#man with constitution of tissue paper

[ratatatastic]

sasha scracthed and we didnt really see him in the video for lombos dinner he didnt get sick did he-

[doing-something-unholy]

Vane does all of these sporty pastimes and Ardelian is like "i cant swim 🥺" truly nerd/jock relationship lmao

[blackjackkent]

By far the most annoying thing about the battle with the Avatar of Myrkul is this motherfucker:

Fundamentally what this means is that anyone near the big boy cannot get healed, which is a problem given that Rakha has the constitution, robustness, and mental stability of a single sheet of tissue paper.

Nevertheless we persist.

MVP status for this fight goes to Lae'zel, who landed a disarming attack on the first strike of the battle and knocked Myrkul's giant-ass scythe out of its hands, then action surged four attacks on it and dazed it with a pommel strike.

Aylin continues to eat shit repeatedly every time I do this fight, which I continue to blame on her having been a century out of practice, bc she always does a lot better in Act 3. :P

In the end, Rakha gets the final blow with a barrage of magic missiles that smash in the avatar's skull mask and send a shower of bone splinters raining down around them.

-----

The monstrous form fades. Ketheric collapses at Rakha's feet, a man again, mortal. His blood soaks him from head to foot, drips out in gory spatters on the rock.

The beast screams with glee in Rakha's head, watching him die. You mocked me, but you die like all the others, whimpering, pitiful. Who is the mad dog now?

"Impossible," he wheezes. "Death cannot take me... I am its master..."

He struggles to his knees, his eyes lifting again towards the cavern's ceiling. "My Lord! Hear me!"

Silence, but for the low slap of water against the rock around them. His shoulders slump. Blood drops through his beard, along the ridges of his armor.

"Nothing..." he whispers. "I am forsaken."

She steps forward, grips the front of his armor, gives a short, sharp jerk. "Answer me before you die, Chosen of Myrkul," she growls. "Tell me what I need to know. Who am I?"(*)

His eyes drift out of focus past her shoulder. "You... have no idea what you've done..." he whispers weakly.

"WHO AM I?!" she bellows, releasing him with a jerk. He nearly topples over, all the strength gone from his body. Light begins to pour from his eyes, his mouth.

"Isobel..." he whispers, and she watches and feels the deep shuddering pleasure of the beast as the life flows out of his body.

His corpse collapses in a heap at her feet.

Silence.

Rakha's head aches. She stares down at Ketheric's body. This has been her only goal for so long, almost since the crash, almost as long as she can remember, and now it is finished. She feels empty, drained - she waits for the feeling of fulfillment and it doesn't come.

What do I do now?

Before she can muster the energy to speak, a pale white glow streaks down from above them, an avenging angel homing in on the broken body before them.

"THE VILLAIN IS DEAD!"

The Nightsong. Aylin. She slams her boot into Ketheric's head and Rakha watches as his skull explodes, brain matter spattering in all directions, coated in black, corrupted blood.

"THE WRETCH!" she howls. "TOGETHER WE HAVE CRUSHED HIM, BODY AND BRAIN!"

Rakha watches, fascinated. Aylin's eyes are alight with her goddess's magic. Her movements are jerky and frantic, desperate. She pounds her boot again and again into Ketheric's head, flattening it into the ground, into a pile of shapeless meat.

She is just as majestic in this moment as she was in her flight out of the Shadowfell - but Rakha sees beneath that facade of light. Underneath is a river of rage, the fury of the prisoner released after a century of torment. Vengeance. Animal destruction.

This is what Rakha looks like when the beast overtakes her, reflected in the form of this creature of ostensible good. It is surreal to see it in another.

Eventually Aylin calms. Her eyes lift; the light has faded from them. Rakha recognizes that look on her face, too - the weary acknowledgement of her own violence, its mindlessness, its ultimate pointlessness.

"Now," the aasimar says softly. "Now we pick our way toward our fates... unleashed."

Rakha doesn't answer. What is my fate? she thinks bitterly. A lost animal, doomed to stagger forward forever, hoping only to sink her teeth into the 'right' prey.

To her astonishment, Aylin straightens and inclines her head with a sudden air of respect. "You have my sword - my fealty."

Fealty. Rakha blinks, bewildered. Why?

She draws a slow breath and lets it out. Because there is more ahead. Ketheric is dead, but the Absolutists still live. The tadpole still sits in her head. Her vengeance isn't complete.

And she realizes she is afraid. She is beginning to learn that there is nothing good for her in the memories that are lost to her - and also that following the trail of the cult will only lead her to more glimpses of whatever dark path she once walked. She will have no rest from the beast, from the war inside her head, because the path that lies ahead will be as soaked in blood as the path behind.

But the cult marches on the city. Rakha has never seen it - but Wyll has. It was his city, once. His father is still in the Absolute's clutches. She has to keep going - for Wyll, if not for herself.

She swallows. She doesn't feel able to speak. But she meets Aylin's eyes and she nods.

Aylin returns the nod, sober and serious as the grave. Perhaps she understands something of the turmoil that boils in Rakha's head, just as Rakha understood the rage that burns in hers. "Do what you must," she says softly. "Then we fly this foul place."

[waitmyturtles]

In 2015, at the age of 24, Kanata Kimoto had the uterus and ovaries he was born with removed at a Thai hospital.

Back then, the Osaka Prefecture native didn’t even question his move, despite the huge cost and potential health risks involved. Sterilization is one of several conditions that all transgender individuals are required to meet if they want to have their gender changed on official papers in Japan. Living with a gender that didn’t match his identity was unbearable for Kimoto.

“It was a choice between undergoing surgery so I could change my gender, and dying,” Kimoto, 31, recalled. “Even if the surgery failed and if I died as a result, I didn’t care. I was that desperate.”

Kimoto, however, now wonders whether such an invasive and costly procedure was necessary, given all the sacrifices he had to make. Kimoto and a growing number of human rights advocates in Japan are campaigning for the abolition of a clause in a special law on gender dysphoria enacted in 2003 that requires transgender individuals to undergo sterilization surgery to change their official gender status.

The law sets out five requirements for the status change through family court proceedings — in addition to a diagnosis of gender dysphoria by at least two specialist doctors. The requirements include the person needing to be age 18 or older, unmarried and with no underage children. The age of adulthood in Japan is 18.

Currently at issue are the remaining two conditions, which say the individual should “have no reproductive glands” or their reproductive glands should have “permanently” lost their function, and that they should have “a body that resembles the genitals of those of the opposite gender.” Between 2004 and 2022, a total of 11,919 people had their gender changed through the law.

The advocates’ campaign comes amid heightened attention and tensions over LGBTQ issues.

On the one hand, Japanese courts appear to be pivoting toward invalidating the surgery requirement as unconstitutional, on the back of recent moves by United Nations agencies and international medical groups to regard unwanted gender-affirming surgery as cruel and inhumane. Earlier this month, the Hamamatsu branch of the Shizuoka Family Court approved a request by Gen Suzuki, a 48-year-old transgender man, to be listed as male in his family registry. Suzuki has undergone hormone therapy and surgically removed his breast tissue, but has not had his reproductive organs removed for fear of physical and mental health risks.

In a first in Japan, the family court said that forcing such “grave and irreversible” operations on people violates their human rights guaranteed under the Constitution.

The Supreme Court may also rule in favor of a transgender woman who has appealed lower court decisions that denied her gender status change. The woman has not had her penis surgically removed but argues that she has been rendered infertile due to years of hormonal treatment. The 15-member Grand Bench held an oral hearing last month, and a decision on the case is expected on Wednesday. The fact that the Grand Bench convened is seen as a sign that the nation’s top court could reverse its own precedent set in 2019, when it deemed the surgery clause constitutional.

On the other hand, some conservative corners of parliament are turning more vocal in their opposition to the clause’s abolition. A lawmakers’ group, whose goal is to “protect all women’s safety and security and fairness of women’s sports,” was formed in June following the enactment of a new law to promote LGBTQ understanding, and now counts over 100 members.

Headed by three veteran female members of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party — Eriko Yamatani, Satsuki Katayama and Seiko Hashimoto — the group recently submitted a petition calling on the government to maintain the surgery clause.

Then on Tuesday, another group made up of transgender individuals and others submitted a petition requesting the Supreme Court maintain the requirement, arguing that its abandonment would lead to women feeling threatened in women-only spaces.

Many other trans activists, however, say most transgender people are extremely discreet when it comes to the use of public baths or toilets, going out of their way to avoid trouble with other users.

Anguish over gender identity

Switching gender is a time-consuming process and a decision many make only after years of anguish over their identity. Kimoto said he had felt incompatible with his sex assigned at birth since he was a toddler. At day care, he resisted wearing skirts and things colored pink.

Throughout his childhood and adolescence, he was unable to confide in anyone about his gender incongruence as there was nobody around him who had come out as a sexual minority, and LGBTQ issues were never taught in school. As menstruation began and his breasts grew, he slouched forward so as not to emphasize his breasts. He also joined the softball club in an effort to be forgiven for looking and acting boyish.

In high school, he heard the term gender identity disorder, now called gender incongruence, for the first time. One of the characters in a popular TV drama at that time was depicted as having it.

His friends were fascinated by the drama series and talked about it week after week. One day, a classmate casually asked if he had the same issue as the drama’s character and said “it would be scary" if he did. Kimoto remembers vehemently denying it, to avoid being “outed” in front of all his other classmates.

In college, where he studied video production, he felt free for the first time in his life, as his friends had no prejudice against sexual minorities. But as graduation loomed, he started agonizing over having to apply for jobs as his officially registered gender.

“Although I received a job offer and was about to start my career, I felt like I would have a mental breakdown,” he recalled. “That’s when I decided to undergo surgery, forgoing a career.”

After graduating from college, he devoted all of his time to juggling odd jobs to save the ¥2 million needed for a course of medical treatment including surgery. He also started receiving hormone injections at a clinic.

The male hormones brought some desired effects, such as lowering his voice, making him hairier and making it easier for him to gain muscles, but he struggled with sudden breakouts of acne on his face and his back. During this transition phase, it was a huge pain for him to visit a doctor, because his appearance was male but his health insurance card still listed him as female.

“Receptionists at clinics would always return my insurance card, asking me to submit ‘mine’ instead,’’ he said. “Every time I had to disclose my gender identity and explain that I was going through hormone therapy.”

Experiences like these make many transgender individuals avoid seeking health care in general, as a 2019 survey by Yasuharu Hidaka, a professor at Takarazuka University's School of Nursing, found. The survey, commissioned by Lifenet Insurance and covering 10,000 transgender individuals in Japan, found that 51.2％ of trans women and 38.8％ of trans men had avoided a hospital visit even when they felt ill.

Then, after getting a diagnosis of gender dysphoria from a doctor in Tokyo, Kimoto checked into a Bangkok hospital for about a week to get his womb and ovaries removed. Many trans people in Japan get such surgery in Thailand due to the long wait at Japanese hospitals, he said, noting that at that time, he was told he would have to wait for four years for surgery in Japan.

When he finally got a letter from a family court approving his family registry change, which is something he had fought so hard for, he was struck by a sense of futility, he says.

“I had thought I would feel happier,” Kimoto said. “But when I got the notice, which was just two sheets of paper, I felt so empty. I wondered, ‘Is this what I strove and sacrificed so much for?’’’

Quality of care

Mikiya Nakatsuka, a professor at Okayama University’s Graduate School of Health Sciences who runs a gender clinic there, says that many transgender individuals visiting the clinic have mental health issues. A survey of some 1,150 people visiting the university clinic between its opening in 1999 and 2009 found that 60% had experienced suicidal thoughts and 30% had actually attempted suicide. Nearly 30% were truant from school.

The quality of transgender health care is another concern. The Japanese Society of Gender Identity Disorder, for which Nakatsuka serves as president, has accredited eight institutions offering specialized care. But that’s far from enough to keep up with demand, which means many people must wait for months or even years before surgery. At present, around 80% of people seeking surgery in Japan look overseas, where there is little wait, Nakatsuka says.

“Of course, some complete the procedure overseas and return with no trouble,” he said. “But there are also others who rush to our clinic saying that they can’t stop their urine from leaking out, or worse, who have their bladder fully swollen because they cannot urinate, and who are denied follow-up care (abroad).”

Furthermore, gender-affirmation treatment is out of reach for many due to its cost, which is not covered by national health insurance and can easily top ¥1 million. While Nakatsuka and other specialist doctors successfully lobbied for surgery to be insured, hormonal treatments remain uninsured. Due to the Japanese government policy of not allowing people to mix insured and uninsured treatments, transgender health care, including surgical operations, remains uninsured in most cases.

While many are eager to undergo surgery and are happy to have done so, others feel compelled to do so because of the legal requirement, Nakatsuka said.

“The important thing is that people are given the options,” he said.

Kimoto currently runs a popular YouTube channel, where he answers questions about his life as a trans man and shares exchanges with friends and family. He says there’s a world of difference between choosing to undergo surgery and being forced to do so in order to gain legal recognition for the gender people identify with.

“Had there been no sterilization requirement and had I been able to change my family registry without it, I would not have gone through surgery, because my life was at stake,” he said. “I don’t want to see the future of younger people ruined by the lack of choices.”

By Tomoko Otake. If you click through the link, there are some great photos!

[sapphim]

meanwhile if carver joins the wardens merrill reassures hawke by saying "Carver is strong. If Anders could survive the Joining, I'm sure he will." which is SO FUNNy she really said "this man has the approximate constitution of wet tissue paper im sure your very large brother will be fine"

so usually the combat barks when anders is ko'd in combat are a variation of "oh no!! anders!!!" or "ah that fuckin mage just fell down" but I just noticed that carver's response is "We lost the Warden? That's not right!"

which??? jkdlj;s;s;sl he can't fuckin STAND that guy but he respects the wardens and thus he respects anders abilities im....

[noneuclideanwhimsy]

I wrote a thing because. Yeah

Evil G-man woke to the scariest thing he could imagine. A huge being made of stars and millions of eyes, each of them burning with a deep and terrifying rage loomed over him. The being was flanked by what looked almost like whales but with the teeth of sharks that were all a dusky brown and seemed to almost dim the void they were in. The whale like creatures he was familiar with. They were called Duskers, and they were hunters. The Bigger Fish always warned him that if he messed up too badly they would some for him, rip him to shreds like tissue paper. It seemed all too believable now. As for the being guiding them…it would strike fear into the hearts of anyone. Evil G-man instinctively tried to hide in the remains of their creators, but the rest of them was almost gone, consumed by each other.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, please don't hurt me! Whatever I did I didn't mean!'

At his plea the fire in the being's eyes faded just slightly. It made a gesture to the Duskers to stay where they were. The being then began to compress, its body going to a state that Evil G-man knew well.

"G'! I thought…well, you had the Duskers with you and I thought you were going to kill me."

G' stepped forward shaking its head, and put a hand on Evil G-man's shoulder.

"No, not at all! We finally tracked down The Bigger Fish, we were here to attempt a reset. Speaking of, where are they?"

E.G. pointed to the shriveled white mass on what constituted the floor of the void. G' nodded gravely, and turned to the Duskers to explain to them the situation.

"Mister E.G., your opinion. Do you think that a reset is possible here?"

E.G. shook his head.

"They ate each other. There's no coming back from that."

G' relayed the information, then returned to E.G.'s side. It seemed every concerned.

"Are you alright? Are you injured?"

"No."

G's hand returned to E.G.'s shoulder.

"I want you to know you did something amazing here. There's no telling how many worlds they would have harvested from."

E.G. didn't reply for a long time.

"I used Mitchell and Nick to boost my power to defeat The Bigger Fish. They would have done the same."

G's gaze softened. It knew what was going through E.G.'s head.

"You aren't like them. Not at all.'

E.G. balled his fists.

"Am I like you then? Am I like Ga-men? Who am I like?"

"You are like yourself."

This seemed to upset E.G. even more.

"But who am I?"

G' took its time in responding, and before it spoke it ensured E.G. was looking into its eyes.

"You are something I could never hope of being. You walk your own path and have made the best of every twist and turn. You are someone I am proud to know, and am proud to have been able to see change."

The word "proud" sent something off in E.G., and his eyes began to water.

"Really? You…mean all that?"

G' just nodded, a smile forming on its lips. E.G. hugged him close, the tears freely streaming down his face now. G' let him cry, saying nothing and just rubbing his back.

"There we go…now, let's get you and your companions home, hmm?"

It offered E.G. a handkerchief which he gratefully accepted, and they both walked off together.

GSGSGSGSGSSGFSDTGDDRSFYHCDFFUVJFHGD YES YES I LOVE THIS HOLY SPARKLES

[cerastes]

The only two people immune to weirdo in Rhodes Island are Silence and Folinic. They have Weirdo Plot Armor. You CANNOT be a weirdo towards Miss Olivia Silence or Louisa in a way that matters.

You can put Mudrock and Phantom in the same room as Folinic and it won’t phase her, they are going to talk about how swinging a hammer in the golden ratio actually makes it stronger because of the mathematics involved in the Thodrian calculations of speed, a unit of measurement only known to Sarkaz but ONLY in the middle of swinging a hammer, or about how Jessica could feasibly become an Instagram influencer through her bouts of anxiety, and Folinic will just

They CAN’T touch her. She’s immune. Impervious. She’ll sit them the hell down and give them a medical check-up so thorough they don’t even remember they have Oripathy.

As for Silence, she’s Ifrit’s single mom and the single Straight Man(tm) in the Medical Department, composed of the likes of Ptilopsis, Warfarin, and Gavial (with daily Dark Souls Invasions courtesy of Aak). Buddy, she’s unflinching. She’s the sole iceberg of poise in a clown ocean. Her power is so immense that it is mentioned she spanks Ifrit when she misbehaves particularly bad. Silence is shorter than Ifrit and has the physical strength of a wet paper tissue floating in an active volcano’s eruption. Puppies sneezing generate more newtons of force than Silence trying to hit something. This means that Silence’s anti-weirdo powers are so colossal that she can simply sternly, firmly ask Ifrit to get on her knee, to which she will comply, and then, with all the kinetic force of a gentle breeze kissing a baby mouse’s cheek, will pap Ifrit’s butt in symbolic gesture that is physically imperceptible but that completely devastates the emotional constitution of its victim, because that day, you walk away knowing a sordid reality: You disappointed Silence. If Silence hypothetically spanked Koschei, well, let’s just say he wouldn’t be so Deathless after the fact.

There’s two essential cogs that keep Rhodes Island running and they aren’t Kal’tsit and Amiya.

[criticalrolo]

WAIT REMUS IS A FIGHTER WHO KILLS THINGS WITH HIS BARE HANDS i've been picturing him as the saddest most pathetic limp beast in my head. a wet tissue paper of a man. a depressed drowned kitten looking guy.

He is all those things!! and also he has a 21 strength and a 20 constitution so he's a fucking unkillable machine -- you'd just never know because he buries himself in his dumb coat and thinks he's pathetic because of his 7 wisdom LMAO

[pacific-rimbaud]

27 - panville (lets pretend its after their wedding) (lets also pretend this isnt me trying to extend bright objects epilogue in every way I can) (but just because you are the real queen of this ship)

Drabble #27: “I’m pregnant.”

by PacificRimbaud

Pairing: Pansy Parkinson x Neville Longbottom

Tags: WWII AU, unplanned pregnancy, hospital, brief mentions of war

Wiltshire, May 1944

“I’ve had a letter.”

Lavender’s voice dipped to a conspiratorial low, as though a letter was a secret Pansy both had an interest in and ought to be party to.

“From which one?”

Pansy shut off all attention to Lavender and inspected the label on a bottle of morphine tablets. Finding it sound, she filed it away in the back of the second shelf from the top in the medicine cabinet, and made a sharp graphite tick on the inventory form. 

“Lieutenant McLaggen. The fellow from Dunfermline. Oh, thank you.” Lavender received a wrapped bundle from one of the laundry girls, and set it down on the center of the table on the opposite side of the room. “He’s going to be in London next month, and wants me to come over on the train.”

Ticking at her form, Pansy fitted away a third vial, made another tick, and then filed a fourth in a martial row moving forward in the cabinet.

“You need to be careful with all that,” she said.

“Oh, I am.” Lavender checked the tag on the laundry. “I might seem silly, but I’m not daft.” 

Pansy scraped her pencil so hard against her form that it tore a small hole in the page.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You alright?” Lavender asked, hand paused at the task of untucking the edges of the bundle.

“I’m fine.”

Lavender laid out the edges of the cloth wrapping, removed a stack of cloth face masks, and set them on the shelf in front of her. “It’s only you look a bit flushed, Pans.”

Pansy tightened the aperture of her attention down to a ruthless diameter, wide enough for nothing beyond the minute detail of dates printed on pasted labels and the tick of her freshly sharpened pencil.

Once the old bottles were secured at the front of the shelf and the new ones filed behind them, Pansy closed the cabinet doors and brushed her hands against the cotton of her pinafore.

“I’m going to get some air,” she said, her shoulder nearly glancing against Lavender’s on her way out the door.

“Alright, love,” Lavender called after her. “I’ll tell you about the letter I’ve had from Second Lieutenant Creevey when you’ve come back.”

For a long while, Pansy had thought of the hospital as a cheap robe hung on the exalted bones of Thornwood Abbey. The war would end, and it would fall away as immaterial and disposable as the wrapping on a parcel.

No stain, no echo, no vibration of its requisition would be left behind.

It would be her sanctuary once again, and only hers, free to take her tea in solitary silence by the large window in the drawing room, watching the mallards dabble in the lake.

As it was, the drawing room was filled with men who sent up prayers to God if they woke with a headache from the anesthetic.

Day by day, Pansy felt the memory of her home drain away, replaced as it needed to be by the urgent and essential now.

She passed Daphne in the hall outside the room where her servants used to eat their dinner. She intended to keep up her pace and offer nothing beyond a tip of her head, but Daphne slipped her hand into the crook of Pansy’s elbow. 

“Your captain is looking for you,” she said quietly. “I’ve tried to deflect him, but I think he’s gone to Pomfrey already and knows you’re here.”

A voltaic shimmer traveled down the surface of Pansy’s skin and back up again.

“Fucking hell.”

Pansy turned around and stalked off in the other direction, abandoning the idea of a turn around the rose garden.

She nearly escaped to the nurse’s dormitory that was once her own, solitary boudoir.

But naturally he recalled the narrow service stairs in the east wing, and opened the door to descend just as she arrived at the top.

“Pansy,” he said, almost breathless with a sort of half-panic. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Neville.”

He held his hat at his side, pinched between his spare, muscled fingers.

His hair was never fully tamed, and the impacts of having put his hat on his head and then removing it again made themselves clear.

Pansy flattened herself against the wall of the confining stairwell, grasping her own forearms in her palms behind her back.

“Well?” she asked. She pursed her lips and lifted her chin, fluidly performing the impatience and imperious nonchalance that constituted the entirety of her personality as far as most people were concerned.

“I’m leaving.” He breathed in, an intake of air meant to fortify and compose. “Today. Just now, actually.”

His dark eyes scanned her own, but her vision caught on the pink line of scar tissue running from below his left ear, over his cheekbone, through the outside third of his left eyebrow, then turning back to end in a jagged half circle at the hairline at his left temple.

The scar and a Victoria Cross he kept folded in a handkerchief at the back of his top bureau drawer were the only mementos he had been given for a wound that had done everything in its power to end his life.

The desire to trace it with her fingertips flooded her with so much force that she pinched the skin of both her arms hard enough with her fingernails that she sucked in a breath through her nose.

“I wish you all the luck, then, Captain,” she said, leaning hard into the clipped tones of her breeding to mask the quaver in her throat.

“Pansy, please.”

She might have persisted—would have persisted—had he been any other man, but his hand was at her hip, and then his elbow was crooked behind her nape, and she was in his arms, sighing against the mouth that had been mercifully spared of injury for her own selfish, covetous, unappeasable use.

“I’m going to write to you,” he muttered against her jaw.

“I told you. I won’t read them.”

“I don’t care.”

Pansy took his hand in hers, and folded it over her breast.

She might have known better. Should have known better.

He made her mindless with want.

His hand closed hard, in the way that she liked best, over her too-tender breast, and she gasped with the pain of it.

He pulled back instantly, skin flushed and lips heated for her, and stared at her with an expression of hurt and confusion that she hated, instantly and forever.

“Pans, I’m so sorry. I—”

She prayed, earnestly, fervently, for his stupidity.

But there was only one time she’d known him to be a fool.

His thinking was both careful and thorough, and after a moment his skin paled.

“You’ve been avoiding me for a week,” he said.

She wouldn’t tell him.

She refused.

He would go, and meet the enemy at the door with nothing to remind him of her except the knickers she’d folded into his pocket on the afternoon he’d first taken her, breathless, his scar still red, against the grass bordering the rushes at the edge of the lake.

He would go, and there he would be stupid, beating back disaster with the hard brick of his self-sacrificial love.

Maybe he would come back to find her Miss Parkinson of Thornwood Abbey, sitting in her drawing room with a cup of tea.

Maybe he would come back to find her another man’s wife.

Maybe he would come back with no desire to find her anywhere.

Maybe he wouldn’t come back at all.

“Pansy.”

She was hard as flint.

She was so soft.

She could have told him the hour of the disaster with devastating precision.

Lying on her back, a prohibited object in his bed, she’d been lost with him moving in her, bleary eyes half closed, muting her voice against the sweat at his shoulder, heels at the small of his back holding him tight to her as she gasped out that she loved him.

She had hoped he hadn’t heard, but outside the borders of her own unbearable arc of sensation, she was aware that he’d finished inside her.

If she’d moved immediately after, it might have been possible to have done something, but she couldn’t care about anything beyond how it felt to be held in his arms.

In the dreary dark of the stairs, he studied her with dogged and patient intelligence.

And then his fingertips stroked down her belly, and flexed over the secret below.

He moved quickly then, ducking down and tossing her over his shoulder, and marching with singular purpose up the stairs to the second floor.

Below her, the familiar carpet of her ancestral hall streaked away from the backs of his heels.

He finally stopped at the mahogany door to what was once the least-offered guest bedroom in the east wing, and pushed it open with startling force.

He set her down on her feet in the middle of the room, and tightened one of his long arms around her waist.

The chaplain sat at his desk ramrod straight, auburn hair slicked into an adamant wave over his forehead and spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He cradled a pen in his hand, poised over a sheet of paper.

“Captain Longbottom. Nurse Parkinson,” he said, mannerly and terse. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m going to need you to marry us, Father Weasley,” said Neville. “Straight away.”

Father Weasley laid his pen down in a strict perpendicular to his page, and folded his hands together at the edge of his desk.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to submit the proper paperwork. Then Major Weasley will have to approve. He’s on leave in Devonshire at the moment,” he said, shifting his pen a millimetre to the right, “and isn’t expected to return until Tuesday.”

“Get Brigadier General Moody to sign off on it. He’s downstairs in the wards.” Neville’s hand tightened on Pansy’s waist. “I’m...that is so say we’re—”

He turned to Pansy, pink-cheeked, eyes shining, and smiled with half his mouth like an absolute clot.

Pansy couldn’t bear to look at him. Instead she stared hard at Father Weasley until he puffed a beleaguered breath through his nostrils.

He looked at the face of his wristwatch, then drew open a drawer at the side of his desk, and pulled out a blank form.

“You’ll need a witness.”

Neville released Pansy’s waist, stalked to the door and stuck his head out.

“Malfoy,” he called out. “You’re needed.”

Half a minute later, Captain Malfoy strolled through the door entirely unbothered, half-eaten apple in hand.

“Hullo. What’s going on then?” he asked.

“Give me your ring,” said Neville.

Malfoy looked down at the emerald ring on his little finger.

“What do you want my ring for, Longbottom? Go and get one of your own.” He looked Pansy up and down. “Where’s your wee cap gone, Pans?” He took an enormous bite of his apple. “I shouldn’t think the priest has it.”

“Father Weasley’s marrying us just now,” said Neville. “You’re needed as witness.”

Malfoy laughed. “What? Right now? What’s the bloody great rush?”

“I’m pregnant, idiot,” said Pansy.

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “Well that’s extremely naughty of you.”

With an effort, he pulled the ring off his finger and tossed it to Neville.

“You’d better have something a fair sight better than that in your vaults, Longbottom. I hope you’re aware that our Pans has champagne taste.”

Pansy tucked her hair over her ear. “Fuck off, Draco.”

While Father Weasley scribed at the form, Pansy tucked her hand in Neville’s, and turned to face him.

“I’m going to write to you,” he said quietly, rolling Draco’s ring in his fingers. “Constantly. I don’t care whether you read them.”

For two weeks, Pansy had watched the mirror with mounting terror.

She’d seen her soft, glassy eyes. Her swelling breasts. The heat rising visibly at the surface of her skin.

Fatigued and faint, nauseated and utterly sick with love and longing, she shifted to fill the open geometry of Neville’s body.

“Normally we’d get two days, Pans, but we’re...I can’t—”

She pulled up on her toes, and his arms tightened around her, lifting her nearly off the floor and into the warm space he kept reserved for her at the side of his neck.

“Were you going to tell me?” he whispered hoarsely.

“You can’t worry,” she muttered against his pulse. “You’re not allowed.”

“I’m going to use every last piece of paper I’m given.” He pressed his face into her hair. “I don’t care if you read a single one.”

Pansy breathed him in, using every sense to press him hard into the soft wax of her memory. “I’m going to read them all.”

[whatwashernameagain]

Keep him safe - Chapter 34

You can read the previous Chapters here: Ch 1, Ch 5, Ch 10, Ch 15, Ch 20, Ch 25, Ch 30, previous chapter, Ao3 Link, Lo’s, Pat’s and Virgil’s aesthetics, You are Magical, I’m dying to be with you, The Dreamer

Pairings: Logan/Patton, Roman/Virgil

Words: 9.007

Warnings: Roman and Virgil’s horny thoughts (not explicit), slight mention of cross dressing, scratches, political criticism, cursing – let me know if I forgot one!                 

Summary: Detective  Logan Sanders and his best friend and dorky partner Roman Prince have  made a dear friend in the lovely pattisier Patton. Logan however, feels a  lot more than friendship for the sweet man, even though he knows he  cannot possibly have him. Their routine is broken abruptly when Logan  finds bruises on Patton’s fair skin and slender wrists he could hardly  have received from his costumary clumsiness.   Meanwhile his partner  Roman has his own demon to fight, which comes in the form of a little  delinquent who seemed to have been pulled into a street gang quite  against his will. Roman is determined to help the strange young man. It  would be so much easier though if he just stopped hissing at him!

Notes: Thanks to @sebthesnipe​ for proof reading even though she is the busiest person in the world and to @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2​ for being amazing and running the KHS Discord server for two amazing years now.

Chapter 34

“Hey asshole, pick your shit up! What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Virgil screeched at the unsuspecting dog walker from his spot at the front door of their apartment building, already seething with anger. He’d just gotten back from his early morning training at Talyn’s place and had been looking forward to finishing it with Logan, who was currently on his run. And now this dirtbag was getting all up in this shit – or… Virgil was getting up in the dude’s shit. Well sue him!

The man startled, looking down at the cigarette butt he’d tossed to the ground carelessly.

“What’s wrong with me? You can’t just call me an asshole over nothing! Who do you think you are? Where I throw my fags is none of your business.”

Oh, that had been a mistake.

Virgil abandoned his attempt to unlock the door and got right into the man’s face, ignoring the bulldog happily yaping around his heels. He was so ready for this.

“Over NoThInG? Listen up, you hollow walnut!”

Before he could start ranting properly, a familiar tall man wearing a band tee with a ripped collar, no shoes and wild eyes materialized next to him.

“Oohh yay, are we throwing away our stuff???” He cheered, immediately emptying his pockets and throwing everything on the ground with glee. Bloody tissues, clothespins, a folding knife, crumbling dog treats (immediately slobbered away by enthusiastic dog) and a worn, tiny bible. Papers immediately started spilling out of it – some filled with scribbled thoughts or to do lists, others with faded printouts. In his back pockets he found a bunch of candy wrappers he immediately threw up to rain around himself, unintentionally tossing a pocket Quran along with it which he hastily fumbled with so not to drop it.

Virgil ducked out of the radius of his debris, as usual weirded out and awed in equal parts by professor Duke. The dog-walker looked at him like he’d just bitten off his own foot.

“The hell? Fags aren’t the same as your garbage, you crazy freak!” The man exclaimed, thoroughly disturbed.

“No, dude. They’re much worse!” Virgil growled, ignoring Remus trying to free his fingers from a distressed looking worm on a string he’d gotten tangled in. Quite a few people had stopped to watch them, yet with the professor cheerfully making a scene next to him, Virgil managed to keep his head high despite the heat and anxiety making his heart race.

“Cigarette butts contain over 4000 toxic substances and are virtually indestructible.” The young delinquent hissed. “The filters are made of a plastic called cellulose acetate and they take 10 years to decompose completely- just one of those fucks poisons one cubic meter of water and kills all the fucking fish in it.”

“You should pick it up, friend. Before I get ideas about where to put it out.” Remus cooed sweetly, before ruining the elegant subtly of his threat by becoming way too graphic.

“In your face!” He screeched, flailing grandly and wiggling his fingers, the bulldog distracting him by nosing at his pockets, hoping for more treats. Its owner used the chance to sullenly grab his cigarette stub and get away.

“You shouldn’t have a doggy-dog if you can’t handle being a clean boy!” Remus hollered after him, way too loud and shameless. “Do you not wipe your ass after you take a shit either? You naughty, dirty boy? Is it a sex thing? That is the one sex thing you keep in your bedroom!”

Virgil was blushing thoroughly, not enjoying the attention despite the righteous fire still fueling his anger. What the fuck was wrong with people throwing their garbage on the ground? What were they thinking? Not only did somebody else have to pick it up, it also fell apart to become microplastic and the nicotine, tar and heavy metals – all 4.5 trillion of them that were thrown away each year. Fuck smokers who did that! They were what was wrong with the word! Seriously, could you be any more of a useless human if they were not even able to throw their trash away properly? Full offense, Virgil wanted to kick them in the face.

People were staring and murmuring around them and though he didn’t feel bad about his reaction, his heart was still in his throat at all the attention.

“What? Are you not entertained enough, you mindless sheep?” Remus roared brightly, spreading his arms and bouncing up and down on his toes, placing himself in front of the younger man. “Would you like me to sing you a song about the misfortunes of little Jimmy who doesn’t pick up his litter? Spoilers – he gets eaten by an octoshaaaark!”

He struck a dramatic pose and drew a deep breath. People started fleeing.

“Aw dang.” Remus pouted.

Virgil chuckled, feeling surprising affection well up in him. Remus was scary, yeah, definitely, but he was also an ally to his cause, and that meant a lot to him.

Crouching down and using the opportunity to let his hair fall over his face, he started picking up the non-bloody articles Logan’s neighbor had scattered on the ground.

“Why do you have a bible and a copy of the constitution?” He asked, trying to shake the paper from his fingers and finding it disconcertingly sticky. Was that a cough drop? Ugh, he’d have to disinfect his whole body.

“For arguments with conservatives!” Remus answered happily. “I like slapping them in the face with the dick that is my arguments every time they go all bibly-christiany on me! They don’t love the fact that Jesus was a sandal wearing liberal that much – a lot like I am, actually! Not that facts work well with them – I found that barking and bending over backwards with your tongue lolling out works best. Makes an impression!”

He’d settled down next to Virgil cross-legged, bouncing his knees, and started munching on the dry little cookie thingies the bulldog had missed. “Dog treat?” He asked generously, holding one out.

“Why?” Virgil asked, completely bewildered. They were, indeed, little bone shaped dog treats.

“I like the way they crunch!”

“…okay.”  

Virgil still tried to make sense of the interaction he was currently having and found that using facts was indeed a lost cause with many republicans – which in this case was a generous euphemism for racists and Nazis, so one could just as well try what the crazy man did. Not everyone deserved to have a stage, after all.

Quietly, he examined the other. The ripped T-shirt made the wide collar slip down one of his skinny shoulders and the jeans he wore had definitely seen better days. His dark skin didn’t do much to hide the bluish shadows under his eyes. And also his naked, dirty feet were disgusting.

Dumping the stuff he’d picked up into the professor’s lap, he stood up. “Take a shower and come up at twelve, I’m making veggie burgers.”

There would be so much complaining once Roman found out he’d invited Remus.

***

Logan ran a hand through his sweaty hair, pulling the damp, raven locks out of his face. His muscles were burning pleasantly from his run and he was looking forward to his post workout stretch with Virgil. It would be illogical not to use the knowledge of an experienced gymnast for advice, after all. Though his little delinquent was still shy about it, the detective found he appeared to enjoy exercising together, as long as they were doing it in the safety of Virgil’s room where he could comfortably hide in his oversized sweaters.

His thoughts amusedly circled back to the way Virgil had to shake his hands free from his overly long sleeves whenever he reached for his feet while he fumbled his keys free from the little pocket sewn into his close-fitting trousers. As usual, Logan fetched the mail on his way up, sighing as a stack of colorful envelopes fell into his hands. Glitter rained down from one of them. With more gentleness than he felt inclined to, he beat the stack of bulging papers against the side of the building to loosen the shimmering plastic particles. Did this action constitute a case of littering, he wondered. He resolved to bring down his vacuum cleaner to deal with the mess after his shower.

On his way up, the detective separated the pile into his and Roman’s mail, ending up with sensibly sized, white envelopes in one hand, and a bunch of offensively colored, suspiciously rattling, sticker covered, perfumed fan mail his partner was greedily waiting for. He kicked the professor’s apartment door closed as he passed it, satisfied to hear him mumbling over the running shower in the also open bathroom.  

Roman was already lurking in the opened door to Logan’s own apartment like a silk-clad dragon looking to expand his hoard, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. Logan rolled his eyes. Despite having received letters for a week already, he was still overly enthusiastic about them every day. And he still refused to get them himself, instead he let Logan hand them to him exasperatedly like some strange ceremony.

The young detective snatched the pile eagerly, pouting as Logan held back two of them, not liking the powdery, sandy sound they were making when he tilted them. It was likely more beads or glitter, yet they still went into the box by the door to be checked in the lab (as they all should). He had ordered the post office whose address the fan-mail was sent to, to be extra vigilant before delivering the mail to his apartment, but he would most certainly not put the safety of his family at risk. He wondered, once again, whether he ought to borrow a service dog to check the mail for – preferably the rest of their lives actually.

“Look, Patton fairest, what the wind has blown in!” Roman sang cheerfully, twirling around the baker gracefully and then taking him for a spin and dip.

Patton giggled, stumbling and holding on to the tall detective, getting his lovely curls all tangled up in the frame of his glasses.

Smiling contently, Logan slunk into Virgil’s room to engage in what he hoped to turn into a routine. The young man was already waiting for him – playing on his phone curled up on the dresser between the planet lights he had kept, hair curling slightly with dampness from his private routine in Talyn’s gym he was slowly taking up again.

Meanwhile, Roman flopped onto the couch and yanked Patton into his arms enthusiastically, wanting to share his happiness and also maybe trying to distract him a little bit from his preparations for his return to the café. He wanted to support his friend, he really did, but he couldn’t help trying to put off unpleasant tasks for as long as possible instead of facing them. It was an issue he’d always had – one that had driven Logan half-crazy before he’d started to deal with many of those tasks himself and handed over others to Roman instead. They were making it work.

Roman didn’t actually have to do anything for the café, but the plan to reopen it, no matter how much Patton needed it, still made him antsy. Trevor-the-villainous-fiend could be lurking there. Who knew what could happen? After all, they had neatly avoided any contact, despite how often he had secretly talked the little baker out of calling him in the night when he’d been frightened and guilty. Which had been a lot of times. Better not tell Logan about that.

Well, distracting himself until the problem went away or got horribly unavoidable was a strategy that had gotten him through life just fine (now that he had Logan to read his paperworky-mail which he had an almost insurmountable aversion against dealing with), so he cuddled the baker close and settled in for some pleasant distractions.

Patton probably knew what he was doing, considering the way he pushed their cheeks together and hummed sweetly. Ugh, Roman felt so loved, it was too much for words. He squeezed Patton’s little body at his side closer to himself, just needing to hold on so suddenly. He loved him so much his heart was pounding with it. Feeling giddy with it, Roman jiggled and rocked them happily, delighting in the laugh he elicited.

“Alrighty, my most precious Patton, shall we discover the adoration of my beloved fans together?” The young man cheered, bright with eagerness.

“Yes! Now that I’m enveloped in a hug letters begin!”

Pulling his legs close to curl comfortably into Roman’s hug, and lean against his warm, broad chest, Patton selected the first envelope – a loudly patterned lilac one. Roman ripped it open with childish pleasure.

“Ohhhhhhhh!” He cooed, the sound almost too high for a man this large. “Isn’t this the most delightful thing you have ever seen, my fairest friend?!”

He was unfolding a drawing of himself in full superhero regalia, cape and sash and all, clearly drawn by a little child. Picture Roman was holding hands with a little kid each – a dark skinned girl in a princess dress and a blonde child of indeterminable gender due to the quality of the drawing. They were wearing a knight’s armor with a lightsaber as much as he could tell. It was adorable and Patton was putting it on the fridge. His eyes were watering at how cute it was.

“Oh.my.god. Virgil, my starry night, come here and see this!” Roman howled, very close to Patton’s ear.

The grumbling from next door indicated the delinquent’s feeling about the nickname as well as the interruption.

Roman waved the letter around with so much enthusiasm it nearly dislodged Patton. With a squeak, the baker held on to the tall man’s neck, even though the strong arm around his waist held him safely where he was almost pulled into Roman’s lap entirely.

Virgil, dressed in a mix of his old gymnastics’ clothes and his newer, oversized hoodie that hid as much as possible and fell all the way over his hips, didn’t really feel like being seen by the attractive detective right now. He didn’t mind Logan seeing him in his pants that fit his toned, long legs like a second skin, but with Roman, he felt a little more self-conscious. Especially about the combination with the ratty, overly long hoodie.

He used to wear tight fitting shirts that he now knew could look quite enticing when they slipped up his middle as he stretched or exposed his shoulders, but he didn’t feel confident enough to pick them out himself anymore. He wanted to look pretty for Roman more with every day, but considering the way the man had seen him in the past, he didn’t know if he could pull it off. Maybe Roman would feel like he was dressing up like a whore again - wearing a costume to seduce him. He didn’t know what made him so reluctant to dress better, it was just – such a big step and he didn’t know how to go about it anymore. So he wrapped his arms around his middle and hoped not to look too annoyed and uncomfortable. Especially considering how happy Roman appeared. So bright and innocent.

He was radiant.

And he was reading fan mail.

Virgil didn’t love the fan mail. Not at all. Remy had been forced to listen about it for a long time. He just hated the thought of those dirty minded, thirsty bitches getting to tell his man about all of the horny things they came up with while they drooled over his pictures. The fuck was wrong with them, trying to steal his- his- argh Virgil hated them with a passion, okay?! Who knew what ideas they were putting into that beautiful idiot’s head?

Remy was still patient with him thought, however the fuck he managed to do it. Virgil had the feeling he was being indulgently laughed at when he raged about the letters over the phone. So what if he hadn’t actually read any of them?! Roman kept singing their praise to anyone who would listen, why would he need to look at them himself? He was sure they were every bit as awful as he imagined.

Roman looked too happy with them. Fuck that.

He really looked quite happy, actually.

Virgil slowed his steps suspiciously.

Giggling, Roman flattened the paper before his eyes to read to Virgil. He even tried to do the voice. A voice Virgil immediately recognized.

‘Tell my anxious doll to, like, not to be such a moody diva and come look at some cute fan mail with his eye-candy detective.’ Roman took a break to preen. ‘I promise you don’t have to be scared, babe. Y’all are just making tasks bigger and scarier by avoiding confrontation with unpleasant chores and then they, like, build up in your messy little minds and that is not cool cause it makes me work for my not-money. So have a letter written by my precious little baby girl angels as a treat, okay girlfriend?’

“Awwwww so sweet!” Patton sighed.

Roman looked thoughtful for a moment as he pulled out the third sheet of paper written with a rainbow pencil, probably by Emile since the girls were too little to write themselves. The words were all enthusiastic little girl, though.

“How would you feel about looking at just one or two letters with us before returning to my dearest partner?” Roman asked sweetly. “They truly are quite entertaining. Just yesterday I received one from the utterly ravishing miss Van der Beek. All her other friends promised to write as well. It turns out I am quite popular with distinguished ladies with more experience enjoying the finer things in life!”

“What he means to say, kiddo, is that old ladies just love our dashing prince. Most of those are sent by the cutest grannies from retirement homes.” Patton explained with a warm smile that was just a little mischievous. “That doesn’t mean they’re all innocent, though.” He added cheerfully. Truthfully, he was already itching to get his hands on the hilarious letters. Those ladies really weren’t shy and Patton secretly wanted to be just like them someday. Enjoying the good life and making the best puns about butts.

Roman didn’t mind the fact that most of his paper-mail was written by children and elderly women (and grandpas, sometimes). He received emails and even digital art from younger fans as well, and he adored them, so, so much, but since he couldn’t keep them in a box with the pictures and drawings and ribbons and whatnot he enjoyed the letters even more. He just loved how creative they were. They really made him feel special. He should have known they’d make his dearest raven anxious, though. He really hoped to put him at ease with this gentle introduction Remy had created for him. And it worked! Of course it did – Remy’s children were the most precious things in the world! He could barely wait for their play date next weekend!

He was a little relieved to find the other letters they opened to be just as fun and cute. They usually were. Patton had a talent for selecting the nice ones from looking at the envelope alone. Not all letters were super sweet of course, but that was why he rarely opened his fan-mail alone. Both Patton and Logan made the creepy ones disappear quite quickly. Virgil could handle those, Roman was sure, but there was one person whose letters would just upset his dear wildcat.

They’d come in fine, yellow envelopes with pressed yellow roses inside and were written in the most beautiful calligraphy he’d ever seen. Recognizing the handwriting on the outside, Roman had squirrelled them away quietly. He hadn’t been able to stop running his fingers over the gracefully curved ink and flowing, tender words for a long time. Guiltily, Roman kept them in a separate box. He didn’t know how to contact his nemesis/admirer and wanted to let them down gently, after all. Before he caught them to lock them away, of course. He just wasn’t entirely ready to give up this feeling. He’d never been courted this way before and it had softened him towards his nemesis.

Virgil returned to Logan more relieved than he had been before, especially since Miss Van der Beek’s friends had come through and had written the most outrageous fan-mail. Roman huddled up comfortably, opening one last letter with Patton before lunch. It was a square, heavy envelope made from cream colored thick, expensive paper. The card inside was heavy and decorated with ornate, delicate gold finishing on the curved corners. It opened in the middle and admitted a view of a beautifully printed card. It read

Invitation

to the Morgan’s annual charity ball 2020

at the Ritz Carlton

 All the air seemed to have left the room. The paper tilted in front of Roman’s eyes and slipped from his numb fingers.

*

“I just don’t understand – after all those years…” Roman stared at the invitation, almost vibrating with nervous energy. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his father’s face turn to stone as he refused to change his ways after nana’s burial. Even after such a long time, it was still crystal clear in his mind.

He wanted to jump up and pace frantically, yet he couldn’t bear to lose the grounding touch of the men gathered around him. Patton had pressed himself against his side as tightly as possible while Logan stood over him, tall and solid, keeping a firm hand on the back of his neck. Only Virgil was sitting with some distance between them since he was clearly too upset to soothe anyone. The golden embossed paper seemed to cause his fury to boil over almost entirely by itself. He looked pale and angry and… he snatched Roman’s sleeve with a thin hand, holding on tightly. His eyes were dark and so hurt on Roman’s behalf.

“They chased me away. Why would they want me there now?” He asked softy, looking at his family with a lost, helpless gaze.

The young detective agonized over the invitation for most of the day, carrying it around and reading it over and over again. Even the presence of Remus during lunch didn’t manage to get a rise out of him in this distraction, which clearly made the professor sulk. Especially since he had a few words to say about those republicans! Thankfully, Virgil and Logan made him some calming herbal tea after lunch (leaf piss, in his opinion but okay), and spent some time debating the advantages of actually murdering and eating the rich while nesting on Logan’s cozy balcony. Patton took Roman’s hand to go on a walk to help him clear his head. It helped.

“A Prince doesn’t shy away from a challenge. I owe it to my pride to go. I can and will do this with my head held high!” He proclaimed proudly at the dinner table the same night. Patton squeezed his hand in support, smiling at him warmly.

*

“I can’t do this! What was I thinking???” Roman wheezed, trying to calm his racing heart the next morning. “This is the height of hubris – I have fallen victim to the folly of man! There is no way I’m going!” He howled, pulling on his hair and staring at the letter like it would explode. What had he been thinking???

*

By midday, Roman proudly projected his voice through the entire flat from his perch on the coffee table. “I will be proud and gallant and dazzle everyone with my charming compliments and dashing appearance and my family shall be devastated to see what they missed when they threw away their most glittery offspring!”

His figure was bathed in the brightest sunlight. His fears forgotten, Roman was ready to take on anything!

*

“What if it was a mistake? Is this a mistake?” Roman wailed, flailing around with the mangled invitation in hand only an hour later. His eyes were wild. He’d been carrying the expensive paper everywhere with him, swinging erratically between nervous episodes of self-doubt and fear of his father and loud and boisterous assertions of confidence. His hair had become an utter mess from running his hands through it during dramatic monologues and moments of insecurity alike. The others were trying to allow him to come to a decision himself, but the lovely detective appeared to be coping poorly with the freedom.

Half an hour later, he was once again standing on the couch, posing heroically.

“Finally they shall see what a marvelous protector their son has become! A shining knight! A handsome hero dressed in blue!” He boasted, wide eyed and clearly trying to convince himself of his own worth – even as he was asserting his superiority, he was slipping into a pit of self-hate.

Virgil wanted to kill someone.

Seeing this beautiful, confident man spiral so deeply into mental instability because of a letter was ripping him open inside with nowhere for the blood and fear to go but the boiling maelstrom that was his protective fury.

That wasn’t what Roman needed now, though. Taking a deep breath, the barista reached for his man.

Virgil grabbed a hold of Roman’s surprisingly trim waist and pulled his heavy body down next to him. His mood swings between elation and terror were wearing the young man thin. Resigned and too tired to overthink, he yanked the already slightly worn invitation from the tan hands, chucked it on the coffee table, and folded his body onto the large detective’s lap in the wild, desperate hope to pin him down finally. He seemed to love when Patton did it.

The bold move made him sweat with anxiety, yet it was a much more comfortable form of comfort than talking about the issue and ending up insulting Roman’s family as he so desperately wanted. Physical contact had helped calm Roman down most so far, but Logan wasn’t here to grab his partner in a silent, firm hug that squished him against his chest until he grew quiet and Patton was on the phone with his staff, so no tangling his soft limbs with Roman’s now either.

Virgil had tried to keep his distance from the issue after Remy had explained that Roman needed to make his own decision. He probably hadn’t meant brooding in silent fury (while telling Patton what he was angry about and awkwardly reminding him that he loved him all the time).

He couldn’t help hating that republican trash that was Roman’s parents even more than before, though. He wasn’t confused about their motivations for a second. Those filthy pieces of shit were sensing an opportunity to improve their reputation with millennials who were rallying against billionaires who exploited the world – the environment as much as their workers – without even paying fucking taxes. Seriously, fuck Trump, fuck Jeff Bezos, fuck the Morgans! They would try to use Roman’s fame and honesty to claim him as a token to show off to liberals, to make themselves look tolerant and likeable with their beautiful, gay hero son. He was acceptable when it was useful to have a diversity card they could pull in debates, now that their homophobia and racism wasn’t as accepted as it used to be. Fuck them with a broken chair.

He couldn’t say all that, though. He’d just make Roman defensive in this terrible way that left Virgil nothing to work with. The taller man was never aggressive with him. Instead he grew quiet and sad and tried to make Virgil feel safe by being submissive and gentle and letting him have his way as he swallowed all of his pain and fear for everyone else’s sake. Roman didn’t need his anger. Logan had already gently told him about all of the fears he and Virgil shared and had offered his support, he didn’t need a reality check Virgil was desperately holding back. Roman knew they were using him – intellectually at least. Yet, his heart was probably hoping they were finally willing to love him.

So Virgil pulled himself together and silently leaned his lithe body against Roman’s broad chest and tried to gather the courage to say yes to the lovely man’s unspoken question.

The invitation contained a plus one.

Virgil had seen the way Roman’s gaze had sought him out hopefully. He wanted him there, which was astonishingly sweet, since Virgil was… well. Virgil. The fact that Roman, who was beautiful and elegant and charming to a dazzling degree wanted to show Virgil on his arm when he knew how judgmental this fucking crowd was, when he knew what they would think…

Yes, it was also completely and utterly terrifying.

Seriously. A charity ball. At the fucking Ritz? Even young and not so messed up Virgil would have hated the thought with the passion of any idealistic, liberal activist. Fucking corrupt money bags trying to look like they cared while they marinated in their arrogance and wealth while kids in America couldn’t pay for their school lunch and went hungry. While they supported putting fricking kids in actual fucking cages seriously what the fuck this really was the cursed time-line.

Also was there a person alive on this planet who fit the aesthetic of the fucking Ritz less than he did? He didn’t think so. Fuck he needed Remy now. He’d promised to help, thank Tesla. Virgil was clinging to that voice in his memory that had told him to ‘breathe, doll. Daddy has fixed lots of tiny girl hair and fashion disasters in his time. We’ve got this, okay, babe?’

Sure. Dressing a feral bat like Virgil for a FUCKING BALL was a piece of cake.

Well, first he needed to see if Roman actually wanted him to come or if that had all been in his head and Virgil was about to humiliate himself so badly, he would have to move out and change his name. Maybe Roman hadn’t asked yet because he wanted to avoid pressuring him with something he knew he was anxious about. OR he had recognized how badly Virgil would look on his arm.

Virgil felt like he couldn’t breathe for a terrifying moment. He used his position in Roman’s lap he’d chosen in a moment of courage to hide his face against the tan, smooth skin of the detective’s neck.

A deep breath left the taller man as Virgil curled close. He wrapped his arms around the thin body and sunk against him gratefully. The purple mane was so soft against his cheek. All thoughts drifted away – invitations as much as sunflower-yellow letters – leaving only the sensation of warm breaths against his skin and a gracefully curved back under his palms. Everything seemed to quiet, to slow down.

Virgil’s body moved slightly with every breath. He was so warm and alive, such a grounding weight in his lap. He arched against his chest willingly to press himself closer, letting Roman feel the way his ribs expanded on every inhale. The darkness behind the young detective’s closed eyes felt soft and safe. He gently moved his palm over the prominent spine, between wing-like shoulder blades. Stress flowed from his body like water. Slowly, their embrace lost its purpose and became lazy and comfortable, a hug for no other purpose than allowing them to exist so close to each other.  

After what felt like a long time of soft tenderness, Roman felt Virgil tense again, knowing he had to get it over with. He couldn’t keep hiding in a cute cop’s arms for the rest of his life because he was embarrassed.

“Listen, man…” He murmured quietly, pulling back slightly. Despite Roman’s hands still resting loosely on his hips, now that he wasn’t curled up and hidden anymore, he felt silly and out of place, suddenly. He really had just sat down in Roman’s lap, huh? What the fuck, Virgil? Heat rose to his cheeks and that just made things a lot worse. He pushed his head down and braced his palms on that hard chest and barreled on.

“Uhm, about- about that invitation. I know you’re anxious about it, and I’m really not good with that shit – I mean – that’s obvious, considering-” He gestured to – all of himself self consciously. “I really don’t know anything about your, eh, your social class and those fancy parties and shit. We’re from pretty, pretty extremely different backgrounds after all, and-”

Roman’s large hand rose to tip Virgil’s blushing face up in order to reassure him (and because it made him feel like a chivalrous knight). His fingers found the pale delinquent’s throat instead. Feeling the racing pulse, he curled his hand around the slender neck right under the jawbone with utter gentleness and brushed it upwards, pushing his chin up slowly.

Virgil’s breath hitched upon feeling the intimate hold he was captured in. It would be easy for the grip to turn punishing, yet he only brushed his thumb over the edge of his jaw and that felt very, very good. Vulnerable in all the right ways.

“What are you trying to say, dearest?” Roman rumbled softly, catching the younger man’s attention from where it had wandered to inappropriate places.

“Uh…” Virgil needed a moment. Roman’s eyes were so vividly green, like sunlight filtered through freshly grown, thin leaves. His mascara made his lashes so long and dramatic and so pretty.

I, uh…” He stuttered again. Roman was biting his lip in amusement, so pleased to have muddled Virgil’s brilliant mind and the barista felt like a useless, horny teenager for the first time in too many years.

A chuckle escaped the detective that was deep and rumbled under Virgil’s palms. He looked at the young man in his lap like he was the sweetest thing.

Feeling his blush flare up, Virgil ducked his head, allowing Roman’s palm to slip onto his cheek. He didn’t force his chin up as he was composing himself. Instead, the manicured hand moved across pale skin and scratched lightly across his scalp. A shiver broke out and raced over the delinquent’s entire back. His mouth fell open in a pleased sigh as he leaned into the caress.

Hell yeah, he could just keep doing that forever, please and thank you. His large palm rested on the pronounced bones of his hip, gripping gently, safely. Virgil could feel the detective’s intense gaze on him like a physical touch. He felt very warm as he leaned closer to that powerful hand in his hair that gave him so much pleasure.

His flush was still hot on his cheeks, yet the heat rising under his clothes wasn’t caused by embarrassment despite the intimacy of the moment. He’d never thought he would be able to let his guard down and be looked at this intimately when Roman made him feel this way. The detective’s other hand moved slowly, brushing up and down his back in the lightest of touches.

Virgil couldn’t help the breathy moan that escaped him. It was totally justified, okay? He felt those muscular thighs shift underneath him, adjusting their positions just a bit, so he was brought more securely into the hold of those strong arms and felt a warm breath on the side of his face.

Suddenly, Roman yanked his hand back as if Virgil had electrocuted him, yelping like a frightened dog. His whole body jumped, jostling Virgil.

“The fuck- Cat, what the actual fuck?” The younger man screeched at the ball of gray fur that had wedged itself between them and was furiously hissing and biting at Roman’s hand. The detective flailed and squirmed, unbucking Virgil in the process and dumping him on the cushions as he tried to escape over the back of the couch from the vicious raccoon. He landed face first with a ‘thump’ and an unmanly whimper.

Patton peeked in from the kitchen, phone between his cheek and shoulder, kitten purring in his big cardigan pocket and mixing bowl in hand. Finding Roman trying to twist into a sitting position while his legs were still sticking over the back of the couch and Virgil being slobbered over by an overly affectionate, possessive raccoon, he shrugged and closed the door behind himself. He and Nugget were not getting involved in that particular jealousy triangle. His kiddos would just need to make do.

“Oh shit, Roman, are you okay, dude?” Virgil asked and he knew, he knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help the laugh bubbling up his chest.

Cat was squishing her fat butt all over his lap, pawing at his shirt and lovingly gnawing on his fingers, looking fucking pleased, fricking narcissistic levels of proud and awed at her prowess, like she’d owned the biggest, baddest villain of the kingdom, like she’d saved the princess and gotten the whole cake. While Roman – well…

The young detective/tragic victim heaved himself up on the backrest and was immediately hissed at fiercely. He snatched his hands to his chest to protect them from more scratches. Peeking over the couch just enough to look over it, his precious hair a mess and his lovely hands badly wounded, donning his best, hurt puppy dog eyes, he found no sympathy from his beautiful wildcat.

Virgil snorted helplessly.

“I’m sorry-” The barista gasped, really, seriously feeling sorry and knowing he shouldn’t be rewarding Cat, he was creating a monster here, but Roman looked so messed up. All of that magnificent hair that usually made him look like a prince falling over his face in messy, fluffy tufts – that betrayed, gorgeous, hilarious face-

He doubled over, snickering turning to wheezing laughter the more he tried to suppress it, and felt Cat purring up a storm from where she was throned on his lap, Queen of the couch, breaker of horny cuddle sessions, bane of Roman’s existence.

Since the purring somehow seamlessly turned to spitting, frothing hissing whenever Roman got too close, the poor, beaten hero had to settle into the armchair facing the love of his life (stolen by a villainous adversary), where he tried not to mope too much. He felt a very justifiable pout coming up.

However, tears were now streaming down Virgil’s face while he made himself lightheaded trying to scold Cat and repress his laughter. He only succeeded in making himself hiccup and devolve into a new peal of giggles.  

Roman melted into the armchair.

*

They were quietly folding blankets and putting away pillows, comfortable with each other even though Cat was still sitting in Virgil’s hoody, occasionally touching the back of his head and neck and gurgling threateningly.

It was alright.

Roman wasn’t a malicious man.

And he would get her back for this…

Glaring secretly at the bristly beast whenever Virgil wasn’t looking, the young detective finally remembered that they had started a conversation before their mutual attraction had overwhelmed them like swooning lovers in a romantic novel.

Giddy at the memory, he briefly amused himself with imagining them on a paperback cover – his own shirt open halfway over his gleaming, muscular chest, even longer hair flying in the breeze, Virgil fainting in his arms, pale and lovely in a Victorian dress – oh my lord. A flush rose hotly to his cheeks, especially as he imagined that trim waist encased in lace and possibly even a corset.

This time, he felt Cat was justified in hissing at him while she reached for him with sharp little paws, trying to take a swipe, craving destruction.

Thankfully, Virgil took his blush as a sigh of anger as he twisted around and saved the enthusiastically violent racoon from tumbling out of his hood in its quest for blood.

“Sorry, Dude. I’ll figure something out.” He promised.

Roman thought he didn’t look nearly alarmed enough. However… his little bird deserved all the valiant defenders he could get. The beast might make him feel safe while Roman wasn’t there to watch over him like the tireless defender he was. In principle, the young detective would not mind prospective rivals to be scared off. Just not himself, did this beast not have any taste?

Perhaps he’d just have to invest more effort in his quest to win over the scraggly protector of his dashing not-damsel’s honor! That he could surely do!

Filled with a new sense of determination, he maturely stuck his tongue out to the raccoon.

Virgil snorted. He was happy.

Roman liked that a lot.

“Before I forget…” He started casually, remembering how important the question had seemed to Virgil. “You wanted to ask me something before we were torn apart so viciously?”

The barista startled, his heart missing a beat with nervousness. Right. That.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, I was just- you don’t have to say yes – obviously! It’s just if you don’t want to go alone- though you probably have plenty of people to go with- I know you have friends and coworkers and… fans… and Logan could go too so you really don’t need me to be in the way but if you want, I – uh…”

“Virgil,” Roman interrupted him gently, hoping with a fluttering heart he wasn’t misinterpreting the stuttering proposition. “Are you offering to go to the ball with me?” He asked gently, quickly adding for his lovely raven’s nerves benefit, “Because while I don’t want to pressure you in any way, going with you on my arm would make me the bravest and happiest man in the world.”

His words were very, very honest. Having Virgil there, as his date, as his to hold in his arm and show off, showing that the gay failure of the family had captured the most beautiful, smartest and strongest creature in the whole word – he would feel like the king in his castle. Nothing could make him feel like he’d succeeded despite being ashamed of his sexuality for so long than to show Virgil as his beautiful prize. Having him would validate all his struggles and make all the suffering worth it.

So no pressure to say yes. Roman was cool with whatever.

Virgil flushed brightly, ducking his head in a familiar gesture to hide under his hair. His heart beat a mile a minute, filling him with awed elation.

And a little bit of terror.

Looks like he was going to the ball after all.

*************************************************

AAAAnd it looks like Virgil will finally need an outfit for the ball. I wonder who will help him???

As always, comments and reblogs are appreciated! If you want to support me, here is my Ko-fi page. Love you guys! Take care and treat yourself to something nice <3

Next Chapter

[lady-divine-writes]

Hello! May I request something fun for Ineffable Husbands for Halloween? Maybe something a little spicy? TIA

Hello, nonnie! A little spicy it is! Thank you so much for the prompt

Costume Malfunction (Rated NC17)

Aziraphale orders a bunny tail and ears to wear for the trick-or-treaters on Halloween, but is heartbroken to discover the set he bought won’t latch on to his clothes, and Crowley has to find a tactful way to explain why ...

“Hey there, angel.” Crowley slides up beside Aziraphale and kisses him on the cheek as he sneakily swipes a chocolate biscuit from the plate on the table. Aziraphale doesn’t greet him back, doesn’t object to his thievery (which he never does anyhow). He simply stares, despondently, into a special delivery box open in front of him. Crowley nudges his shoulder, hoping for a smile, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem in the mood to give him one. “What’s wrong?

“Oh … nothing.” Aziraphale sighs. “I’m just a little disappointed.”

“Why? Is Lady Shadwell talking about cocoa beans going extinct again?” Crowley shoots a look behind Aziraphale’s back at Tracy, seated at the table even though Aziraphale has chosen to stand, and drinking her tea.

“Well, they are,” she defends between sips.

“No, they aren’t. That’s what I want you mortals to think,” Crowley says, taking a bite of his cookie. “You humans wipe out the good stuff too quick. You all need to slow down! I need to make sure there’s always gonna be enough chocolate for my angel.”

Aziraphale smiles gratefully, but it falls right away. “It’s not that,” he replies, accompanied by another longer, more dramatic sigh.

“What is it then?” Crowley’s gaze follows Aziraphale’s into the box, certain the source of his woes are tucked underneath the layers of paper tissue and bubble wrap stuffed inside it.

“I ordered a bunny tail and ears from a costume shop online to wear for Halloween, but I can’t figure out how to put it on.”

“It can’t be that complicated.”

“But it is! It’s positively Sisyphian.”

“Let’s see. Maybe I can help you,” Crowley offers, making a grabby hand gesture.

“Oh, I hope you can.” Aziraphale reaches sadly into the box and pulls out a fluffy white tail topped with a pink satin bow. “I was so looking forward to dressing up for the trick-or-treaters.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow at that. He can’t ever remember Aziraphale saying he liked trick-or-treaters in his shop … or children … or people in general. But seeing as so much has changed for the two of them in the months following the Nada-geddon, maybe Aziraphale’s opinion on customers has, too.

Crowley would be surprised seeing as Aziraphale growled at a young man yesterday who wouldn’t stop asking questions while the angel was trying to read, but anything’s possible.

“Don’t you worry,” Crowley says with a fond sort of condescension in his tone. “I’ll have you up and bunnied in no ti---“ He stops, going slack-jawed when he turns the tail over and sees what has Aziraphale flummoxed. Instead of a clip or a pin, the snowy white tail, with its coquettish pink bow flowing over the top, is attached to a large, rather intimidating-looking, silver butt plug. “Uh …” He stammers, his brain stuck on an image of him using that glorious plush-adorned plug on his angel …

And of his angel using that plug on him.

His brain re-wires and he swallows hard, but neither does anything to bring his voice back.

“Is there something the matter, my dear?” Aziraphale asks.

“N-no!” Crowley stammers. “Nothing! Not at all! It’s just that … you wouldn’t normally wear this particular bunny tail outside.”

“That’s okay,” Aziraphale says, relieved. “I don’t intend on leaving the shop.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Oh. Then what do you mean?”

Crowley stares at the plug in his hands, trying to come up with an appropriate answer considering present company. Not that Tracy Shadwell would be shocked by Crowley explaining the mechanics of a butt plug. Far from it. But if Aziraphale doesn’t know, Crowley doesn’t want to fluster him.

“How about this - I’ll find a costume shop in London and pick you up a proper bunny tail. Then later on tonight …” He creeps in close, standing behind his angel with his arms wrapped around his middle, the plug cradled in his cupped hand “… I’ll show you what this one’s all about. You know, when we’re alone.” He glances at Tracy, whose eyes dart to her cup, her tea suddenly captivating.

“If you think that’s best, my dear,” Aziraphale says, wiggling back into his demon’s embrace.

“I do,” Crowley whispers, squirreling the plug inside his jacket and kissing Aziraphale on the cheek. “I’ll be back.”

“Don’t take too long.” Aziraphale accepts another kiss from his departing demon, this one on the lips. Crowley gives a nod to Mrs. Shadwell. The former medium nods back from behind her tea cup, which has yet to venture too far from her mouth lest she open it and say something she shouldn’t. She waits until Crowley is through the door and out of earshot before she speaks at all.

“You cheeky little …” She clicks her tongue. “Are you sure you’re not the demon?”

“Why?” Aziraphale carefully replaces the remains of the packing material in the box and shuts it up tight. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You didn’t order that tail by mistake! You bought that plug on purpose! You even asked me which website to order it from!”

“So …?”

“So you lied! You’re an angel and you lied!”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “That barely constituted a lie. And if I did lie, it was to a demon, so by Heaven’s standards, that counts as a loophole.”

“That’s kind of harsh, in’it? He is your husband, after all.”

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says with a smug grin. “That’s why, personally, I see what I did as roleplay, so technically not a lie.”

“Roleplay?”

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale sits down to his guest and his cup of tea. “Besides, it’s so much more fun when he thinks he’s teaching me something new. And believe you me, after 6000 years, there’s not much left on this planet I can pretend not to know.”

“I can imagine,” Tracy mutters, sliding her cup closer to Aziraphale when he picks up the teapot to refill his own. “So, does everyone in Heaven deal in technicalities and loopholes?”

“Of course, my dear. Why do you think it’s on the top floor of a high rise office building?”

[ratatatastic]

sasha with the game winning goal after skating clear through 3 bruins is the stuff of wet dreams and very hot of him now thats hot hockey, 3-2 cats in boston

and arguably the most important part is THAT HE DID A CELLY. ITS A SASHA CELLY. SOMETHING IS IN THE AIR WE KEPT BEING GIFTED SASHA CELLYS

forsy and senko coming in gently versus okie and ekky who are going to bowl that poor old man over please he has the constitution of tissue paper please treat him GENTLY (ekky came in so hot he genuinely almost knocks him over IM CRYING BE GENTLE)

florida panthers @ boston bruins game 4 | 5.12.24

[justjessame]

The Love of Two Hunters Chapter 7

When I woke up in John’s temporary room in Dad’s house, I had a few thoughts flash through my head. The first was overwhelming satisfaction and happiness that I’d gotten to make love to him before he left. And then, glancing around the room a surge of panic hit. What if Dad had come in to wake him this morning and seen us together? I knew he hadn’t because no amount of sexual exhaustion would have drowned out that shit hitting the fan. Another of course was, what if he’d gone looking for me in my own room first, and finding it empty had started a really fucking scary version of “duck, duck, goose” to find me?

Since I was looking at a few days alone, I started pulling off the bedding on John’s bed. Then I went room to room repeating the action, even in both mine and Dad’s. Screw it, I thought, laundry is one way to keep occupied while waiting for Dad to call, and hopefully John to text. I tossed a load into the machine, then walked around the house, smiling at the unlocked rooms that I’d never had access to before.

The library, or what Dad called his library, called to me. Standing in the doorway, I looked around the room. The controlled chaos, the books and papers and other paraphernalia that I’d seen pieces of when John visited me. He had a journal, Dad had a bookshelf worth. My fingers tingle, the urge to pick one up and look through it was almost unbearable, but then I stopped myself. What if whatever caused Dad to kill my mom was in one of those books? Did I want to see it? Did I want to read something my dad might have written about it and her? No, I thought, backing away and going to find my novel.

I read, while the bedclothes were washed, dried, and then I’d put them on the proper beds. After that self-imposed chore was finished, I washed the clothes I could find that would constitute as dirty. Dean had left a set of clothes behind on the floor, Sam’s were tucked into a chair in his room, John’s were on the top of his bag where he usually put them, and mine and Dad’s were in the hamper. I checked the pockets of Dean and Sam, knowing that both John and Dad always emptied theirs before putting on a new set. In Dean’s I found a couple condoms, a few scraps of paper, and some change. Putting it in a bowl from the kitchen, I checked Sam’s finding some change which I put in his own bowl.

The clothes constituted a single load, so it took far less time, but with the multiple loads of bedding first, I’d pretty much tore through the day. My phone was always in my pocket. It didn’t ring, it didn’t ding, and I tried very hard not to start fretting. Once the clothes were back in the proper bedrooms, with any left behind pocket stuff, I took a long hot bath. I read my book. I grabbed a light dinner. And, as I was about to lay down and force myself to try to sleep. I got a call and a ding.

Dad offered an apology for the delay. “We got into a bit of a situation, nothing to worry about, just these people are less trusting than usual.” He asked how I was doing, if I was finding something to occupy myself, and then he bid me goodnight. Promising to call me tomorrow, we said “I love you,” and hung up.

John’s text was simple. “I miss you. I’m fine. I love you.”

I smiled and texted him back. “Miss you, too. I’m glad you’re safe, stay that way. Come back to me. I love you.”

Sleep came easy after that. My last thought before going under was how I hoped that it stayed easy.

They were gone for two more days. And each night, before I went to sleep, I’d get a call from Dad and a text from John. It helped keep me calm. It helped me sleep. And during the day it made finding things to occupy myself with easier.

I got a tense call that final day. Dad telling me in a tight voice where to find his first aid supplies, but not telling me who was hurt. He let me know that they were close, and I needed to be ready. And then he muttered, before hanging up, that he was so fucking happy I took those classes.

I found the kit where Dad directed. I rummaged through it to see if it was well stocked, and was pleased to see that it was better stocked than some that I’d seen in the infirmary at school. Not knowing what I’d need or who was wounded, I washed my hands and pulled out the box of gloves. I heard the roar of John’s truck and the Impala that Dean as they barreled up to the house. Rushing to the front door, I yanked it open and my heart stopped.

Dean and Sam were pulling John from the backseat of the car. He was so pale, and there was SO much fucking blood it looked surreal. I had to fight to recenter myself, if I lost my shit and allowed my emotions to overrun, then I would be no fucking use to the man I loved. They carried him inside, and to the kitchen table. Laying him over it, with me on their heels and Dad coming from behind giving me a brief rundown of what happened, I had to do it again. Swallowing hard, and listening intently to what Dad was telling me, I moved forward and pulled on a pair of gloves.

The long and short of it was that he’d been taken down trying to cover Dad. Whatever evil they’d fought, I barely listened to that part, it had gotten him in the neck and shoulder area and just above his jeans, right under the ribs that I’d checked that first night.

I took a pair of scissors and cut through his shirts. Pulling them open to get a look at what I was working with, the wound on his shoulder looked far worse than it was, and the one above his jeans was deep, but healable. I worked fast, cleaning the lower wound first, despite the insistence from Dean that the neck was clearly the more severe. Once I could see past the flow of blood, I drew out needle and thread, and began the careful, even stitches that I’d seen our instructor show us. Having only been allowed to practice on fabric, using the curved needle through skin and tissue was a learning experience. I was scared, though, because John hadn’t made a single sound while I worked. Stitches complete, I applied a sterile bandage, taping it tight against his skin.

Moving upward to his neck and shoulder, I cleaned it as thoroughly as I had the one on his abdomen. Then, taking the needle and thread up again, I started working, but this time while I worked I talked to him.

“John Winchester, you’d better wake your sorry ass up right now.” I used the needle to close the wound, keeping the stitches as small as I could manage in the curve of it. “Do you hear me, John? You promised. You told me you’d come back to me. Well, you’re here, but you’re not here.” I kept stitching, and my mouth kept moving, completely oblivious to my audience. “I swear if you don’t wake up,” I choked back a sob. “I’ll kick your fucking corpse until you fucking do. Do you hear me?” I felt him twitch under my hand. “Keep still, I have a sharp object against your fucking jugular.” I shook my head, but kept moving, feeling more motivated now that he’d moved. “You gonna open those eyes I love so much, baby? Come on, look at me.” I was almost finished, and I was begging now. “John, come on, please, please wake up for me.”

It took until I banaged his neck, but he finally fought against his unconsciousness to find me above him, taping another strip down. “Hey, sweetheart.” His voice sounded rough, and I closed my eyes at the soothing feeling of hearing him again. “Fuck, what happened?” He tried to sit up, but Dean, Sam, and I held him to the table. “Ouch.”

I chuckled and brushed a kiss on his dry lips. “Lay still, you fucking ass. I just stitched you back together in two fucking places.”

And then, I heard Dad clear his throat, and glancing up I realized that now the cat was all the way out of the bag.

[jaywrites101]

Jay Reviews: Captain Marvel

Higher, Further, Faster. Emotions are a weakness, or are they? Today at JayWrites101 we're looking into the cinematic adventure that is Captian Marvel. Critics everywhere are pitching in on this one, giving it reviews ranging between Masterpiece and Disaster with very little room for leeway. How accurate are those reviews? Let's find out together.

The purpose of this review is not to promote, nor offend. We're here to break down The Good, The Bad, and The Strange to find out what makes this movie so unique.

Spoilers ahead.

Medium: Movie Genre: Superhero, action, drama Premise: A superpowered woman with amnesia must find out the truth of who she is so she can stop an interstellar war from destroying her homeworld.

My, that's such a simple premise, isn't it? Boy, the context of this premise changes dramatically. Our Protagonist, Vers, starts off as a Kree soldier fighting to protect Halla from the Skrulls, big green aliens with the power to shape-shift into anyone. As more information is revealed, she ends as Carol Danvers (not to be confused with Karra Danvers, DC's Supergirl) a human pilot who absorbed a fraction of power from an infinity stone whose mission is to protect Earth from the Kree as they try to use her to take over the galaxy.

It's funny how the entire plot reverses itself completely, but the basic premise never changed.

Plot: We start off learning about Vers, as she and her team gears up to rescue a spy whose cover has been blown. The mission turns into a complete fiasco when the spy turns out to be a Skrull in disguise. Vers is captured and "interrogated" using some kind of mind-reading technology. Thing is, she's remembering stuff she couldn't possibly have remembered. Things like getting chewed out for crashing a go-kart, or falling while doing a military course. Vers manages to escape her captors and flee to Earth. After contacting her team, she joins forces with Nick Fury, an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. who's thinking about putting together a task force to protect the Earth from major threats. Not a bad idea, that.

Together they investigate the fragments of memory that Vers recalled from her capture, all while being chased relentlessly by Skrull agents who also made it to Earth. Vers eventually finds a friend who knows the truth and learns that she is, in fact, Carol Dan-vers, a human. Before this revelation has time to sink in, the Skrull offer a flag of truce. They reveal that they're not a military force, just a few survivors trying to hide from the Kree who hunt them relentlessly. As proof, they offer Carol a recording of the incident that robbed her of her memories where it's shown unarguably that her teammates, the Kree, deliberately captured her to find the Tesseract, a device that holds an Infinity Stone, and accidentally gave Carol her powers when she tried to destroy a device that used that energy.

In the end, Carol and her new friends are captured by the Kree and Carol realizes the device she believed was giving her power, was actually suppressing her powers. She destroys the device and becomes Captian Marvel, a superbeing whose massively undefined powers include energy blasts from her hands and flight. Powers that allow her to tear through a Kree spaceship like it was tissue paper. If you've watched Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 1. then you know these things are no joke, but Carol destroys one in three seconds flat by flying through it.

Bad guys leave, Carol takes the surviving Skrull to a new planet on the opposite side of the galaxy and Nick Fury begins his Avengers Initiative. Fast forward to the Present and Carol returns in the end-credit scene to a very confused Captain America and demands to know what happened to Fury.

This was one heavy plot. I cut a lot out of it and it still took me thirty minutes to give a summary that wouldn't leave you more confused than you began. You wouldn't think this movie was so plot-dense until you have to try to explain it.

The Good: I just broke down the plot, but what's great about Captain Marvel is that this plot is engaging. I had to go to the bathroom about a third of the way through the movie, but I didn't once consider actually leaving because every second of this movie was filled with something.

I've heard it said before that a good plot structure is "X happened because of Y and causes Z." There are precious few films that encapsulate that principle into the core of it's being better than Captain Marvel. And the nods to future films and plot points were fun to discover as well.

Another thing worth noting is how much of the story is conveyed nonverbally. They spend a lot of effort to say as much as they can, using as little dialogue as possible. This helps the viewer to remember plot details better since they're not just passively listening, but it also means that removing attention away from the screen can cause you to miss things crucial to understanding what's going on. I'm leaving this in The Good because Captain Marvel used this feature well. It's always nice to see a visual medium like film use visual storytelling to great effect instead of having someone constantly dumping exposition all the time.

As a subset of the above, lack of exposition in a movie that is a plot-heavy as this one is always worth noting as praiseworthy.

The use of humor to break up the heavier scenes was a relief, and it often came when I least expected it. Real early in the movie there was this scene where "Vers" was escaping the Skrull's and one of them does this growl at her and she growls back! It was such an absurd little moment of humanity and character that I lost it. And almost anything with that cat! I swear, how they made that monster scratching out Nick Furry's eye out into something hilarious, I'll never know! But they did, and all those little moments made this movie shine.

Real briefly, I'd like to address a common complaint I've heard against this movie, Carol's lack of character. These people are full of fluff. Is that it? Can I just leave it here? Do I really have to explain this? Yes?? *sigh* Okay.

The idea that Carol lacks character is born from her "reserved" personality type. Now, I'm not calling anyone sexist! But this is a personality type that is very often shown in Men ™ , and it doesn't even raise an eyebrow. But to any dude who actually is sexist, and refuses to look at anything other than how large Brie Larson's chest is outside of her superhero suit, this personality type can easily be swapped out with a piece of cardboard and they wouldn't notice.

Now, guys have been pulling off this “kind of quiet, but kind, but I'll seriously kick your ass if you mess with me,” attitude in film for ages. And quite a few even have had success with it. (I'm thinking Resse from Person of Interest, a show that is definitely getting its own review someday.) But it's exceedingly rare for a woman in film to have this personality type.

It's not uncommon in reality, however. And I, personally, like this touch of realism.

The few moments where Carol allowed herself to laugh felt warm and genuine. All her interactions with her niece were heartwarming. Again, some very important people, some of whom I even respect, say that the side characters never got a chance to shine, and Carol never got a chance to have a character arc.

But again, they're full of fluff. If anything, expressing emotion was Carol's character arc. By beating up the man in her life that insists that she never feel emotion, Carol shows that her emotions are her strengths and she does not at all have to prove herself to anyone.

Why?

Because she kept getting back up.

This is a powerful message to tell anyone. Not just women. We heard a variant of the same message in the Dark Knight trilogy. But in this one, it's even more satisfying because the people who kept knocking her down were cheating to begin with.

Now, I'm not going to say that this message was transferred across the eight sexes evenly. I have no doubt that women felt this message more acutely than men. This specific message was made for women. Duh. But there's only one reason why any man could come out of this film feeling attacked.

They saw themselves in Yon-Rogg.

I'm just saying, if you related to the one male character that got attacked in this movie, you prolly need to be offended. Just a little. It's not going to kill you to take a hard look at yourself, even if you eventually discover that you have, in fact, been an ass at some point in your life.

Congratulations. Welcome to the human race. Now, move on.

Before we take our own advice and move on, I'd like to address one more thing Captain Marvel did exceptionally well: The sound design.

This movie sounded wonderful, from the effects to the actual factual background music. Most notably in the third act. There was a point where a character said "The music is a nice touch" and I agreed completely. A lot of these films use similar or recycled music to amp up "the moment" but this movie... well, they didn't turn it up to eleven, but the got it up to ten.

They had music with lyrics, and that's more than 70% of movies these days. Thumbs up.

The Bad: Remember how I said I loved how engaging this plot was? It's still a freakishly dense plot! This whole thing was so tightly edited there was very little time to just unpack the things that happened. Often, you had to try and unpack the thing that just happened while actually doing the next thing.

This helps the movie be engaging. But it hamstrings it when it comes to actually following what’s happening. There is just no way to condense this movie. I've left out tons of stuff just because I have to stop typing this thing eventually!

The Strange: This part of the review is dedicated to the bizarre. To elements or ideas that seem half done, or just really questionable. Not usually bad enough to be constituted as a plot hole, these things are... just... things.

So, for example, the Kree team. What were their names? How many of them were there in the first place?

Don't know? Me neither, and I took notes when I watched this film. I remember Minn-Erva, the sniper, and Yon-Rogg the main villain. And if I'm honest, I actually forgot their names and had to look it up. I didn't even know their group was called "Starforce," until I discovered it looking for the correct way to spell their names.

This is not the best way to set up your main bad guys. Especially if your audience is supposed to care about them at all for any reason.

And while we're at it, the antagonist himself, Yon-Rogg, could do with a little bit extra development too. We don't really know much about him except that he thinks emotions are weaknesses in a fight, and that Carol using her full power is cheating.

We don't really know anything else about him, so there's no real sense of betrayal when Carol turns on him. The "evil all along" trope works best when it's a character you've been with the whole story who's secretly had a plan the whole time. It works because you, the audience, feels betrayed too. Here... it just kinda happened. And, depending on how cynical you are, you probably even saw it coming.

It's like they were going for a sucker punch but aimed it at your forearm; doesn't really hurt, and does little to actually surprise us.

Strongest Scene: When making the strongest scene, I don't mean I look for the scenes with the most meaning packed into them. If I did, the climax or the Intro of a story would win every time. No, what I look for in a strong scene is pure storytelling. How is it shot, who is in it, how does it connect with the rest of the story, and how much does it say.

For Captain Marvel, my subjective vote goes to the bar scene between Nick Fury and "Vers." Even though they've technically met already, the two are really seeing each other for the first time. Nick, newly awakened to the idea of aliens, and Vers, finally respecting Nick's skills as a competent agent despite his comparative backwater setting.

Nick realizes he's in about a mile over his head, and Vers realizes she can't work alone.

They have a nice discussion about their past and aliens, complete with its own little humorous jabs, and there's a very real sense that these two are full partners afterward that carries all along the rest of the movie.

Weakest Scene: As much as it saddens me to say this, I'm going to have to put the introduction to the movie here.

Don't get me wrong, it does a fully competent job of setting up Vers and her amnesia. But we don't get a good sense of anyone else in Halla. To me, it's the things we don't see that really spoil this intro. We don't see any of Carol's friends, and the one guy we do see is in a bit of a mentor position. We don't see how people in this world live, and because of that, we don't get to know if the people of Halla are happy, or miserable. And while this does little for the plot of this movie, it would've done marvels at giving the villains characterization or justifications.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda; didn't.

Luckily, I can gladly say that every other scene in this movie was made stronger than this one.

Conclusion: Captain Marvel is an excellent story from start to finish. Anyone who tells you otherwise is stuffed so full of fluff you can call them Whinee the Poo. And yes, that is my way of saying they're full of crap. 

There's a stigma around female characters that they're almost all considered Mary Sue's, and that being a Mary Sue is the WORST CRIME EVER!! But I never got that from Carol. Mostly because at every opportunity instead of powering her way through her problems, she had to cave and struggle and even fall.

And then she got back up.

[terigoodwin8231-blog]

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Nuclear Monitor

maryo@nirs.org

NIRS Briefing Paper, October 2011

A woman is at significantly greater risk of suffering and dying from radiation-induced cancer than a man who gets the same dose of ionizing radiation. This is news because data in the report on the Biological Effects of Ionizing Radiation (BEIR VII, Phase 2 report, “Health Risks from Exposure to Low Levels of Ionizing Radiation”) published in 2006 by the National Academy of Sciences (NAS) has been under-reported. It is more often acknowledged that children are at higher risk of disease and death from radiation, but it is rarely pointed out that the regulation of radiation and nuclear activity (worldwide) ignores the disproportionately greater harm to both women and children: “allowable” doses to the public do not incorporate this information.

The goal of the NIRS briefing paper is to help the lay reader understand the data on radiation impacts to women presented in the NAS radiation report. Other researchers (like ECRR -European Committee on Radiation Risk- reports 2003 and 2010 <http://www.euradcom.org/2011/ecrr2010.pdf> ; and independent researchers including Dr John Gofman, Dr Rosalie Bertell, Dr Alice Stewart and Dr Steven Wing in the United States and an even larger circle in Europe and Russia)  indicate that the effects may be even greater than the NAS findings. This is because the NAS report covers only radiation doses that are from sources outside the body (gamma and X-rays) -leaving out doses from radioactivity taken inside the body. These internal effects result from contamination inhaled in air, and ingested food and water and confirm that the overall assessment by the NAS is not complete.

Nonetheless, the NAS report is stunning enough: it finds that harm to women (cancer) is 50% higher than the comparable harm to men from radiation doses that fall within the legal limit to the public over a lifetime. Let’s be clear: radiation kills men--but it kills significantly more women. Both cancer incidence and death are 50% higher for women. Non-cancer health impacts were not included in the analysis.

NAS also looked at a second group receiving annual radiation dose levels that were ten timeshigher than the first group (still under the legal limits for a nuclear worker) during ages 18 - 65, as might occur from occupational exposures or adults living in contaminated zones like parts of Japan, Ukraine, Belarus, Russia, Scotland, Australia, Kazakhstan, Mongolia, U.S. (and other contaminated zones). The reported incidence of cancer in women in this group is also 50% higher when compared to men who got the same dose level. Women in this group were 40% more likely to die of their cancer than men in this group. The overall cancer rate (both incidence and mortality for both men and women) is higher in this more highly exposed group. (1)

The fact that this information has not been widely reported has deprived women of our right to know about this threat and protect ourselves from this harm. In addition to the “right to know,” women have the right to protection. The U.S. Constitution guarantees “equal protection under the law.” International “allowable” radiation levels do not reflect disproportionate harm to women – or the extent to which they say they do, they are not protective. In the U.S. it may be necessary to depart from the international radiation regime in order to deliver constitutional rights to the more than 150 million females in the United States.

Further, this situation violates the Right to Free Prior and Informed Consent as recognized throughout the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Adopted by General Assembly Resolution 61/295 on 13 September 2007, particularly Article 19: States shall consult and cooperate in good faith with the indigenous peoples concerned through their own representative institutions in order to obtain their free, prior and informed consent before adopting and implementing legislative or administrative measures that may affect them.

To our knowledge, no women, indigenous or otherwise, have given “informed consent” to a striking lack of protection from ionizing radiation.

Children It has long been understood that children and the unborn are at greater risk from exposure to ionizing radiation than adults of either gender. During the rapid cell division in growing young bodies DNA is more vulnerable to damage from radiation. It is more difficult to find reports on gender-specific data comparing differences in harm to boys and girls or to embryos exposed to ionizing radiation.(2)

No Safe Dose It is vital to keep in mind that there is no “safe” dose of radiation to anyone of either gender, or any age. This is because any radioactive emission has the potential to cause damage that over time becomes cancer. Cancer is harm--and many cancers have the potential to be lethal. The cells of our bodies have repair mechanisms that in some cases can reverse the damage caused by radiation--but the amount of exposure, type of exposure (internal, external), timing of exposure and presence of other carcinogens and stressors impact this function. All the BEIR reports of the National Academy of Science affirm the no-safedoses finding. The Environmental Protection Agency states in the Safe Drinking Water Standards that there is no safe concentration of any radioactive material. The radiation standards of the US Nuclear Regulatory Commission are also based on the “linear no threshold” model which states that in order to have zero risk, there must be zero dose.

There is evidence that individual bodies vary in capacity to carry out correct repair. It is not clear if there is a gender difference in the repair mechanism, but the NAS findings underscore that should be investigated.

Not Only Cancer Radiation harm includes not only cancer and leukemia, but reduced immunity and also reduced fertility, increases in other diseases including heart disease, birth defects including heart defects, other mutations (both heritable and not). When damage is catastrophic to a developing embryo spontaneous abortion or miscarriage of a pregnancy may result.(3)

Precaution It is not clear whether further research is being done to unravel the basis for disproportionate radiation impacts on women; however, the Principle of Precaution dictates that we protect first, study second. Increased harm to women is not fully understood but it is known that reproductive tissue is more sensitive to radiation damage, and females have a larger mass of reproductive tissues than males.

There are multiple, complex factors that make reproductive tissue unique, and also multiple, complex modes of radiological damage. The Principle of Precaution dictates that protective action must be taken once a potential (in this case actual and ongoing) harm is identified. Research may follow, but precaution dictates that protective action not be postponed pending future research results.

Radiation is a Privileged Pollutant The world’s radiation standards were originally developed to allow exposure rather than to prevent it. This makes sense given the historical context: the need for such regulation arose in the early 20th Century when exposure to human-concentrated or human-generated radioactivity was rare. The Manhattan Project, the all-out national effort to develop the first atomic bombs, was one of the original “drivers” pushing the development of “permissible” radiation exposure levels.

It is also the origin of assuming the individual receiving a radiation dose is a male--a Manhattan Project worker. With the advent of nuclear energy and the facilities that produce nuclear fuel and handle waste, these standards have become evermore generalized to a larger and larger public. The current limits for most industrial radiation in the U.S. allow fatal cancer among members of the general public at a rate that is between 300--3000 times higher than the legal rate of harm from most other industrial hazards.

A hazardous industry has traditionally been defined as one that causes cancer in one individual in a million. The Environmental Protection Agency’s goals for clean-up of contamination on industrial Super Fund sites is a risk of one in a million exposed getting cancer, with exceptions down to 1 cancer in 10,000 people exposed. The U.S. Nuclear Regulatory Commission  (Expanded Policy Statement on Below Regulatory Concern, published in the Federal Register in 1990) now “allows” radiation levels to the general public that it projects would result in 1 fatal cancer in every 286 people (well, actually, adult men) exposed over a lifetime. However, this is “apples” compared to “oranges.” EPA regulations reference cancer incidence. NRC references deaths; if non-fatal cancers were included by NRC, the comparison would be even “worse.” We are less protected by NRC radiation standards than the regulation of other toxic hazards by EPA.

The NRC limit of 100 millirems a year is comparable to the NAS 100 millirad study level. NRC’s risk assessment of 1 fatal cancer in every 286 exposed does not reflect the NAS findings that radiation at this level to women results in 1 fatal cancer in every 201 women. The NRC equation underestimates the risk to women by nearly 40%. Since NRC does not differentiate between men and women in its regulations, it does not regulate to specifically protect women.Thus women are not equally protected where such standards are in place.

Since 1992 there has been further relaxation of regulations: the amount of radioactivity legally released to the environment under NRC regulations has gone up, however the stated dose of radiation from those revised levels remains unchanged. This paradox is contrary to NRC's own principle that there is no safe level of radiation, which should dictate tightening, not the reverse.

In 1990, the NRC stated that the average annual dose of radiation to a member of the public is in the range of 100 millirems a year. Before 2000 this number was reassessed to 360 millirems year to reflect exposure to radon in indoor air and some manmade sources. It has never been clear whether either of these estimates reflected radiation from atmospheric nuclear weapons tests, or Chernobyl and other nuclear accidents. Dr Bertell reports that manmade radiation ‘becomes’ part of background after it has been in the environment for a year. In an eerie coincidence, in January 2011, US NRC “upgraded” annual radiation, including medical doses and more of other sources and places background at 620 millirems a year, just as another catastrophic release of radioactivity is occurring. NRC currently states that about 15% of the 620 millirems – or 93 millirems – come from naturally occurring minerals on earth combined with cosmic rays. See: http://www.nrc.gov/reading-rm/doc-collections/fact-sheets/bio-effects-ra...

Adding in Background Radiation Federal agencies have repeatedly altered their assessments of how much “background” radiation people in the U.S. get on an annual basis (see box). “Natural background” radiation refers to that received from terrestrial sources (primarily uranium and its decay progeny in rocks and earth) and non-terrestrial sources. The reported levels have stayed relatively constant at 80-100 millirems a year on average depending on elevation. For purposes of this discussion, where only low-LET radiation from external sources is considered, a millirem and a millirad are effectively interchangeable. "natural radiation" results in "natural cancer".

Everything on Earth gets exposed to radiation; this "background" exposure is not uniform—so averages are used, but are not necessarily accurate. When radiation hits living tissue there is always the potential for damage that may lead to disease. This “natural” ionizing radiation is from cosmic rays from deep space, from the sun, from meteors, from elements that are part of Earth’s crust and core that are taken up in the food chain, dissolved by water or spewed by volcanoes and spread by dust storms. At 100 millirems a year over a lifetime, this natural background radiation exposure is comparable to the 100 mrads that the NAS looked at.

Background radiation is however, an additional dose. When doing research, it is assumed that the "control group" and the "study group" both get the same background radiation dose; therefore the "study group" who got the 100 mRad a year were in actuality receiving, on average, 200 mRad a year total radiation dose.

All radiation exposures from radioactivity that is released into our air and water from industrial energy production, military activities and all the accident sources are over and above the “naturally occurring background radiation” that comes with living on this planet. Thus, the NRC’s legal dose of 100 mr/yr is on top of background, and constitutes a doubling (on average) of both the dose of radiation and risk of health consequences from radiation to the public.

Adding to the background dose does not change the rate of risk – but as dose goes up, so does harm. The dose/response (harm) relationship assumed by NAS (and NRC) is linear. When the dose doubles, so does the harm. Interpretation of the NAS data which reports both cancer incidence and cancer fatalities at two dose levels again opens the doors to many "apples vs oranges" vs "peaches and grapes" since it is not possible to completely factor the issues between a cancer which results in death and one which is survived. In addition, the linear model has been challenged later, by independent researchers who suggest, as the NAS data supports, a higher level of harm at the lower levels of radiation exposure.(4)

Assuming the additive nature of exposure and harm at low doses, adding the natural radiation and natural cancer to the NAS "study group" results in one in 50 women getting cancer from radiation exposure, and one in 100 dying as a result. This radiation dose (100 millirems/year "allowed" for industrial sources in addition to background) is precisely what the Nuclear Regulatory Commission sets as its overall regulatory goal for nuclear operations of its licensees. The NRC actually allows each license to expose the public (an adult male is assumed) up to 100 millirems a year in air, another 100 millirems/year in water, up to 500/year in sewage. Many nuclear power plants have two or three licenses per site.

While there is a cancer epidemic in the U.S., this level of harm from legally “allowable” levels of radiation is stunning and worthy of our attention and action. Ionizing radiation regulation is demonstrably far less protective than the regulation of toxic chemicals where the allowable level of risk of fatal cancer is 1 in 100,000 or in some challenging SuperFund clean-ups, as high as 1 in 10,000. We have seen here that combined background, for which there is no option, plus only 100 mrads means that 1 in 50 women suffer cancer, and 1 in 100 die of it. That is a privilege by a factor of 1000.

Internal Exposure Radiation from radioactivity taken inside the body via inhalation, absorption and ingestion is substantially different than external exposure. The NAS work explicitly does not consider any internal dose. The survivors of the Atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki are often cited (incorrectly) as basis for 20th Century regulation of radioactivity, are also not representative of the type of radiation most people today suffer. This group was primarily exposed to an intense flash of external radiation. It is nuclear accidents like the meltdown of Three Mile Island (1979), the explosion of Chernobyl (1986) and now the explosions and meltdowns of Fukushima where food, air and water have become substantially contaminated and internal exposures result.

Many radioactive elements emit particles (alpha, beta, neutrons) that are called high-LET because they are traveling with a force which, combined with its greater mass may inflict greater damage to living tissue than an X-ray. Lab studies show that an alpha particle may cause as much as 1000 times greater damage to a cell than an X-ray. (5) Internalized radiation also results in higher doses since every internal emission absorbed, at zero distance to the impacted tissues, will cause radiation impact for as long as it is in the body, and may concentrate in the most vulnerable areas, such as gonads or bone marrow.

When alpha and beta particle exposures from radioactive substances that have found their way inside the body are included the overall risk factors may or may not change,(6) but the assessment of the radiation dose itself does change. The European Committee on Radiation Risk report of 2003 discusses this in detail. This explication is based on the NAS which explicitly does not include doses from internal sources.

History of Radiation Standard Setting (7) The first standards (in the 1920s) for exposure to ionizing radiation were developed to limit the exposure of physicians. A committee of the International Association of Radiologists dedicated itself to setting standards and developing units for measurement of radiation. The U.S., Canadian and UK physicists of the Manhattan Project met, between 1945 and 1950, to set international recommendations for Radiation Protection Standards, in light of atmospheric nuclear testing which began in the Pacific by the U.S. in 1946, and the planned expansion of the nuclear industrial base. During this time, the physicists decided only cancer deaths caused by radiation were “of concern.” They also developed the Standard Man, 18-30 years old, Caucasian, healthy (the soldier or atomic worker). This Standard Man is to this day the body mass used to calculate a generic radiation “dose” when radiation measurements are taken. In 1950, the International Commission for Radiological Protection (ICRP) was formed from the Radiologist Committee and Manhattan Project physicists.

Membership in the ICRP is by recommendation of present members and approval of their Executive Committee which has resulted in physicists constituting more than half the membership of the Commission. This all took place, and the radiation exposure recommendations were set, before any analysis of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb data, contrary to myths. Indeed, the survivors had not even been identified in 1950 when the international standards, which stood unchallenged until 1990, were set. The ICRP as a selfappointed entity has functioned to provide the appearance of a scientific basis for standards designed to allow governments and private corporations to expose workers, and now by extension, the general public to amounts of radiation over and above natural terrestrial levels. In every case, these “legal” limits allow a doubling or more of the level of radiation that is “natural” and with which life evolved.

Government agencies worldwide have based their standards on recommendations from the ICRP and a corresponding “National” Committee for Radiological Protection (NCRP). These bodies have not explicitly made standards to protect either women or children, originally due to the historical focus on a relatively young male workforce. In the interim the public has become subject to the ongoing contamination of air, water and soil by atmospheric nuclear weapons tests, and from the growing number of catastrophic nuclear accidents including Windscale, Kyshtym, Fermi 1, Santa Suzanna, Brookhaven, Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, and Fukushima.

The Nuclear Regulatory Commission bases its levels of allowable radiation exposure to the public and workers on the NCRP and ICRP recommendations. The NRC regulates the largest sources of radioactivity, the 104 operable nuclear reactors in the U.S. The radioactivity generated by a single 1000-megawatt nuclear reactor unit per year is on the scale of 1000 detonations of an atomic bomb like the one that destroyed Hiroshima. Reactors routinely release radioactivity to air, water and as solid waste, with ongoing potential for radiation exposure even without an accident.(8) The NRC does not regulate with respect to women or children, using units that were developed expressly with the assumption that the individual receiving the dose is an adult male. Basing the national radiation limits on the “standard” or “reference” man is not protective of our species. The standard “reference man” cannot, of course, reproduce by himself.

The release of the NIRS Briefing Paper, Atomic Radiation: More Harmful to Women was timed for presentation by its author, Mary Olson at meetings of federal bodies, including the National Academy of Science, the Advisory Committee of Reactor Safety of the US Nuclear Regulatory Commission, the Blue Ribbon Commission on America's Nuclear Future of the US Department of Energy and the International Commission on Radiological Protection (ICRP), all held in Washington DC between October 18 and 25, 2011. Olson was surprised by the level of receptivity at the ICRP meeting where after her presentation about one-fifth of the 400 radiation regulators in attendance applauded.