#big gibber

[g-xix]

you're telling me these two wanna fight

I love YouTube-influencer boxing but idek if i wanna see these guys fight their friendship is so wholesome bro 😭😭😭

[st4rshiptr00per]

gazing upon pictures of him the earring .......... also the costume rips

[kayyposie]

If you can believe it, I normally do less for artfight. I decided to do quantity over quality this year just to see what I could do.

[the-huxler]

[tiredofthehumanlife]

Counselors are worse than school nurses bc why did she tell me to breathe to fix my bus crash trauma

[foldingfittedsheets]

The location of the sex shop I worked was a haven for spiders. We had tall ceilings and skylights and unused storage rooms. It was a spider paradise. We quickly sussed out which coworkers to call on in case of emergency. The Dorito lady was a solid ally for spiders but absolutely petrified of moths.

But there’s actually a hierarchy of fear. Most people don’t realize. The person least afraid is the one forced to deal with the bug in question. If coworker B was scared, but coworker A was petrified, well coworker B was gonna have to screw their courage to the sticking place because by the law of fear they were the most competent person on scene.

Thus enters Rick. Rick first appeared in the back storage room. This room doubled as a second bathroom so we went in on a semi frequent basis. The girl who’d gone in to pee shot out again gibbering with fear about the biggest spider she’d ever seen had just run across her boot.

We sicced Dorito lady on it. She returned, shaking her head. “He was squatting on a power cord where it plugs in. I couldn’t get a clean shot at Rick.”

“Rick?”

She shrugged. “Spiders that big need a name. Seemed like a Rick.”

Rick, freshly named, became a store menace. I’d normally say this was probably a case of multiple spiders being mistaken for one but everyone who encountered him swore up and down there could be no mistake. This spider was massive, fast, and distinct. A gladiator among arachnids.

I never encountered Rick. His exploits grew in the telling but the theme was consistent: no one could kill him. He’d hunker in places that no one could reach and dart away when a strike missed. He also chased off the more faint hearted, charging them in bold dashes. There could be no benign cup transplant to remove Rick from the premise. He was not leaving.

The saga of Rick continued for two months. Not seeing him was almost worse, a fearful wariness when going to the bathroom or stepping into quieter areas. I waited with dread, hoping my eventual run in would have me on shift with Dorito lady to protect me.

It was not to be. There was a girl the same who hated my one moment of singing that was absolute piss-herself scared of spiders. She’d slam straight into a panic attack and couldn’t think or speak. And so it was that one night on shift, I heard her scream.

It was unmistakable. I was in the front window turning off the open sign. Through an obstacle course of mannequins and lingerie I performed an acrobatic sprint out of the window, darting up to find her quivering at the front counter, fully crying. I radiated calm at her and said, “Just point.”

I knew it was Rick. Our destinies were intertwined and we had always been pulled toward the inexorable battle that was drawing nigh.

Her hand raised to point to our sandwich board sign at the front of the store. So Rick had the metaphorical high ground. There was no quick easy strike on the slanted signs surface.

I armed myself and marched into battle, my knuckles white on my chosen weapon. I would do this, because I must. Because there was no one else. And because I wanted to close and go home.

I saw Rick immediately and I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger spider since. Outside of a tarantula, he was truly the most massive spider I’ve ever beheld outside a zoo enclosure or terrarium.

We regarded each other. Rick launched off the sign toward me and I stomped my foot reflexively, making him pause in his charge. Then I raised my weapon. Anything else, I believe Rick could have evaded. He’d bested most of the store thus far. But I had chosen chemical warfare.

I doused the shit out of that spider with cleaning spray, stunning him with a barrage of chemicals. While he froze, choking on the unexpected deluge, I dropped a paper towel over him. My foot came down.

I felt his exoskeleton crunch and I can feel it still to this day. The shattering was as of bones and I truly mourned that we had been forced into senseless war. If only he has cleaved tighter to the shadows. If only he’d crawled willing into a cup for relocation. I released a full body shudder of horror, fear, and adrenaline as I stepped back.

I took several quivering breaths. I donned a veneer of calm and tidied the battlefield of it’s corpse then went to reassure my coworker that all was well, while internally I still shook.

You fought well, Rick. I hope you sired many more monstrous children to haunt retail workers in the years to come. Rest in valor, you monster.

[eardefenders]

Sherlock & Co - Mailbag Episode 4 Transcript

00:00-00:29 *Intro Music*

00:28 John: Hello there, Mister Flatmate.

00:31 Sherlock (Resigned): What is it and why have you got your laptop?

00:34 John: It’s that time! My fine fellow-

00:34 Sherlock: For goodness sake. *sounds of him moving on furniture*

00:36 John: Oi, where you going?

00:38 Sherlock: I’m getting my cushion.

00:39 John: Your cushion?

00:40 Sherlock: Yes. Here. This one.

00:42 John: That- that’s Mariana’s.

00:45 Sherlock: Ah, it’s mine.

00:46 John: I know it’s her’s. I bought it for her for Christmas.

00:50 Sherlock: Are you sure?

00:51 John: Yes, because you don’t support Real Sociedad and she does.

00:56 Sherlock: *pause* I could.

00:57 John: Yeah, you could, but you don’t. Ok- *gibbers* It doesn’t matter. Just sit on the bloody cushion. Fine. Qs! And indeed As! Here we go. Uh, ahem, mm, just a disclaimer here, to the patrons. Um. I’m old. Uh, I’m thirty-four. If-if I see a question in the Discord, I-I just ask it. Uh, if it’s in the wrong order or i-if I’ve missed some out. It’s-it’s probably just me not seeing it. So, y’know. Right-o! Uh-Ooo! Off to a flyer here! Milque asks, “Favorite tube line?”

01:29 Sherlock: Victoria.

01:30 Yeah, Victoria. Yeah, yeah. Generally, most Londoners will give that answer. Umm, y’know clean trains, not too many stops, and some big stations on there. Y’know King’s Cross, Euston, Oxford Circus, um Victoria, obviously. Um, some other lines worth mention: Bakerloo brings a certain vibe. B-bit of a sort of kooky, deranged, but pleasant elderly uncle that doesn’t wash kind of vibe. Uh, central line is possibly the most hated, ah, especially during the summer. Um, Piccadilly gets a lot of people headed to Heathrow, so it comes with a lot of baggage. Hah! Literally clambering over suitcases on that one. The Elizabeth line is amazing, but seems to be closed or delayed most of the time. Um, so thanks for listening to TubeCast!

02:20 John: Heh, right. Next question! SaraHawke722 asks, “How do you both know Stamford?” Stamo! The Stamster! I think therefore I Stam. Heh, uh, I-I added those bits. They didn’t say that. Uh, right. Sherlock you go first.

02:36 Sherlock: I met him at St. Bart’s.

02:39 John: That’s uh Saint Bartholemew’s Hospital in London

02:42 Sherlock: I know.

02:43 John: Yes, I know, I’m just telling the listener.

02:45 Sherlock: *pause* Right… I met him at St. Bart’s. There was a study on skin grafting that he was undertaking. I initially made a number of enquiries about the study, he then hired me to work with him on it. Then after that he wanted me on other projects that I didn’t find that interesting, but *with emphasis* he did let me use the lab.

03:03 John: Great, uh ok, um, I met Stamo in Freshes week at University. Um, the University of London. W-which is kind of affiliated with UCL and King’s College London.

03:15 Sherlock: By kind of affiliated, you mean it’s for their underachieving undergrads.

03:19 John: Uh, sorry mate, what University did you go to, exactly? *silence* Yeah, right, thought so. Uh, by the way, um, few of our American listeners have mentioned that you and Victor went to college together. College in the UK is sixteen to eighteen, generally speaking. Um, but, sorry Sherlock, posh lads will sometimes call boarding school a ‘college’. Uhh, I d-I don’t know why. They also call their private boarding schools ‘public schools’. So, yeah, I know. Weird lot. Uh, anyway, yeah, met Stamo at University of London in Freshes week, we both liked football. He’s a Villa fan, Aston Villa that is. We, we kinda were, uh, both out of our depth a little bit with medical degree life, so y’know maybe stuck together. Which. Which was stupid really as you should probably attach yourself to some smartarse, but hey! Y’know! Live and learn! Uh, he started to do well at Uni. Um, he went on to y’know big-big private practice and cosmetic surgery for the most part. And I got shot at for a living, so. Yeah. Listen in school, kids. Listen in school. Uh, WeirdScience asks “Do you believe in ghosts?”

04:32 Sherlock: No. Do you?

04:33 John: Uh, no. No, no. Joff asks “Sorry to be intrusive doctor, but did you suffer any hearing loss during your army days?” Pardon? *wheezing laugh* Ha, uhh no. No, seriously, I did. Um, I burst an ear drum, twice, um, actually, in Afghanistan. I-in my right ear. Uh, thought it was fine, but then after Ukraine when I was getting a full body M.O.T. as it were, there were signs of hearing loss. Um, yeah, but I’ve been lucky I think. I hope it doesn’t get worse as I’ve built my career in audio now. So. Yeah-yeah, but uh a little. A little bit. Um, JellyBaby says, “Dogs or Cats, podboys?”

05:18 Sherlock: I prefer vermin.

05:19 John: Hm. I uh prefer dogs, through and through. Yeah. Um, y’know I like a cat, but they don’t get me. Dogs get me. Ain’t that right, Arch? Heh. Uh, don’t know where he is actually. He’s probably downstairs with Mariana. Catonk asks, “What’s your favorite musical?” We-well it won’t be ‘Cats’! Hahaha! Ahh, Sherlock, your favorite musical?

05:43 Sherlock: What’s the one with the man?

05:46 John: The. The one with the man. Um. Right. You’ve just described the entirety of art and media there.

05:54 Sherlock: He has a piano and he lives in a cave.

05:57 John: Piano in a cave?

05:59 Sherlock: There’s a girl he loves. He-he-he’s got half a face.

06:01 John: Ohh! Phantom of the Opera.

06:04 Sherlock: Yes! I thought that one was okay.

06:07: Great. Yeah, no, it’s a good’un, it’s a good’un. Good answer, I like Phantom. I like Les Mis. I know that’s a boring answer, but some incredible songs in that. Uhhh, yeah. Question via email here from Sartori, “Did you feel bad for Violet Caruthers, because I did.” Um, well yeah, I did. Um. She, uh- I-I-I don’t know how to put it, really-

06:34 Sherlock (interjecting): Had given up control of her life.

06:36 John: Yeah, it was- I don’t know- confidence shot to shit? Th-th-the truest sort of victim I think I’ve ever seen, really. She just, uh, she couldn’t grasp the wheel on her own life. Like Sherlock says. Was that why you were reluctant on that case, Sherlock?

06:55 Sherlock: Very much so. Men had muscled in and filled the gaps she had created from her own insecurity. I didn’t wish to be yet another imposing presence.

07:05 John: But we were.

07:07 Sherlock: We were. And what good did it do?

07:10 John: Saved a bloke’s life?

07:11 Sherlock: Mm, we didn’t pull the trigger but we may as well have. And we set the process in motion.

07:18 John: Welllll… right. Yeah. Okay, didn’t think this q and a session would get so deep. Um. But, yeah, t-that, uh… Welcome to True Crime! *awkward huff laugh* Yeah, we don’t always run off or cycle off into the sunset. Um. Yeah. Uh, okay. Mush-Pit asks, “How many languages do you know?”

07:47 Sherlock: Many.

07:48 John: Great.Uh, why?

07:50 Sherlock: When I was young, I often fooled myself into thinking perhaps it was my grasp of language that was the reason that I didn’t quite fit in. So, I decided to try a number of other languages to see if they worked as a better and more effective means of communication. I wondered whether the nuance and subtle signals of the English language were what was holding me back from social environments. So, I attempted other languages.

08:14 John: Right, and how did that go?

08:15 Sherlock: It’s the same. It would appear it’s nothing to do with language.

08:20 John: Yeah, I’m inclined to agree with you there. I’m rubbish with languages. Ha, it never sticks for some reason. Um, hole in my brain I think. Mariana is also a dab hand at the old languages. She cracked open a bit of Russian the other day. I nearly ducked for cover! * laughs at his own joke* Uh, *clears through* RangerPip asks, “Have you seen any of the fan content Sherlock?”

08:42 Sherlock: Yes, because you keep showing me. And sticking things on the fridge.

08:46 John: Uh, yeah because they’re cool. They’re really good mate! Just-just you wait until I show you the presentation.

08:52 Sherlock: The what?

08:53 John: Nothing. Right question via email from Unbelted, “Does the fingerprint in your logo make an ‘S’ and is that deliberate?” Yes, um is the answer to that. My idea, thanks. Uh, Jones asks, “What’s our spice tolerance?” So, um, right. Okay, yeah. I can go really spicy for Indian. Uh, I can hit the searing temperatures of the Madras and the Vindaloo no problem. Lot of Brits can actually. But I tell you what, Indonesian and Thai spicing I feel. Geez, whew, that is-is a whole different realm of spice. Um…phew. S-sherlock?

09:32 Sherlock: I like the sensation.

09:35 John. Yep, uh. Anything else to add?

09:39 Sherlock: It depends on my emotional connection to the food.

09:42 John: Of course, of course. Well, a-a-as mentioned in Gloria Scott, Sherlock will only eat certain foods if he’s in the right mood. The mood for food, heh. Uh, right-o. Few general questions asking how pancake day went. Uh, yep. No dramas. Went well. Went ‘flipping’ great. Eh? Hehe. Uh, yeah, uh oo! Questions and comments. A lot from North American Podpals, uh, about me describing a woman as ‘tasty’. Um. So, ‘tasty’ is a Carol Watson word. Uh. T-t-the sort she would use for young, handsome men that she flirts with when she can. Um, don’t know what the American equivalent would be? Um? Yeah, you know, what’s a lame word used to describe someone as good looking? Y’know what would an elderly woman use basically…get in touch! Right, another question here. Uh, by the way, when I started this whole question and answer thing, Goalhanger and I thought this would be a great way to field questions about cases. Um. Y’know about the people we meet, about the nature of the crimes we’ve dealt with, uh to fill in possible knowledge gaps, and impart little gems of information that expose the murky nature of crime. Um. Which takes us to this question from Saphhster, “John, what are your thoughts on ranch dressing?” *long pause* I mean, yeah. I like it. I like it, it’s good stuff. Um, Sherlock is nodding. Uh, it’s audio mate. Great. Thanks for your contribution. Uh, Tonky asks, “Does Sherlock have any tattoos?” Apart from my face on his bum. Heh, that’s a joke. That’s a joke, don’t write in. Sherlock, tattoos?

11:26 Sherlock: A spiral on my hip.

11:28 John: What?! Alright, well let’s see! Get it out. *sound of clothes being moved/removed* Oh, well that’s rubbish.

11:34 Sherlock: I know.

11:35 John: Why’d you get that done?

11:36 Sherlock: I-it’s scarring from falling out of bed. I had it filled in because it looked like a spiral.

11:42 John: Okay. Sarah Hawke again with a question, “What is your advice about dealing with a noisy flatmate? Would love both your takes on this lol. I’m at Uni and have a noisy and slightly annoying flatmate. Somehow I’ve agreed to live with them next year as well.” Um, okay Sara Hawke, w-

12:03 Sherlock (cutting John off): Try to tune them out as best you can. Bring in other elements to distract you from their noisiness.

12:09 John (cutting Sherlock off): Sorry, what are you doing?

12:10 Sherlock: Answering wonky-blonk’s question.

12:12 John: It’s not ‘Wonky-Blonk’, it’s Sarah Hawke. Who’s Wonky-Blonk?

12:15 Sherlock: They’re all called that.

12:17 John: Look, I live with a noisy flatmate, alright, it’s clearly directed at me.

12:20 Sherlock: They said both of us.

12:21 John: Yeah, but they added a ‘lol’, okay. That means they recognize the irony of you being asked.

12:26 Sherlock: Why?

12:27 John: Because you initiate a fucking marching band at three am every night.  Ssssake. Uh, yeah, Sarah Hawke, I would say get some earbuds. Play music. Uh, white noise is good. Um, oh, I l-looked into this. You can get quite cool soundproofing panels on Amazon. Um, they don’t look awful and they do kind of work. Sometimes. Uh, yeah, right, anyway. That’s it. Thanks for the ‘Qs’, hope you liked the ‘As’ and we will see you soon. He’s wav-He’s waving. It’s. It’s audio m- For god’s sake-

13:00-13:30 *Outro Music Plays*

[forasecondtherewedwon]

I'm dying for a My Lady Jane fic of Stan Dudley doing things to try and get Frances Grey's attention. Just progressively more bold, more ridiculous, and more unhinged as he tries to get her to admit she likes him.

Yeah, this needed to happen. Good call. Thank you for the prompt!!

So, Hey, Check Me Out

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Stan x Frances Rating: T Word Count: 4837

Summary: The kingdom may be in turmoil, but so is the heart of one Stan Dudley! Kicked out of Frances Grey's bed before he's ever actually gotten into it, Stan's had enough. He embarks on a courtship designed to make the woman of his dreams truly see him for the first time, learning, along the way, that he's someone worth seeing.

When Stan Dudley was naught but a knee-high, flaxen-haired lad, his mummy and daddy would take him and his big brother Guildford to summer fairs. (This was before his happy childhood went tits-up and he cried in his nanny's arms while the wooden box he had been told contained his dearly departed and freshly embalmed mummy was shovelled over with mounds of uncaring earth. How he had wailed!) Anyway, he particularly enjoyed the puppet shows. He loved the bright fabric of the puppets' costumes, their gibbering voices, and the way they would spring up out of nowhere to make surprising announcements or play dirty tricks!

Despite his mummy's death, his brother being sent away, and what seems to him the disproportionately unfair amount of bullshit that's come his way since, Stan has never forgotten those puppets with their happy or sad painted grimaces (he could never tell). This is very fortunate, as their inspiration now stands him in good stead with the first real goal he's ever set himself: making Lady Frances Grey fall utterly in love with him.

Taking a page from the puppets' book (what a silly thought—puppets can't read!), Stan bedecks himself in colourful doublet and hose, then proceeds to pop up throughout Frances's day.

"This is a surprise," his lady love tells him when he accosts her at the juncture of two palace corridors.

"Yes! It's meant to be," he replies eagerly.

But then she turns away.

The same thing happens when he inserts himself into her routine twice more that day, and four more times the next: Stan gets the attention he desires with every fibre of his being, but only for as long as it takes for Frances to spot him, adopt an exhausted sort of expression, and turn away as though he's not even there. It's rather disheartening.

Fortunately, the sensation of being disheartened slips right off Stan Dudley like water off a swan's backside.

The thing is that he learned Frances's schedule. Now, an outsider might not expect the Queen's mother to have a schedule. After all, what is she? Not an official adviser or politician, not a servant or lady-in-waiting. In Stan's mind, Frances is capable of any of that—all of it!—but he's aware that, to others, Frances is just a particularly privileged, live-in member of the court. Alas, those people do not know dear Frances as he does. His clever vixen of a sometime-lover keeps herself as busy as a bee. (Coincidentally, tasting the output from the royal hives to ensure the highest standards of quality for the Queen's table is something Frances does at 10:00am sharp, every Wednesday.)

It was quite easy; Stan followed her around (at a respectful distance), watched her every move (respectfully), and committed it all to memory. He didn't take notes, of course. He isn't some sort of deranged stalker.

Thanks to the diligent study he's made of her movements, Stan is able to continue popping up in the places he knows she'll be, just exactly when he knows she'll be in them! The scheme is satisfying and effective... until the sweet lady begins altering the schedule to avoid him. But, ha HA! Stan bests her once more in this charming game they play; the erratic schedule is simply too annoying to Frances, who finds it impossible to get anything done, forced to structure her day around Stan's madness (madness? Perplexingly, it's the word he overhears her maidservants using) instead of completing her tasks at the most logical times. It turns out that the most defiant thing she can do is stick to the original schedule, which absolutely suits Stan down to the ground. Tremendous!

The great misfortune of his life (recently) is that putting himself in Frances's path is not and never has been enough—except that first night at Guildford and Jane's wedding; nothing makes sparks fly like a fistful of greasy meat and the chance to observe a blood relation's between-the-sheets tumble. No, now he must command her attention. He must compel her. He must engage her. Frances is so hot and cold in her carnal desire for him that Stan knows he cannot rely on something as novel as a decorative codpiece. (Though, should he maybe try... no. That time has passed.) She must at last be taught a difficult lesson: Stan Dudley is more than his penis!

—

He begins his war of rose-scented attrition in the evening. Frances can't flee from his dinner conversation without being horribly rude. Besides, the venison pie is not to be missed. Stan has to pull quite a few strings to get next to her (one is tied to the back of the chair meant for Margaret, and he earns a vicious look when her bottom strikes the flagstones), but he manages it.

"Do you like wine?" he inquires in a seductive tone.

Frances turns to him, expression already sour as though she expected to be irritated by the exchange. Wounding!

"Of course I like wine," she says. "Everyone likes wine."

"Oh, you slay me with your wit, Frances! Then I must tell you, I know of this spectacular vineyard in Italia and I've written, asking for a shipment."

Frances looks almost impressed.

"You're importing Italian wine? I shall look forward to—"

"So sorry," Stan chuckles self-deprecatingly. "Actually, no. I'm importing the grapes used to make the wine."

"The grapes? But why?"

"I'm so pleased you asked," Stan all but purrs, leaning in close to Frances for the big reveal. "It's so I can crush the grapes for your wine with my own feet! Doesn't that sound— Frances?"

Against all his expectations, and certainly contrary to good manners, she rises from her chair and, after a slight curtsy to Jane as she excuses herself, fucks right off out of the dining hall. Shocking, shocking behaviour! Stan is saying as much under his breath, having half-risen as he debates chasing after her, when vengeful Margaret kicks at his chair leg with all her might to send him sprawling.

"Yes, I suppose that's fair," he conceeds.

Margaret condescends to reach down and shake hands to prove their quarrel is done and there will be no hard feelings going forward.

—

Stan's next attempt is a do-over of something he tried before. That time, it was an unmitigated, meteoric failure which ended in Frances rejecting his proposal of marriage, and rubbing additional salt in the wound by telling him he's "just not husband material." He's since forgiven her her harsh words (she could not have meant them to be quite so brutal, his dove), and he's learned something besides. Reflecting, Stan was able to isolate a trio of criticisms from what Frances said to him: she does not appreciate grand gestures (maybe he should write back and cancel the import of foreign grapes), the nonsense about him not being husband material, and that she doubted his sincerity. She had the nerve, in fact, to tell him that he doesn't love her. Clearly, what's needed is a tasteful demonstration of his resolve, doing everything he did before almost exactly the same.

And so, he will serenade her once more.

Like any suitor who knows the odds might be against them and that it's therefore pretty critical to await the ideal circumstances, Stan takes his time picking just the right moment. He takes almost four hours. Then, bursting with urgency and armed with his lute, he slips into Frances's chambers. He's elected to pounce at night this time, and is pleased to see Katherine and Margaret are elsewhere. He shuts the door through which he entered so softly that Frances, seated doing needlepoint with her back to the doors, doesn't immediately notice his presence. Stan alerts her to it with a soft strum across his strings.

Frances jolts and twists round to fix her eyes upon him, which is when Stan throws her a reassuring wink. Her face says, Stan Dudley, why didn't you knock? His replies, Because you would have opened the door only to slam it closed again at the sight of my lute, you slippery thing!

Knowing he has not a second to lose, Stan clutches his lute like the lover he hopes Frances will again become hereafter, launching into the sweet melody he has composed for the occasion. He closes his eyes to ignore the rolling of Frances's and croons the first poignant lines to cover the sound of her objections. He hears her rise, but continues to sing. It's not until he feels her near him that he opens his eyes to deliver the rousing chorus:

"For I'm just Stan!" he belts. "Anyone else would see a man! Is it God's will for me to live and die the one unmarried Dudley? I'm just Stan! When I said, "Wife," she turned and ran. What will it take for her to see the lord behind these chords and marry me?"

"OUT!" Frances shouts above the sound of his moxie, of his pain. "I told you once already! You're only embarrassing us both!"

At that, Stan's expression softens.

"You do care," he interprets hopefully.

But then Frances is attempting to snatch the lute from his grasp, so he's forced to retreat. He contemplates persisting, picking up where he left off even with these heavy doors between them, or even returning to the spot in the courtyard from which he sang up at her window the first time. It's with a sigh that he admits to himself that, though he gave it two good attempts, he will not woo his love through song. Frances must just hate music. It's horribly sad for her, and, in lieu of his melody, she has his sympathies.

Unexpectedly, she is the reason his despair over this latest failed attempt to win her is quick to subside; the next day, before she spies him trailing behind her, lovelorn, he hears her humming the chorus.

—

With cautious optimism, Stan decides to proceed. He has a long list of tactics that he routinely reviews, adding on and scratching out with a zealous quill. The one he selects this time will require a little help to pull off.

His clever sister-in-law's court is positively crammed full of all the people who claim to know best regarding what to do about Ethians and national defence and tariffs and things of that nature, but upon his request, she invites some other types to court—artistic types. Stan narrows his eyes in competitive suspicion at the musicians before making the acquaintance of the painters. The second most important thing when commissioning artwork, Stan decides, is to peruse samples of the artist's work, but the most important thing is to find someone you think you'll be able to tolerate for the length of time it will take to sit for your portrait.

For it is a portrait Stan commissions. He selects his brush-twirling, paint-daubing fellow from the bunch and makes an appointment with him for a time when Frances is doing something particularly boring that he doesn't mind missing. In practically no time flat, the artist captures Stan in miniature. All his handsome features are accounted for. There! Would an unserious man commission a portrait of his own tiny face? Would someone who isn't "husband material" come up with such a thoughtful gift as having that miniature framed in a locket and left on the vanity of his heart's desire? No note accompanies his gift; he wants her to wonder about the gold locket's provenance, to drape it about her lovely neck as a mysterious token from an admirer.

When he comes upon her as she perambulates about the palace grounds, the gleam of gold immediately catches his eye. Stan tries to neither stare nor look too smug that Frances selected his quiet gift from amongst her many valuable baubles. He's burning with curiosity over whether she has yet unclasped the locket and studied the painted face within. It's a curiosity he doesn't hide well. By the by, he's very bad at cards.

"What are you looking at?" Frances asks, assessing him squarely.

Stan shoots his gaze skyward in a dramatic and ultimately ineffectual attempt at innocence. But his eyes were on the locket, and she knows it. With the blend of fear and horniness his precious Frances so consistently inspires in him, Stan watches her unclasp the locket and find the miniature concealed therein.

To his great delight and considerable relief, Frances laughs to discover his painted features.

"It's me!" Stan announces unnecessarily. "A fair likeness, wouldn't you say?"

"You had this made for me?"

"I hoped you might wear it close to your..." Stan chokes back the word "heart" and opts for one Frances might find more palatable, more descriptive of the narrow parameters she's placed on their relationship. "...breasts."

She glances up from the miniature, smirking.

"Alright," she says. "You may visit my chambers. But no lute."

—

Though he agreed to her terms without debate, Stan dislikes them. He feels undervalued by them, or perhaps incorrectly valued. He knows exactly what Frances has in mind: he'll come, she'll come, and then he'll be discarded once again. She is persistent, his pussycat, in treating him as a walking erection, useful for one thing only. He does so like to be useful to her in that way, but when they caressed each other's bodies that first time, he never imagined what he was experiencing was the furthest Frances ever planned for their encounters to go. It leaves him feeling slightly empty. He's always thought there would be more to love, since love it most definitely is.

Katherine catches him moping.

"You don't have to let her hurt you," she says, intuiting that her mother is the subject of his thoughts. "You have a choice. Not all of us are so lucky."

"She's still anti-William then? Goodness, that's a shame. You make an awfully cute couple."

Katherine gives him a half-smile. "Thanks, Stan."

"Even when she is cruel," Stan sulks, thoughts back on Frances, "I want her still."

"That's ridiculous." When he casts wounded eyes her way, Katherine sighs and takes pity. "You should stand up for yourself. If she still treats you like nothing after you've told her you know you're worth something, maybe you should think about ending it."

"Ending it? What, taking my own life?"

"Your infatuation with her."

"Oh." He considers this, not for the first time, but the first at someone else's prompting. It really is so much harder to end a relationship, he feels, when you get on with your girlfriend's family, and he knows, as difficult as Katherine's words are to hear, that she's trying to do him a good turn. "You know, she's invited me back to her bed."

"I neither knew nor wanted to know that."

"Makes it rather more challenging to be strong when she's on her knees—"

Katherine puts her hands up to stop him. "That's— Yes. Alright, Stan. Please, no details."

"I just wish I had some way of being strong in the moment, so that I might keep a clear head," he laments, dropping his chin into his hand.

She contemplates him a moment, then grins and says, "Come with me."

—

That night, Stan arrives at Frances's chambers empty-handed, but not unprotected. Thanks to Katherine, he has a trick up his sleeve—or rather, down his breeches. It could be, though, that he won't even need it. Perhaps, when Frances answers the door, the pair of them can sit down and have a real conversation about their feelings, then decide together if and how they want this relationship to progress in a way that does justice to each equal participant's expectations, needs, and five-year plan. Stan exhales a quick, readying breath and knocks.

The speed with which his darling Frances answers the door tattles on her longing for him. Though she may act aloof when they are in company, it serves her not! What she truly desires, what she pines for, is Stan Dudley: singer of songs, sitter for portraits, hero of the hour.

"My love!" he exclaims, closing the door swiftly behind him. "How I have—"

"Yes, Stan, nice to see you too," Frances says distractedly. Her gaze is fixed low as she throws open her dressing robe and flings it away. "Quickly now, breeches only, don't bother with the rest. I had thought you would be prompter."

In a huff worsened by the fact that Frances takes no notice of it, Stan thinks, Fine. He proceeds to do as she instructs. He sits in the chair she points to (god forbid he take her on the bed, like a real lover ought!), and unfastens his breeches like she tells him too. But he doesn't lower his drawers. No, he waits as Frances approaches, hikes the hem of her nightdress, and prepares to sit astride his lap. She stops with one knee braced on the chair.

"What's that?" she asks.

"What's it look like?"

"I can't bloody read it, Stanley. Get up."

This part might have felt a bit more rebellious, he reflects, if he hadn't sat down. She'd have seen the message clearly, straight off. Instead, he understands her difficulty; you can tell they're letters, but the words are rendered illegible by how the fabric gathers while he's seated.

Frances takes a step back and Stanley rises with dignity to display the message he decided upon—the message which his ally, Katherine, then embroidered onto the front of his underwear.

"'Mine eyes art up here,'" Frances reads out, then scoffs, shooting him a scornful glance. "Now, really, Stanley."

"Well, they are," he retorts. "And it's about time you took note of them! Or anything else up here!" He waves a hand next to his head. "My brain, for instance! I am a person, Frances, not merely a pleasure object!"

Frances sighs like she is deeply disappointed in him, and it doesn't feel good. Actually, it feels end-of-the-world levels of awful, especially when Stan is standing there in doublet and drawers, his breeches a sad, puffy pool upon the floor. He ought to have painted the message on a placard of some kind, or written it on a scroll he might have swept from inside his doublet with a flourish. With some fucking panache! In hindsight, delivering a message while half-undressed does slightly diminish its verve. But he must stand tall, breeches or no!

"What is it?" she asks tiredly, fixing the neck of her nightdress where it's slipped off her shoulder.

"I've just told you!" His shoulders sag a little. "Weren't you listening?"

"You're complaining that I don't want to fuck your brain," Frances summarizes dispassionately.

"I'm complaining that you don't LOVE ME, Frances!"

She appears confused by this.

"But I never have," she points out. She certainly is looking at his face now, assessing him as she questions, "Did you expect that to change?"

"Yes!" Stan cries out desperately. He yearns to approach her, to take her hands between his, but he must resist. "Yes, of course I did! I do!"

"Even when I told you otherwise? Really, how foolish." She chuckles.

Because he somehow believes she can't possibly make him feel worse than he now does, he battles on.

"Then consider me a fool for love, Frances, and consider that sort of fool a fool it's damn well worth being!"

"Though perhaps not worth me having," Frances replies cuttingly. "Do you forget, Stan, that I don't need you? You offer no political protection, no money—"

"I offer you more than those things! I am devoted, optimistic, kind to Katherine and Margaret—the latter perhaps on pain of death... Most importantly, I love you, Frances! I love you whether you will hear it or no."

"I don't believe in love!" Frances suddenly snaps, making Stan jerk back. "Not in a marriage, let alone whatever this is! Love is only in songs, and songs are lies composed by people with too much time on their hands."

"But I—"

"Yes, I know you did, you idiot. I was standing there when you sang it at me."

"But you enjoyed it!" Stan accuses.

"I did not!"

Bad luck her—he knows she's lying, and he says as much: "That isn't true. I heard you humming it. And if that's a lie, then how do you expect me to believe the rest of what you've said?"

"I will not coddle you," Frances states, striding up to him until they're almost nose to nose while she glares. "I have been nothing but honest—"

"I recommend that you be honest with yourself! Hmph!"

With that, Stan turns away from her. He grabs his breeches from the floor and redresses in an angry rush. Meanwhile, Frances just stands there, watching him with her arms crossed. She's so beautiful, so imposing. Gosh, he'd really like to... but no! Stan grits his teeth and heads for the door. Without looking back, he says, "The locket looks lovely, by the way. Noticed you're still wearing it."

—

It's misery without her. What's the good of living in a palace if you can't even enjoy the tapestries and the sumptuous suppers and saying, "You missed a spot," to a guard after inspecting the patchy shine on his armour? All the colour has gone out of Stan's world. It's as though the curtains are parted on the theatre, but the puppets lie limp upon the stage.

Of course, she's easy to avoid. Because he knows Frances's schedule, there's little possibility of them bumping into one another. His days are suddenly wide open. He dedicates his new free time to openly weeping in the corridors and, in a weak moment, attempting to sneak into Frances's chambers to pilfer some small item to remember her by. Maybe even the locket he gave her, because he's sure she isn't wearing it anymore. Unfortunately, this pathetic mission is foiled by her door being locked. Just like her heart! More weeping follows.

He's sure he's being pitied by those who care to notice his suffering, but he refuses to speak about it. He only wants to speak to Frances. But he doesn't. But he does.

The only time he can't avoid her is during family mealtimes. Then, he declines to take the pains he once did to sit near her. He remains next to his father, who will say a low-effort comfort phrase like "There, there," and even that will sometimes set Stan off, forcing him to excuse himself for more sobbing against the unfeeling stones which echo his grief right back to him (and sometimes to people at the opposite end of the corridor—the accoustics are terribly odd).

Stan knows there are things afoot at the palace, that larger wheels turn around him—him, the forgotten cog. And yet he seems to be essential for nothing. When he had Frances, well, he knew he was wanted, and exactly what for. How is he supposed to figure out which side of the Division Laws issue he's meant to be on, which side of the political aisle, when he can't even tell where he stands with Frances? He misses her. He can't help it. Mealtime glimpses will not sustain him.

Events conspire to keep them apart. At first apart because, for once, it is he who cannot tolerate the sight of her; she has duped his pig-headed, horse-bodied brother into going off to his death with one of the Ethians who came to Jane's lovely coronation banquet. Not much later, apart because the whole kingdom seems to be going that way, like one big breakup with the crown a-teeter at the place where the ground has split. It's chaos. Stan frequently wishes Frances's crime were a forgivable one so that they might have each other while the world goes to hell, but that's impossible. There is no clemency for sending to his death the big brother who once sat beside him before cavorting puppets. They buried the same mother.

The revelation that Guildford is alive is too short-lived. He is missing, presumed dead one moment, then there inside the safe house with Stan and their father the next, then gone again, bravely determined to rescue his wife, who's about to die—definite, not presumed. Stan feels like a fraud and a cad next to this display of loyalty. How did he ever leave Frances! How did he ever mistrust her! Actually, there are very good answeres for both of those questions, but since Stan's best plan at his own romantic reunion starts with drinking rather a lot, the circumstances of their rift grow fuzzy. He only knows he needs her. He will go to her at once!

He will go to her when the opportunity presents itself!

In the end, he goes to her plated in armour, while the bonfire burns and bird-people swoop from the sky, while (Queen?) Mary shrieks and Guildford's gallops disappear into the night as he takes Jane to safety, just as he vowed he would. In the smoke and the sound, Stan finds Frances. She appears astounded to see him. He was hoping for impressed, so it's a bit of a let-down, but at least he's had an effect. She's underestimated him for the last time!

Ideally, Stan would like to take Frances in his arms and plant such a kiss upon those lips as all who bear witness are changed, and peace spreads throughout the kingdom. Regrettably, it's bad timing. He ushers Frances, Katherine, and Margaret away instead, protecting them while they wend their way through the conflict. There isn't time to say much. He finds them horses—one for Frances, another for Katherine and Margaret to share—and gives a promise that he and his father won't be far behind. What else would they do? See the fight out to the end? Preposterous! They may be heroic now, but they aren't die-for-the-cause dunces. While sticking around long enough might get Stan extra glory, it would also doubtlessly get him executed. There may be salvagable logs from Guildford's fire, and that basket they put down to catch Jane's head? Not yet sodden with the blood of a beheading.

Stan knows the Greys will be returning to the palace. He mounts up, intending to follow them.

"The safe house, Stan," his father tells him, but Stan shakes his head. "Stanley, you cannot go back to the palace. Frances and the girls may be safe there, depending on how things shake out, but you, my boy, are the brother of an Ethian. You are no special favourite of Mary's. You have no bargaining chip! If you were caught—"

"I must go," Stan interrupts. He gives his father a heartfelt nod. "I hope to see you anon."

And Stan rides. Apparently not as well as the Greys, with whom he never catches up, but he rides with battle at his back and hope before him. He doesn't feel like a jilted lover or a second son or a superfluous courtier, just Stan. As the son rises, it feels like a damn good day to be Stan.

—

He sheds his armour—clanking, tripping—on the way from the stables to Frances's chambers. The corridors are empty of guards, all rallied to Mary's side in London. Even if they were here, Stan believes he'd barrel straight through their crossed pike shafts; he's caught up in his own perpetual motion, unable to stop or slow. There's only Frances and the distance between them. When he reaches her doors, he throws them wide instead of knocking.

She turns and sees him, she sees him and says, "You love me."

"You believe me now?"

Frances nods, seeming almost speechless until she says, "Yes."

Cocking an eyebrow, Stan swaggers towards her. "Anything else to say?"

"I don't love you," Frances begins, "but I like you, Stan. I really do." And from her bosom, she extracts the locket he gave her, letting it rest against her bodice. "See?"

It isn't the utter besottedness he's dreamed about. It isn't the legendary romance of Lancelot and Guinevere, or hell, even the surprisingly successful arranged marriage of Guildford and Jane. But Frances is finally being honest with them both, and her heart has told her that he, Stanley Dudley, is pretty darn alright. He's enough.

"I do see," he says, placing his hands on her waist. "And I'd love to see it be the only thing you're wearing."

Frances smirks in understanding. "I have missed you, you know."

He bites the air playfully in her direction, and Frances hums in anticipation, tipping her face up towards his.

"Ah!" He halts her. "I have one condition."

"Yes?"

"The bed this time, Frances. I've more than earned it."

She studies him coolly. "I believe you have."

At last, Stan kisses her, holds the tempestuous force of her in his arms. The outside world is in shambles, but his inner world is a haven. He is Frances's lover. He is a child, skipping towards the fair.

[positivelybeastly]

Goats Gremlin Gibber-Jabber part 2:

Oh we’re so back baby

Ahem ahem. First thing on the itinerary: Welcome back! Missed youuuu <3

Second thing:

HANK PUT EMMA BACK TOGETHER WHEN SHE WAS SHATTERED????

Hi in this session of my gibberish thoughts, my friend and I with our blogs made hank and Emma a thing, and there was something about them that made us so ill for them together. Granted my hank isn’t exclusive, but something with Emma clicked. And then. AND THEN

The fucking shattering of Emma, Hank discovering it after he had planned to try and cheer her up?

And then him DEDICATING himself to put her back together. And like like he got so far???

HE GOT CRAZY FAR BEFORE JEAN INTERVENED WITH THE PHEONIX.

I’ve been lost in the sauce from that moment on.

The fact that when someone said “Oh nobody liked her.” So everyone was a suspect, and he went “I liked her.” And then the fact he was convinced she couldn’t actually be dead, and then spent that time putting her back together even when the pieces were in the hundreds of THOUSANDS.

I’ve become ill from this (/pos) and I wanna hear your take on this section cause I just aaaagh.

Sincerely,

that weird fucking goat that keeps popping up and biting people.

Adding your addendum here so I can answer all in one go. :)

So, like . . . okay.

Hank and Emma's friendship is really special to me, and it all ties back to the way that Grant Morrison conceptualised Hank, when they came on to write New X-Men. It's worth noting that neither Hank, or Emma, were actually meant to be on the team when Morrison first pitched their story, they were originally going to be Colossus and Moira MacTaggert, but both had recently died. This is why Emma gets her diamond form secondary mutation - she's acting as the bruiser of the team in absence of Colossus.

So, how does Grant Morrison conceptualise Hank?

No dark secrets. Nothing to hide. The sweetest guy. The best heart.

These are the architects of modern X-Men, by the way. Morrison and Hickman. This is how they see Hank McCoy, and though they may have many flaws in their writing styles and their stories may fumble certain things, I think that they have an opinion worth noting. Their effect on modern X-Men is undeniable.

So, Emma and Hank meet, and they already have chemistry. They are both incredibly sharp, incredibly brilliant, incredibly witty, incredibly cultured individuals, and though they may (at this time) have very different moral compasses, it's very clear that there's a spark of friendship already, especially when you compare Hank's immediate sympathy to how Jean treats her literally a page later.

Something that's underrated about Morrison's Jean is that she's kind of not very nice a lot of the time, but you understand why. She's going through some shit in this series, and she has a very, very, very valid reason to hate Emma after Dark Phoenix, so her trying to reach out is what she thinks she should do, but calling her a bitch is what she wants to do, really - and Emma doesn't give a fuck. Or at the very least, she's very good at making it look like she doesn't give a fuck.

This is another aspect of why I think Hank and Emma have such good chemistry: they are both masters of control and appearance. They both spend so, so, so much time cultivating a specific image so that they can't be hurt - Hank obfuscates and hides behind big words, big concepts, big gestures, while Emma snarks and affects cool, sniping at anyone who might dare get close.

Like recognises like. I almost think it's a sort of game for them, to perform and poke at one another, knowing that they each know each other's secrets, but with an unspoken agreement that they won't go too far.

Emma jabs and pokes and prods, and Hank shuts her down in three sentences. If there were any malice or anger in this interaction, it wouldn't stop the way it does. There's no lingering animosity between them, there's no heat. It's two theatrical bitches in superhero clothes pretending that their personal lives aren't a mess by being extra bitchy at one another, and I think that they love that.

It's also worth noting that Hank, at this stage, is still an extremely moral presence, an unquestionable good guy (Threnody revisionism notwithstanding, don't at me, I've heard it before), and Emma is very much not. She's still the woman who was part of the Hellfire Club, who worked against the X-Men, who was part of Genosha, Magneto's regime - but Hank doesn't browbeat her with it. It only ever comes up when he's convinced that she's turned on them.

A moment of panic, but Emma doesn't take him to task for it - if anything, I like to think she might have actually been a bit grateful, because it made her plan seem all the more authentic, to have someone screaming that she can't do this. He then immediately apologises, and compliments her. It doesn't come up again. He judges her by her current actions, not by her past, and this is something that's very consistent with Hank, if you look at the wider tapestry of his life, because who else does he judge by his current actions and not his past?

Oh yeah. Hank forgives. Hank understands.

And I always find it interesting how he takes Scott and Emma's affair. He doesn't criticise Emma for it, but he does take Scott to task. Why? Well, it could be Morrison's take on who's responsible for the affair bleeding through, but I think it's more that Hank knows that Emma is still working on herself, still improving her behaviour, still in the process of becoming better, and he's willing to give her the space to do that, but Scott?

Scott, I think Hank believes has less of an excuse. But again, he doesn't make a thing of it until it comes to a boiling point. He warns Scott, and Scott doesn't listen. And when it's all said and done, Hank makes it clear that Scott and Emma's lives may be their own, but he has his own feelings on it, and he's capable of holding multiple emotional viewpoints at once.

Like, this is a lot of leeway and a lot of grace that Hank is affording Emma here, considering she was just as guilty of initiating the affair as Scott was, if not more so - but again. He expects better of Scott. He knows Scott knows right from wrong, and where his obligations lie, and he expects him to be faithful to his wife. Hank knows Emma is flirting, being very sexually open, but he knows that that is partly affectation, partly bait, partly exploration, and partly a fuck you aimed at Jean, who she just plain doesn't like. Harping on at her about it will not make her stop, and will only drive her not to trust Hank. And it becomes increasingly clear, as the series goes on, that Emma does trust and value Hank, quite a lot, actually.

Now, it's not like Emma needs an excuse to be cruel and to make a scene, but that's not really what this is, is it? Look at the order in which she addresses the journalist. She's offended - "I beg your pardon!" - but what at? "This man is a world-renowned scientist!"

She doesn't take offence to the idea that people hate mutants because trouble follows them where they go. She takes offence to her being insulting to Hank specifically. She elevates Hank, and degrades her opponent. This is not something Emma does often, she usually just skips to the degradation! Hank doesn't even expect it! Look at the little lines around his head in the panel with Emma blown up large in the psychic landscape! He was absolutely going to let that comment go by, and not make a thing of it, and Emma chose to make the moment about standing up for him, and he did not expect it.

But he values it, nonetheless. And he puts his paw on her, and thanks her.

Reminder, this is how she reacted to another man putting his hands on her just a few issues before.

Now, granted, we don't see where Logan's hand is, but the man's generally a gentleman, despite his reputation, so I think she just doesn't like to be touched . . . generally. But she doesn't mind it when Hank touches her, and thanks her for standing up for him. Something which she does not do for many people. Reminder, this is how she reacts to Jean having a straight up psychic fit in front of her.

Like, there's a degree to which this is bravado and humour, because Emma is tending to Jean here, but I guarantee you that this is not how she would have acted if Hank had been the one to fall in distress.

And going back to the panels where Logan is helping her up - I don't know if it's just me, but there's something very purposeful in the fact that Emma and Hank are both on the right hand side of the page, with Emma engaging her diamond form so that she doesn't have to feel, denying her own compassion, while Hank stands in shadow, looking mournful, defeated, quietly furious, unable to do anything but feel his compassion.

Perhaps that's something that Emma admires in Hank. The fact that he has no dark secrets, that he does, in at least some ways, wear his heart on his sleeve; that he has no choice but to feel. He is a good man. And it's easy to forget, in a world where cynical media and cynical people surround us, but there is something charismatic and likeable and warm about good people. Even if you might consider them foolish, people who fail to be good often envy those who try, even though they might face insurmountable odds.

Hank's refusal to accept that the world has to be a place of cruelty and disbelief and skepticism and fear has a way of rankling the cynics around him. It's one of my favourite things about him.

It has a way of paying off.

How often does Emma Frost listen to someone again . . ?

And then . . . yeah. We come to the assembly.

"Fuck you, I liked her."

She listened. She laughed. She spoke Byron back to him. Do you ever think about just how often Hank gets that? Fucking never, I bet!! It must just be so refreshing to quote, and for the other person to know.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Of course it's a romantic poet. Of course it's Byron.

And then, the assembly . . . ouuuuuuaghhh . . .

Like, people love for their characters to have feats, right? People love that Storm was the Regent of Arakko, and faced down the Horsemen. People love that Cyclops put the Void in a little box in his mind and told it no. People love that Jean chased down Enigma all the way through space and time and destroyed him. People love it when all the things that epitomise a character come together in a moment that speaks to the truth of them - their strength, their control, their refusal to give up. It's not just about power, it's about what that moment says about their personality, right?

What's Hank's?

It's putting together a 11,100,277 piece puzzle of a human body. Not with textbooks and screens around him, but by memory - and why? He says it's because he always loved jigsaw puzzles as a child, but that's not the real reason, is it? It's because it's important to him that she be complete, that she be afforded respect. It's important to him that someone showed that they cared.

It's because he thinks that there's a chance.

It's hope. It's sheer, bloody minded hope. 11 million pieces. It's insane. And yet. He did it, and it worked, and she was whole again.

Roses and wine and a good book and a baritone rendition of Gluck's Orpheus and Eurydice . . . oh, Hank. He even calls himself la bete, the Beast - a codename we know he doesn't really care for all that much, especially in light of his recent mutation - just so that he can affect playfulness and brightness and infectious good mood.

He really cared for her. And she really cared for him.

I seriously miss this dynamic. It was really very beautiful.

And thank you for the welcome back! It's good to be back!

[g-xix]

GIBBO IN THE SDMN SUNDAY: CERTIFIED BANGER.

Idegaf what anyone has to say, this man elevates a Sidemen Sunday from a meagre 4 to a iridociclitussy 9, no returns.

On a team w Harold no less????

Certified banger is pending.

[ao3sbatfamily]

'he is shy and likes the evening best' by destiny919

Author: @tarvek-sturmvoraus

Then he hears the second, smaller goon let out a shriek, and Jason looks up from liberating a gun from the unconscious big one to see the guy gaping at his hand, which has been firmly attached to the table where he's sitting by a knife buried in the back of it, and Tim, looking totally casual and also still holding another knife. 

Jason can't stop the instant pride that swells up, and he gives the kid a grin he'd worry is too sharp if the kid's returning expression didn't put the knife in his hand to shame. 

Should he be concerned about the knife? Probably. Is he? No. Tim's grip looks perfect and surprisingly sure for such a tiny kid. 

They leave the other knife behind in the gibbering goon's hand. He must be new to Gotham. 

"Where did you get those, kiddo?" Jason murmurs out in the hall. 

"Took em off one of the first group," Tim whispers, and wow Jason didn't even see him do that. He's gonna have to get more vigilant around the kid. Like, way more.

[st4rshiptr00per]

i havent told this to literally anyone because who would i tell but im like deranged about provost tepesh i need to just make an oc at this point. like we all know i have a major weakness for characters who are egotistical bitches with heart of gold, somewhere, deep down, so taking one of those and then being like 'heres an alternate version of them thats got the exact same personality but is also a Sad Vampire' makes me fucking CRAZYYYYYY. and that character only exists for HALF OF ONE STORY? AND IS NEVER MENTIONED AGAIN? for the love of god help me.

[cuprohastes]

Visit strange new worlds... And ask, "What would a human do?"

Really, it was hard not to wail like a child who'd lost his tnkpt, thought Viska. It was how he felt right now and he suspected the big toothy thing outside wouldn't care much.

The only thing that was stopping him was that he was fairly sure it didn't know exactly where he was, and he didn't want to help out.

It'd been all fun at the start. He, Dr. Kraant, Ipsnig and the Human assigned to the survey to lift stuff and do Human things had gone out. The Human had helped him paint his scales a few days before and he was feeling very pretty and competent, and the Human had brought some of their human music that secretly Viska thought was pretty good, even if it needed to be a little higher pitched.

But then the big thing had attacked. Viska mentally named it Ergrig. It looked like an Ergrig. Something about the way it was drooling.

The human had grabbed Dr. Kraant, who had this theory that all predators had motion based vision, and flung him into the Sintral expedition car. Ipsnig had just leapt out the way and then there was dust and rocks spraying everywhere and the Ergrig was between him and the Sintral.

He'd dropped on all fours, and run, skidding around the vegetation, mud and rocks and finally he'd wedged himself in a small muddy gap, his gorgeous scale paints splattered and scratched, and of course the snazzing gwapruff thing had followed him.

And now he was stuck, and probably going to be eaten, and die. In that order.

He wished he was a Human. They always seemed to know how to deal with things.

He's asked their Human how they dealt with all the horrible creatures which all seemed to somehow have classified the human as not-food.

"I ask myself: What Saint Irwin would do?" They'd said, like it was funny. 

Viska wondered if this Saint Irwin would help out a poor muddy Tsin, or if you had to be Human to ask.

What he needed was a Saint Human to help Tsin out.

Or... maybe he should just ask: What would Human

And so, a few minutes later, the Ergrig, who'd been sure there was some little scaled food thing around here was very startled when a small male Tsin leapt up in front of it, scales on end like an angry pine cone, four arms splayed out, and gibbering in a manner that the Ergrig had never heard before.

It backed up, scrabbling, and the spiny thing lurched forward.

Like many predators, the Ergrig couldn't chance an injury. One of the big herbivores might have just kicked or gored Viska, but the Ergrig bolted.

"I can't believe that worked!" Said Viska.

"Neither can I." Said the human stepping out of liminal space between two boulders with a whump-gun. "I was trying to find you - Good thinking with the mud by the way - and I was prepared to give that big fella an arse full, with Betty here, but looks like you had it in hand!"

Vriska couldn't figure out how to respond for a moment - a little starstruck at getting praise from a Human. 

"Oh well. I just thought... what would a Human do." He said as they headed back to the Sintral expedition vehicle.

"Well it worked this time!" Said the Human, "But to be honest, I think most people - or animals - would back off if you leap out and screamed the lyrics to Phantom of the Opera at them..."

[flowerandblood]

The White Flame (Part 1)

[modern! rockstar • Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader]

[warnings: sexual tension, drugs, angst, swearing, fluff]

[description: Aemond is the bassist of the band whose leader and vocalist is his brother. The whole band decides to use the marketing and design help of their guitarist's friend. The story is an interweaving of domination, desire and slowly burning feeling.]

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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"The White Flame" - the name of their band - was Aegon's idea. Ever since he started taking singing lessons he always knew he wanted to start a band. Although Aemond didn't believe in this venture, he gave in to him when he said one day that he had found a guitarist and a drummer. Their house was big, so the first rehearsals took place in their garage.

Aemond loved the bass guitar, its low sound, the way it was always in the back carrying the whole song on its weight, giving it that nice quivering feeling in your chest when it played on stage. Cregan as a drummer was very lively and energetic, he could improvise very well and bring a lot to the whole composition, adding to its expression.

Mathylda, whom they simply called "Momo", was a great guitarist and had a very interesting way of applying makeup. Often blue butterflies were pinned into her short black hair, her make-up was wide and bright, passing through all the colors of blue. She dressed all in black, and despite the glasses that made her look like a nerd, she had a rock star vibe about her.

They managed to get an agent who arranged their first concerts in small clubs. Slowly, they began to receive more and more offers, and after two years they played almost every weekend. Mathylda said that they needed someone to care for their marketing, someone who would run their social media, design logos and gadgets, and promote their style.

"My friend is great at these kind ot things, I can ask her if she would like to help us." She said one day, referring to the girl who would come to their concerts sometimes and then have drinks with Momo at the bar.

She didn't talk to them much, seeing that the boys often disappeared with the girls in some corners, snorted something or just drank. Sometimes, however, she and Mathylda would come over to exchange a few words. One day she was talking to Aegon while eating marshmallows shaped like litte rabbits heads.

"Actually, you yourself look like a bunny." He once said drunk. She laughed and asked if he thought she had rabbit teeth. He said he meant her bun.

Indeed, she often combed her long hair so that part of her front hair was wrapped at the back of her head in a small bun, fastened with a colored terry, which she could tie on demand without even thinking about it. Aemond wondered how she did it that she didn't even look at herself in the mirror, and that the bun always looked perfect.

From then on, Aegon always called her "Bunny", and it stayed that way. Sometimes they used an abbreviation and just called her "Bun." Compared to them, she was very colorful, joyful and, above all, sober.

She had had drinks with Mathylda of course, but Aemond had never seen her drunk enough to gibber or cajole. She talked a lot and was always discussing something with Cregan or Aegon.

She often wore sweatshirts or sweaters in bright, pastel colors, sometimes with a character from a fairy tale. For example, she had a "Adventures of the Gummi Bears" hoodie that Aegon loved. For some reason he called her "Gummi Bunny" back then, to the dismay of everyone, including her.

Although her choice of clothing might seem childish, she always paired it with high-waisted trousers or mid-thigh skirts with high wool socks, which emphasized her slim figure and nice proportions. Aemond found himself staring at her legs a lot when she was wearing a short skirt.

When Momo suggested that Bunny handle their marketing, everyone was comfortable with the idea. Sometimes she would show them her designs and illustrations, and they were all impressed.

Aemond never commented on what she was doing, but he thought she did have talent. Once everything was settled, Bunny came over to them after one of the rehearsals with her laptop and sketchbook. She wanted to show them some designs for their new logo.

“I decided that a classic typographic solution would be the best. Your music refers to classic rock, so I went the way of Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin or AC/DC.” She said calmly, unfolding the pages. Aemond was surprised that she had done her homework. Her designs referenced the typography of the 60's and 70's, making the inscription "The White Flame" look retro.

Everyone loved the direction she was going. After a lively discussion, they came to the conclusion that the most interesting design was the one in which the L was a flame, with the rest of the thick, serifed letters.

Bunny suggested that if she could, she would stay with them while they practiced and start making a logo on the laptop so she could consult with them on changes. Nobody had any objections to that.

After a few weeks, the logo was ready. Bunny one day brought everyone stickers with it on it, saying it was a cool and inexpensive gadget and that they could use some t-shirts and bags too. She also took care of their social media. One day she brought her little purple Instax and said she wanted to take some cool retro pictures of them.

She took one of the photos of Aemond from hiding, standing to the side. Aemond stood against a completely black background, his eyes narrowed in concentration, a cigarette in his mouth. His sleeve with a large tattoo peeked out from under his black T-shirt, his white hair, bright face and black&white guitar contrasted with the whole setting.

Bunny approached him with excitement, saying that it was one of the best pictures and that it turned out great. As she stood next to him, he smelled her scent, some pleasant floral perfume. He just grunted, exhaling smoke through his nose, tilting his head to the side so as not to blow on her.

After concerts, there were always at least a few girls waiting for autographs at their door. Usually half of them wanted to fuck. Aegon took advantage of this every time and went to the toilet with them. Cregan didn't, at least not right away, but sometimes he gave his phone number to girls he liked.

Aemond only fucked the most desperate ones. It excited him to think that he could give them everything they wanted, give them hope and leave them with nothing. He wondered, what they expected?

However, he felt uneasy when, after one such action, he left the men's room with one of the girls, who was quickly adjusting her skirt, and Bunny was waiting on the other side, apparently waiting for the women's room.

The look she gave him was not one of reproach or disgust. She looked like he was physically hurting her. She lowered her gaze as he turned and walked away, deciding that he didn't have to explain anything to her.

During one of the rehearsals, she sat on their couch. She'd been working on her laptop for a few hours now and took off her shoes, putting her hunched legs together.

Aemond involuntarily, sitting in the armchair next to her, tuning his guitar, looked at her legs dressed in high, cream socks to the middle of the thighs. She was wearing a big, long, light-colored, long-sleeved Gryffindor sweatshirt and shorts. That's why she looked like she was wearing nothing underneath.

Aemond felt a tightness in his pants at the thought of being between those thighs. He wondered if she would moan sweetly under him as he fucked her, if she would be wet and tight for him. He looked away, clenching his jaw, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

He looked up at her in surprise when he saw her put the laptop aside, walked over to him and leaned her hip against his armchair, showing him one of the sketches on a piece of paper she must have done earlier.

“Aegon once proposed to decorate your guitars. I already have a project for Momo, but I decided to do something different for you.” She said calmly, a note of satisfaction and pride in her voice. Aemond looked at her drawing. It accurately reproduced his bass guitar.

In her illustration, a black and white dragon with claws, drawn in a sharp, simplistic style, was eating its own tail as it curled around the shape of the instrument. Aemond took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked the smoke onto the ashtray, that was on the small table beside him.

"I like it." He spoke briefly and to the point.

A few days later, he, Momo and Bunny drove their guitars to the printing house. At first, Momo and Bunny were going to go there alone and get his guitar too, but he told them that if he saw even a scratch on it, he would kill them. Frightened that something might escape their attention, they simply told him to come with them.

They went in and explained that they had come to print the guitars with the designs Bunny had sent them earlier. Bunny frowned as they showed her the stickers that would then be welded into the fabric and secured.

"Why is the print resolution so poor?" She asked, looking at the man in surprise. The man shrugged.

"Perhaps you sent such a project." He said dismissively. Bunny frowned.

"I have sent you a high resolution file." She said coldly. The man sighed and checked everything on the computer again. He pursed his lips as he realized she was right. She raised her eyebrows, obviously expecting an apology.

"After all, since you play on stage, you won't be able to see pixels from a distance anyway." He said calmly. Bunny opened her mouth, nervous, but before she could say anything, Aemond walked over to her, took the sheet of paper with the sticker, and tore it up in front of them. He tossed it on his desk, staring at him with a stony face.

"Nobody's gonna put this pixelated shit on my guitar. Print it again because you're getting on my nerves already, mate." He said low, his voice making the man look at him with wide eyes. He clenched his jaw and wordlessly turned the machine back on. He must have changed something, because this time the printouts looked perfect.

Aemond watched carefully as he pasted the design onto his guitar. Bunny and Momo looked at them with amusement as they saw the man's hands shaking. When it was over, they left the printing house, quite satisfied with the end result.

"I'll drive you to your home." He said calmly, and the girls looked at each other, surprised, apparently not expecting such a kind heart from him. They both sat in the back, talking about nutrition, how frustrated the guy was and his nonsensical remarks.

First on the way was Momo's house. As she said goodbye and closed the door behind her, Aemond drove on. The silence fell between them. He looked in his mirror and saw in the reflection that their eyes met. They turned immediately.

Aemond considered stopping somewhere in some small, empty street for a while to just fuck her on his back seat. He thought after a moment that he would probably just scare her. Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"I have something for you." She said shyly, smiling warmly. He looked from the road to her face in the mirror, surprised. "Aegon told me you recently had a birthday. But I didn't have the courage to give it to you in front of everyone." She said, looking down at her lap.

Aemond swallowed softly, completely bewildered. He didn't like celebrating birthdays, and he didn't like missed gifts. He stared straight ahead, saying nothing.

He glanced in the mirror again, hearing her rummage through her white suede backpack. He parked in front of her house when he heard her lean over him, her elbows between the two front seats, her head close to his face.

She held an envelope in her hand, it was not sealed. Aemond reached inside, without even asking her if he could see what was inside, and pulled out a few sheets. After a while he realized they were tattoo designs.

“Aegon told me you want to make a new one, but you need a good design. That you wish it had a dagger on it that belonged to your great-great-grandfather. He took a picture of him for me and I came up with several versions. I tought you might like one of them." She said softly with a smile, her gaze warm and sincere.

He looked at her, their faces millimeters apart. He wanted to fuck her, kiss her long neck, listen to her soft moans. He wondered if he saw it in his gaze, because she shivered and swallowed softly, her lips parting slightly.

He looked at her lips, then back at her eyes. They leaned against each other's foreheads, and she sighed softly, as if in relief. She smiled at him. He thought she was going to kiss him, but she pulled away, zipped up her backpack, and left the car without a word, her legs trembling slightly.

He watched her as she walked into her house and didn't even look back at him. He felt his entire jaw clench with desire. He squeezed his eye shut, swallowed hard, and started the engine, driving out of her driveway with a squeal of tires.

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Let me know what do you think and if you want a series form that! If you want to be tagged, leave a comment below. ♥

@zenka69 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff

[dyrewrites]

Tests like that last reblog tell me that I know a lot of words...but I do not use a lot of words.

If it sounds nice, and creates a lovely rhythm, I will use it. I don't care how big or small or new or old it happens to be. I've used words no one uses anymore, taken ones from other languages outside my own, and even made up words by smashing others together just for something that sounded nice to speak aloud.

And yet so many of you love to make me a gibbering mess by telling me how lovely my use of words in my writing is...

Word knowledge doesn't equal writing skill.

However, words are fun to play with and the more you know the more you have to compose your pretty stories with, so if you see a neat looking word you don't know...go find out what it means. Might be fun. Maybe you could use it.

[gffa]

This hit me like a ton of bricks.  There’s another scene in this comic that really put it into perspective for me, it’s a Vader point of view scene, flashbacks of scenes from The Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones where he was so afraid to lose his mother and then his wife that it was drawing a straight line to his fall to the dark side, which perfectly illustrated George Lucas’ commentary on Anakin’s story and why he fell. Then I get to this page. Another Vader point of view, the red boxes on black backgrounds that are inside his head.  “My son. I sense your anguish.  You still cannot bear the thought of losing your friends.  Good.  Now you’re ready... to learn what real fear is.” OHHHHHH THAT SHIT HIT LIKE A BRICK TO THE FACE. Anakin Skywalker, the core theme of his fall to the dark side, was his fear of losing his mother, losing his wife, losing his Master, losing his apprentice, losing his friends--he knows what that kind of gibbering fear is like and how deep it can cut. No one knows better than Darth Vader how powerful a weapon he’s just been handed.  He knows it because it’s the weapon that was turned on him to draw him to the dark side.  Luke’s fears for Han and Leia--and Vader will use this exact same trick again in Return of the Jedi and it will scrape away at Luke’s resolve, when Vader threatens Leia, that’s when Luke bursts into angry attacks, Vader senses his fear and anger then too--Vader is going to do to Luke what Palpatine did to him. This is why Obi-Wan and Yoda were wary on Dagobah--I recently rewatched that scene and their big point is that Luke’s not ready emotionally, that every step of the way he’s demonstrated he falls prey to his fears and defeatism, like in the cave when faced with the fearful vision of Vader, like when trying to lift the X-Wing out of the swamp.  This is why Obi-Wan says, “Luke, I don't want to lose you to the Emperor the way I lost Vader.” Because that unmastered fear for your loved ones is the tool that took down Anakin and now he’s going to use that same tool on Luke--and that’s the theme of Star Wars, that you have to master your fear, that’s Luke Skywalker’s journey, that he wasn’t born perfectly in control of himself, that even good people can fall prey to fear. There was a real chance it could happen, because Vader was an expert in knowing how to wield fear, no one knew better than him how deep that fear could cut.