the ruins in Delos. Visions of two brothers riding upon dolphins as they overtook a swelling wave of white foam danced in the back of his consciousness as he went over the legend of the coat as told by the long-dead trader, who was all too happy to have another customer.

Flooded by memory, with nary a moment to lose, the Doctor plinked a couple of coins into his coffee cup and nodded good-bye to his server, a young man who was in the midst of making another round of coffee for good measure on an archimedean contraption wrought of clay and copper tubing. The Doctor nudged his chair back in, and made off, dodging another, older server who was set to bring a tray bristling with cannoli and shots of amaro to another table.

The young server watched as Doctor Orfeo traversed the street paved with glittering mica bricks and escaped up the long zig-zagging staircase that led to the next neighborhood up. The Doctor’s form grew ever more distant in this way until it was a mere speckle on the afternoon skyline. Considering that for a moment, the young server took a drink of his ristretto, and thought again about leaving town for a few days to relax in the apple orchards.

After a time, reaching the Granite Heights neighborhood, the Doctor began to make his way to the old overlook park built upon the Decurion’s tomb of ages past. He passed under a stucco archway clad in Sunday laundry, and lingered in the narrowing street as he heard a sigh on the wind. Brow creasing, the Doctor suddenly dove a hand into the pocket of his coat. The sound drew nearer, and began to build in intensity as it took on the character of stones rapping against the cool walls.

Without a spare moment, the Doctor turned and threw a resin vial of turquoise liquid over his shoulder, pausing to shut up his eyes and ears as a flare of verdigris light erupted with what felt like a dry coolness. The cold light revealed the formed spirit of a crab apple that fell from its tree well before its time. The lumpen ghost took on an expression, glowering at the Doctor after being forced to manifest so rudely. It made a quick lunge at the Doctor, which the Doctor was just able to side-step. It spat wickedly pointed seeds at the Doctor, which he managed to deflect with his raised right arm, clad under his sleeve with a long puncture-resistant bracer.

In response, Doctor Orfeo doubled back a few paces. He drew out a tiny lyre suitable for playing in the palm of the hand. Its strings were colored vermouth green, silvery purple, acid yellow, and deep red.

“Your time running wild comes to a close, Spirit. You need to calm down,” the Doctor said, in a hushed tone. He knew there were mere moments before the scene would be happened upon by members of the public, or worse, by the local authorities. He began to strum the deep red string, then the acid yellow, then the vermouth strings, which announced a thunking, multi-tonal melody. “Stink, stank, stunk. You will come with me to learn how to exist in this world. Release yourself from the pain of being away from the Source.”

The phantom crab apple seemed to be made of opaque stone in that instant, crystallizing rapidly, though retaining its organic structure. Its features seemed to grow more serene by the moment. It glided languidly through the air towards the Doctor, and when the Doctor opened his coat to it, it shrunk down to the size of a thimble, and nestled into an interior pocket, apparently at rest based on the coo of relief that came from that very place in the garment.

Doctor Orfeo, his brow beaded with sweat, threw himself against the cracked wall at his back. He closed his eyes as he fumbled with the little lyre, putting it away and composing himself for another moment. He turned towards the end of the narrow street, and faced the way he intended to go: towards the blue horizon where he knew he could find the water. For an instant, he thought he saw the outline of his beloved in the old open gate that led down to the harbor.

[vinceaddams]

Top 5 hand-stitches

(I'm answering for construction stitches, my top 5 embroidery stitches would be different.)

1. Whipstitch. What can't it do? SO versatile! Felling seam allowances, doing narrow hems, putting linings in, etc. And there's other really cool stuff like the rolled whip gather, which is also basically just a whipstitch! (I considered putting le point a rabattre sous la main on this list, but I think I can just include it in the whipstitch category, especially since I often don't end up with the little pricks of stitching that go through all the layers and show a bit on the front, unless my buckram is really thin.)

2. Backstitch. Strong! Useful! If I'm completely hand sewing a garment then the main construction seams will be backstitched. I also use it to do stuff like set coat & jackets sleeves, because some things are just annoying to do by machine. (image source)

3. Buttonhole stitch. I like the look of hand sewn buttonholes so much more than machine sewn ones. And it is useful for other things too, like bar tacks to reinforce the corners of openings. It's also used around the ring portion of Dorset wheel buttons, and you can do detached buttonhole stitch to do stuff like those Dorset knob buttons I've put on some of my shirts. (And yeah, detached buttonhole is arguably a different stitch, but whatever.)

4. Running stitch. I gotta be honest, I don't like running stitch for construction seams at all, it just feels too flimsy. (I can understand how it would be good for long seams that don't take a lot of strain, but still, the closest I'd be comfortable doing is a running backstitch.) But it's useful for lots of other things! I use it mostly for basting, and I do a lot of basting. I like to baste my seam allowances down before I flat fell them (wether I'm felling them by hand or machine), and it makes it so much easier, and I end up with a more even result. Same goes for narrow hems. It's especially great for felling the seams on shirt & nightgown sleeves, because having a tube of fabric wadded up around the presser foot while full of pins is awful.

It's also great for gathers, and I like it for topstitching edges if I want it to be more subtle than machine topstitching.

5. Herringbone stitch. I don't use this one super often, but it's great for when you need something to still have a bit of movement. I used it to finish the seam allowances on my Nelson undershirt back in 2017, because they were done that way on the original, and it's held up surprisingly well. I've also heard that unlined summer linen coats can be finished that way, which would be neat to try. It's nice for pants hems if you have access to a serger, because it lies nice and flat and isn't very visible from the front.

It can also be decorative, like on these mitts I made back in 2013 holy shit that's 9 entire years ago oh my god. (Please ignore all the construction techniques in the linked blog post, they're awful.)

Thanks for asking!

[slashingdisneypasta]

Kurt Kelly x Fem!Bitch!Reader || Oneshot

Title: Someone Gets Hurt

Plot: Some little wannabe steals away your boyfriend, Kurt, while also batting her big ass lashes and winning over your friends, too... until you've had enough. No one out bitches you.

Notes:

Obviously, this is inspired by Someone Gets Hurt from Mean Girls except with Regina (The reader) as the heroine.

Warnings: Overall bitchiness, possessiveness (You about Kurt), break ups (Make ups too though so its not too bad ^^), the ruining of another persons relationship (Random girl Lizzie and Kurt's), rapeiness (Ram), sexual references, underage drinking, overage drinking, just LOTS of debauchery over all, a smut bit near the end (Not full), etc.

Was I too proud with you? Was I too cold and forbidding? And you chose her over me Are you kidding?

Watching Kurt and Lizzie together this week has been torture. Terrible, burning, squeezing, not-at-all sexy torture.

Because Kurt, is yours.

He has always been yours. He was yours in kindergarten, he was yours in middle school, and he was yours all through highschool until this, unfortunate and butt fucking ugly, snag. Crossing your arms now and poisoning them with your eyes, you sit in the cafeteria... and think.

Just, think.

You don't gossip with your minions about all the bullshit going on in school, you don't discuss what you're going to do to the freshmen this year, no. Nothing. You're too busy... plotting.

There is no way in hell, that this pee-brained virgin bitch is going to steal your boyfriend, and not get paid back in turn. Its only fair- and you include interest, in your transactions like this.

One eye actually twitches, when Lizzie... the pee brained virgin bitch in question, gives Kurt a peck on the nose - oh so cute, but you don't even have to look at Kurt to see the disappointment flash in his eyes, - and hops off his lap when the bell rings. He has a free period now, you know because so do you and you usually spend it at the back of the football field together, but she has Chemistry, a thing you also know because hell- you just know everything. That's a basic fact. The whole school knows it and love that you never have to explain how you just fucking know shit.

But even being all knowing does not make you feel better, knowing that itty bitty roach-cunt has her claws embedded in your poor, weak-willed... ex boyfriends,... heart. Or his penis, more likely. Metaphorically speaking, obviously, because Lizzie's the 'Mary'est whore in the land of Westerberg High.

That doesn't really matter though. Either way, he's with her now and not you, and that just wont do.

Maggie, your right hand babe, gets up from your lunch table and leaves for her next class, too. And its only until she's out of sight, that you notice the piece of paper she left behind. Rolling your eyes, a growl of annoyance escapes you and you sigh- turning away from Kurt and Ram's table to see what the fuck it is. The reprieve is almost palpable, not looking at him anymore. It feels a little better- but not by much. And certainly not enough for you to forget what fuckery is going on.

Picking up the piece of paper in one perfectly manicured hand, you see that its an invitation. "Hmm... " Worrying the inside of your cheek, you think; This is interesting.

A Halloween party...

A gleeful smirk quirks slightly at the corners of your lips.

Kurt always did have a thing for Halloween.

~

And what you meant by 'Kurt always did have a thing for Halloween'- is 'Kurt always did have a boner for your Halloween costumes'. For the past several years, since the two of you blossomed with the help of puberty, you have used your assets as an advantage - because why else have them? - ; With the help of lace tights, push up bra's, winged eyeliner and red lipstick.

This year you've pulled together your favourite costume yet, which is fitting for the task at hand and the fact that its senior year- this may be your last chance to put these bottom dwelling highschool chuckleheads in their place.

I mean, you hope not but its basically a given.

Looking around the party as you walk in, you figure its just the same as any party Ram has thrown before. And his house is perfect for it, you'll give him that. The lights a turned down low enough that everyone looks a little hot, cooler's full of ice and alcohol are set up so you're never too far from a fix and thanks to his houses sound system the music is loud enough to make you think for a couple hours that you're in a place between reality and your dreams; A perfect set up for mistakes and one wild night.

But you aren't here to get drunk and kiss a loser, except for Kurt; You're here to take back the goddamn crown. Which getting Kurt back, will do. It'll humiliate Lizzie, and that's really all you want out of life right now.

Prowling through the crowd - which still knows to part for you, despite your current, slightly lower social standing, - in your knee high, shiny black leather boots, you look for someone to talk to. You know Maggie's here somewhere but that bitch is on her last life with you, after she said Lizzie's hair looked nice the other day. And you think some silent treatment will set her straight.

"Oh- Hi Ram." You find the host in the backyard, about to push an unsuspecting demoness into in a very sheer red blouse into the pool - which would doubtlessly make the blouse more of a red tint to her skin rather then any kind of coverage, which Ram well knows, - , and he double takes when he sees you. A sleazy, mischievous grin slops over his face at the sight, which makes you roll your eyes.

Deeply.

"Ohhh, heyyyy, Y/N!" He has to yell over the sound of the music and the other party-goers, not that you would mind if you didn't hear anything he said. He hasn't got a whole lot of substance, Ram, so you can basically assume that rolling your eyes is always the answer to anything he's saying. His eyes shift back, anxiously, to the girl he's currently got a hit out on, but you just raise your eyebrows sharply at him and he's at attention. "I didn't know you were gonna come! You know, with the state of things... "

Oh, he's so obnoxious. And dumb! So, so dumb. He doesn't know the half of your shit. Yet he still runs his mouth... Rolling your eyes once again, you flip some hair behind your head. "Oh don't worry your pretty little head about that, Ram." Eyes flickering around the party some more, searching for your own target, you rest your hands on your hips that are tightly bound, in various layers of violet georgette cloth. The witches hat on your head is pinned down, so theirs no chance of it flying off. You have a train of thinner fabric hanging down the back of your short-short skirt, and your tight tube top reveals exactly the shapes you require it to. "I'll be perfectly fine- oh, have you seen Kurt anywhere?"

"Uhhhhhhhhhhh I think I saw him and Liz against a wall earlier- but by the looks of Liz, I doubt they're in a situation like that anymore." He chuckles, dumbly. The stupid boy has a slur in his voice that you hadn't noticed before but probably should've known would be there. But you're sure focusing in on him now, jealousy burning in your eyes at his description. What does that mean??

"What?"

A geek walks by, toting a bottle in his hands that Ram snatches for himself. As the kid continues by, faster now due to the angry look in Ram's eyes and the animalistic growl that slips from the footballers lips, you continue to glare bullets at Ram. He takes a messy swig of his beer before continuing. "Just sayin', Y/N. Your friend's a prude. Won' even let Kurt get to second base with 'er or anything. So I'd say Kurt's, probably, uhhh... by the pool table, now." He shrugs big round shoulders then, as relief and mirth wash over you. So he didn't mean they'd have moved their dirty little adventure to somewhere they could really get down, or anything. He means quite the opposite.

A smirk graces your red painted lips.

"Well- enjoy your party." You shrug, not really caring as his eyes shine... turning back to the demon girl who's just laughing with her friends; He sure will. Eyes narrowing, you mutter a bitter "Dick." under your breath, as a final bid to Ram.

Turning on your heel, you head back into the house. You've been here plenty of times with Kurt and know exactly where the pool table is (And how uncomfortable it is to be bent over) and sure enough- there he is.

Your boyfriend.

Or, soon-to-be, once-again boyfriend.

He's standing back with a stick, waiting for his turn as he laughs with some over football boneheads. Lizzie isn't here, but you suppose she could have gone to get a drink or talk to one her - your, - friends, but where she is actually doesn't concern your in this moment. All you can do right now, is stand and stare.

God, he's hot.

You miss him; You really do. And, admittedly- not just because he can fuck you like no one else.

But your moment passes, and you gather your wits. Ready.

You're hot, you're smart, and you're ruthless. You can do this.

Saddling up beside Kurt, a genuine smile slips across your face as you look up at him; Running a hand back through your hair. "Hey, Kurt." Slightly widening your eyes, you raise a brow as he turns to look down at you. "What's up?"

Like- its been a while. What have I missed?

Immediate 'Oooooh's and 'Oh no the ex- Kurt watch out!'s erupt from his meathead athlete friends, but what you care about is how Kurt struggles for a moment to tear his eyes away from yours, like the eyeliner you perfected and the colour and the just- you, has hypnotised him. He flashes his friends a wicked grin, waiving them off as he turns to put his body between you, and the group. It puts you so close together- and you sure don't step back any.

Then his eyes flicker down to the rest of you- and he really has a problem looking away. "Oh, uh, hey Y/N. N-nothing much. Uh... you look... "

A gentle chuckle flutters out of you, resting a hand on your right hip. "What? Black cat caught your tongue?"

Jesus- even the mention of that particular muscle reference to him does something to you. And being this close to him again, and seeing his reaction to your outfit... its all just so right. The way things should be.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but immediately closes it again on remembering something. A seriously awkward hm sound escapes him which you don't quite get yet, but you decide that you don't need to.

"So... " You start, getting rid of the tough bravado suddenly... letting awkwardness seep into your tone; Your appearance. On purpose. Eyes downcast, you let your arms slide down to your sides again, lacing your fingers together in front of you for a moment, pretending you're at a loss for words. "Um... maybe this is... weird... "

"What?" A big hand ghosts over your hip- you can just feel his skin graze against you.

You look up to catch his gaze again suddenly, lips and eyebrows scrunching after a moment, unsurely. "Uh, well... " Chewing innocently on your bottom lip, you hold your arms behind your back; not-at-all meaning to push out your chest more. No, not at all... "Me coming up to talk to you... since the break up... "

A hiss escapes him, as he suddenly, seemingly, like just seeing you had him returning to old habits, remembers that fact himself and takes a step back from you. Your brows knit together, up at him- perfectly pitiful.

"Oh man- yeah. Maybe. Fuck!" He runs a hand up through his hair, looking convincingly tortured.

Already!

You could rejoice.

Oh, Kurt... we've only just started.

Sighing, you look away again. "Look, I'm sorry. I just... well, Kurt, I've missed you!"

Suddenly his eyes, still and focused, turn more sternly down on you and your insides squirm at it. Like muscle memory, your body screams for you to back up; Get on your knees, bat your lashes. Ask what's wrong, Daddy?

His eyes narrow, and you resist the temptation to smirk. "Oh- no. No, Y/N. I know what you're doing, okay? I'm not dumb! This is all just too... too... " The fact that he cant even really speak, even as he's trying to be all tough and put up walls between you two, really gives you confidence. You must still really have an effect on him- as you should. Of course you do. One week with a little lily livered slut bag does not erase an entire lifetime between two people. Kurts lips curl into a scowl. "You're not like this." He states, and you raise your brows. Oh? "You're manipulating me, aren't you? Come on, Y/N!"

His tone is pleading. He's begging, you.

Damn, he must really want Miss Lizzie's little ass.

After a moment, you shrug. "Okay, whatever, you got me." Shedding the innocent act, you lean back on the pool table as the boys continue to play; Laying yourself out for him. "Does that mean I was lying? No, I really do miss you."

He scoffs. "Yeah, right." Rolling his own eyes, he focuses his gaze off somewhere else in the party- rather then on you. "All you care about is your reign of terror."

Oh... he knows that's not true.

But still, if he's going to play that way- "Yeah, sure- and all you care about is pussy." Shrugging, you drum your fingers bordly against the edge of the table on either side of you. "I guess we're a pair."

"Fuck, Y/N... you know you're... y-you're... Damn, that I love you. You fucking know that." He hisses, getting mad. And you inwardly smirk.

There it is...

Tightening your grip now, you look up at him to see he's once again looking at you. And for a moment, amongst all the madness that party's are- it feels like its just you two. "And you know... I love you."

Pushing off the pool table, you stalk towards him and trace your hands up his chest; Locking your arms around his neck lazily, and resting your chest against his. And you can see it. You can see, the struggle inside him about whether to just give into you- and your tits and your lips and your hips, and- just, you! Or to stay away. Because you're poison; Even you're well aware of that fact.

You're like a boa constrictor. You get yourself wrapped around your victim and you squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze... until you have them just how you want them. Moulded into a shape that works well, for you.

But he's a lion. Imposing, and selfish, and self serving. And too big for you to ruin.

Its like you said; You're a pair.

And you cannot give him up.

"Kurt... come on." Leaning up, and talking in a quiet, just-for-him voice now, your lips brush against his and he lets out a shuddering breath. "We belong together, don't we? Its us- forever. You've known it since second grade. Sure, it took me a few more years to realise it too, but we're here now." Sincerity bleeds into your tone; Something you can't help when he looks like he wants to kiss you so badly, like that. "It can't be you and her." It cant. Tilting your head to the side, teasingly, you smirk mischievously; Just for him. "Is she going to fuck you like I do?"

"Shit... " Kurt mutters, eyes stuck on your lips. His hands find your waist, gathering you up against him roughly like he always does when he just wants you. Animalistically, wherever you are- whoever sees be fucking damned.

But he still isn't taking you. And that's a problem.

Brushing a thumb over his bottom lip, you turn your head like your making out to kiss him- but don't. Furrowing your eyebrows, you look pleading at him for an answer. "Was it all a lie, then? With us? Were we?- "

And that does it- he's had enough- he's at boiling point- Lips smash into yours, crossing the centimetre of space between them and he doesn't fuss around at all, to warm up. Your tongues connect almost instantly, and in 0.2 seconds, you two are that moaning, making out mess couple that every party has.

Through your lust filled haze, you can just about feel victorious.

A few moments after that your back hits the closest wall, and your legs wrap around his waist as he holds you up- you two know the drill by now. Kurt's grinding his raging hard on deliciously through his jeans into your bare cunt- moaning and muttering something into your cheek as he sloppily makes his way down to your breasts about you being such a slut.

You REALLY don't mind.

Eyes half lidded, you catch sight of Lizzie in the crowd behind Kurt. The crowd that, apart from her, doesn't care at all what the two of you are doing.

You smirk absolutely evilly towards her, before mouthing 'mine'.