#my motivation for art is gone like green hill :(

[aether-weather]

I REALLY LIKE METAL'S NEW DESIGN :D

(wip)

[doitwritenow]

Supreme Super family gets sucked up into WandaVision(let's imagine Tony's alive in this or is from the multiverse). Ironstrange think they're married with a high school kid. Tony is a science teacher, strange is town doctor, and peter is a regular kid. No memories of they're real life. Rhody, Pepper, and Aunt May and Morgan could be added to this too if you wanted.

OHHO! Sorry it took me so long to reply to this; I had to finish the show, for one thing, and then my brain started going all sorts of places with the prompt... and well. I have on heck of a ramble coming, so buckle up! 

(Also, spoilers through the series, so watch out!) 

— — —

It starts with a question on Vision’s job application.

That’s all. So simple, so innocuous, so innocent. Vision is casually recording information that he doesn’t yet realize he can’t remember, and he arrives at a line that asks his family history. It’s nothing complex, left on the application only because Wanda’s subconscious had glossed over the question. So does Vision’s, as a result. But he wants this job. They want to fit in, and so they answer the question truthfully.

Vision writes ��Stark’, unaware. ‘Tony Stark.’

And pop. Just like that. 

On the edge of Westview, there suddenly is and has always been a small, well-kept mechanic’s shop. It’s run by an aging man with a bright mind and a brighter smile. He’s lived here since he came back from the war, but no one knows for how long. And he has no memory—no memory at all—of what came before. 

Of the round scar in the center of his chest. 

He doesn’t need to know. No one needs to know; he’s just a side character, after all. Just the answer to a line on a job application.

Just so that something, anything, about Vision’s life here isn’t a lie. 

-

Yeah, so Tony gets manifested within the Hex—but because he’s one of Wanda’s creations and not someone being mind-controlled, he is able to exist with agency within Westview. He has no reason, however, to believe anything is amiss; he’s been resurrected only to play a character, and his memories and surface-level motivations only extend to the limits of that character.

But Wanda has other regret. Wanda has other anger and understanding and forgiveness and gratefulness, and she knew Tony Stark, once. 

She knew his worst nightmare—and it’s easy to craft a soul from that, really.

(But it’s fine, of course it’s fine. Tony has no reason to pull down the walls of that hidden spirit. He’s content in his role, just like Vision. So it’s fine. 

… Right?) 

-

Agatha stands at the base of a towering barrier with her hands on her hips. One side of her mouth is quirked up into a considering, scheming smile, and her magic probes out around her curiously. This is the source of the power she’d felt; she’s sure of it. The spell work… the instinctual, unconscious spell work is so intense she can almost taste it.

How is it possible? What’s the secret? 

Agatha must know. And besides; this is the most interesting thing that’s happened to her since the seventeenth century. 

She’s about to reach out, about to cross into the heart of the magic, when she hears it. A footstep. Quiet and dark and making no attempt at stealth. 

Agatha grips her magic. “Who’s there?” she demands. 

Someone steps out of the trees. A human, Agatha thinks, though you can never be sure nowadays. He wears a hood of green and his hands are dark where they hang at his sides. 

“Witch,” the figure declares.

Agatha raises an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” says Karl Mordo. “I rather think you can.”

-

Okay, cut to New York. Stephen Strange is exhausted, wrung dry trying to keep the edges of the universe from deteriorating now that the stabilization factors of the Infinity Stones have been destroyed. One task runs into the next, one morning into the night. One future into all the others. 

But Stephen likes the work; it keeps his mind in one place. He’s always alert these days. Always listening. 

So when someone calls out to him from New Jersey, he can hear.

It’s Mordo luring him in, of course, but he doesn’t know that yet. After Dormammu, and certainly after all those futures, Stephen has too much experience for Mordo to hope to get the better of. The old Master is still dedicated to his ‘too many sorcerers’ shebangerang, though, so he’s employed help. Maybe he can kill two birds with one stone. Two world-threateningly powerful magic users with one stone. 

Stephen follows the call, because of course he does. It sounds like a call for help; what else is he supposed to do? The kelpie situation in the Thames can wait. Wong waves him off, tells him to be careful without much hope of Stephen listening, and takes over the Sanctum for the few hours Stephen intends to be gone.

(It’s not for a few hours.)

-

But there’s someone else we should mention before we see what Westview has planned for Stephen. See, a certain spider-kid has just had his identity outed, and his only allies once called themselves Nick Fury and Maria Hill.

Nick Fury and Maria Hill, Peter discovers, are not Nick Fury and Maria Hill.

“You’re aliens?” Peter demands, his hands warding the space in front of him. 

Of course they’re aliens, part of him sighs. Of course. Why wouldn’t one more thing just go crazy in his life? Why let him remember what ‘normal’ even felt like? Why the hell not? 

“Er, yes,” says not-Fury. “My name is Talos. But we do still want to help you.”

Helping Peter doesn’t go according to plan. See, the Skrull try to approach SWORD for Monica Rambaeu’s help regarding the kid who saved their lives, but Monica has disappeared. 

Talos only turns around for two seconds. Really, it’s only a moment. But when he turns back, Peter Parker has disappeared, too.

-

“Woah.” 

Stephen stops, a hand coming up to shield his third eye as he squints into the absolute maelstrom of power swirling in a hexagonal wall in front of him. It doesn’t feel like the Order’s magic—not like something of the Mystic Arts. It’s something far more human and gritty. Stephen’s perception can’t extend through it. He frowns.

He takes a step forward, the Cloak swirling around his ankles, and begins to stitch his mental walls into place. His wards are strong, even unconsciously.

That’s probably what saves him, in all honesty. 

Two strong, human hands plant themselves in the small of Stephen’s back and shove him into the barrier. Stephen opens his mouth to yell, raises his hands to cast a spell— but blue and red are surrounding him now. Devouring him, now. They lick at his mind, slamming against unbreakable walls.

But they are unbreakable too. 

Stephen disappears. 

-

(Mordo used a portal to get behind him and knock him into the Hex, btw.) 

It’s those hasty mental walls that keep Stephen from being completely consumed into the Westview spells. He is not fully mind-controlled, nor is he left half-animated and frozen like most people near Ellis Avenue. But there is one main rule of Wanda Maximoff’s Westview, and that, Stephen can’t escape completely. 

‘No one remembers outside.’

Stephen doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t remember anything at all. 

-

Tony Stark finds the man lying on the side of the road. He’s just finished dropping his kid Peter off at the Westview high school (it hasn’t occurred to him that it’s weird how he never sees the boy’s classmates. Or that Peter never seems to have stories from school. Or that the kid is always waiting in the exact same place that Tony dropped him off at whenever Tony comes to pick him up. Tony has no reason to think too hard; he’s just a side character—right?). 

“Uh, hi?” Tony pauses, the car puffing it’s irritation when he stops it too quickly. He cranks down the window and leans out. 

The man blinks, slowly, at the sky. He sits up hesitantly, like he hasn’t noticed Tony, and rubs his hand across his face. He pulls it away after a moment and frowns at it. Tony wonders why he looks so confused—it’s not like there’s anything wrong with the man’s hand. No scars or anything. 

“Hi, sir,” Tony says again. “Are you alright?”

The man jumps. He looks over at Tony—and there’s something weird about his eyes. Something… really weird. (Color, says a voice in the back of his mind that he hasn’t heard for a very, very long time. That’s color.)

“Who are you?” Tony asks. He parks the car completely now. 

The man looks down at his hands again. “I’m—” he begins. He’s frowning again.

“Come on now,” Tony encourages. “How hard can it be?”

The man tugs at the scarf around his neck—and it must be windier than Tony thought, because the edges of it are swaying as if of their own accord— and swallows. 

“I don’t know,” he says.

-

So of course Tony brings Stephen back with him. He prods at the man until Stephen manages to blurt out ‘Doctor Stephen Strange’ for no reason either of them can remember. But it makes Stephen relax, a little, to have it on his tongue. 

Tony catches Stephen staring at him after that. A lot. When he asks him why, Stephen has no clear answer; just a vague “you remind me of someone.” For Stephen’s part, all he knows is that seeing Tony gives him an indistinct sense of relief. Like he’d been missing someone deeply, and has now found it again. 

Still. He can’t quite put his finger on it. Just like he can’t quite put his finger on why his hands don’t hurt when he tries to write…

-

Vision visits Tony, sometimes, whenever he remembers, or whenever someone in the town mentions the old mechanic. He brings Wanda. They have fun, but Vision always goes home feeling slightly baffled. And Tony always feels like something hurts, deep in the center of his chest. 

Vision likes his adopted younger brother. (And Peter gets along just fine with the twins, too, when they come along, so Wanda doesn’t change anything about it). But when the man with the bright eyes stares at him with just a bit too much calculation on his face, Vision starts to be reminded of… things. Of suspicions. Of Geraldine and how she had no home and no history. And he doesn’t quite look Wanda in the eye that dinner. 

“What do you do?” Wanda asks, her voice a little hard, a little suspicious. Vision tries not to wince. Whatever it is she’s not telling him, this man at his father’s dinner table reminds her of it. 

Tony flips his fork, balancing it like one might a wrench. “Stephen’s a doctor,” he says.  

Wanda’s face flickers. “That’s funny,” she says blankly. “Because no one in this town ever needs one.” 

-

For a while, Tony Stark didn’t see anything amiss here. He was created, was consistent, was emptily and vaguely pleased. But Tony Stark is Tony Stark, whatever character he’s been told to play. Tony Stark wants to help people. 

And this man, this strange doctor with the eyes that would sometimes go blank for long minutes and the tears that would stain sharp cheeks for a reason he claimed not to remember, needs help.

So Tony Stark begins to scratch at Wanda’s walls. 

-

 “What do you mean he’s here?”

“I mean your little plan didn’t work,” Agatha says. She stands on the edge of Westview, speaking through a mirror of magic to the man outside. She’s liking this sorcerer less and less the more she works with him—but he has been rather helpful so far, so she continues to put up with him. 

“Does he remember?”

“No,” Agatha says. “The dad that Wanda made up for Vision has taken him in. It’s kind of adorable, actually.”

“Hm.” Mordo’s mouth twists. “You’ll finish the job?”

Agatha shrugs nonchalantly. “Sure. When I get around to it.”

“You don’t want to wait. Deal with Strange now, before he remembers how to be a threat.”

Agatha laughs. It’s brittle, fully conveying her hostility. “Ha, my good sorcerer, listen. Unless you want to come in here and do the job yourself, you’ll let me handle this my way.”

Agatha’s way involves getting to the bottom of things, of course. And that’s rather convenient… because Vision has begun to try to do the same thing. 

— — — —

Okay that’s all I have for now? The other bits are still solidifying in my mind, and it’s basically all Horrible Angst. I hope this scratches a little of the itch of your ask, though! Feel free, anyone, to add onto this if you’d like! I really enjoyed the show, and I think it has some really awesome AU potential. 

Thanks for the ask!!!

[sunaswife]

Summary: It’s been five years since you’ve seen your ex, Rin. He’s still not over you and you’re not over him. When he finds out you have children he thought he didn’t have a chance. Then he finds out they’re his? All of a sudden you’re teaching Suna how to be a single dad.

🔪: wow it’s been awhile how is everyone?! I apologize for being a shitty writer but sometimes you just don’t have motivation

Warnings: Fluff, angst I guess, drama, and cuteness twin overload

Previously Up Next Masterlist

Chapter 11

“You’re up early.” You heard and you looked up from your laptop. “I could say the same for you. You always needed your beauty rest.” You joked and Rin laughed. “You do know work can wait. You shouldn’t overwork yourself.” Rin pointed out. “I know, this isn’t really work. I was so distracted yesterday with our talk that I didn’t get a lesson plan ready for the kids so I have to rush and do it right now because I have the kids on a schedule and—“

“Relax.” You felt his rough hands on your shoulders. You completely froze, your heart started racing. “Like I said you overwork yourself. When I finish packing up all my crap you can teach me and we can do it together, okay?” Rin leaned forward to see your face. “Um..yeah sure.” You gulped and looked back at the screen. “Oi, your face is red. You have a fever or something?” Rin asked and tried touching your forehead but you smacked his hand away. “No I’m fine. No fever.” You assured and took a sip of your tea. “Oh so you’re falling for me is that it? Did I make you blush?” He teased and you elbowed his stomach. He winced and hunched forward. “Go pack or stay with Osamu.” You muttered and began to furiously type on your laptop.

“Alright Alright geez. Don’t miss me too much.” He said sarcastically and you rolled your eyes. “Wait before I go.” He said and you looked up with raised brows. “You’re allowed to have pets here right?” He said. “Yeah why?” You asked. “I have my dog...remember..?” He bit his lip. “Oh geez.” You groaned and rubbed your temples. “Don’t worry, he has his shots and everything. He’s trained too. Like he plays dead and stuff.” He said. “Plays dead? A more convincing argument would be like sitting or opening the fridge and getting a can of beer.” “He’s a dog not a servant.” He argued, “How big is your dog?” You asked. “Mmm medium sized, smaller than a German Shepard but bigger than a Jack Russel Terrier.” He said and you raised another brow.

“You act like I know dog breeds. Hell I didn’t even know you knew dog breeds.” You said. “I got chewy’s mom after the whole incident and she really distracted me when I had episodes, she had pups and died since she was sick so I kept one of her pups. I kind of became obsessed with dogs I guess you could say.” He replied. “Fine, is he an inside or outside dog?” You asked, “Both but he sleeps inside.” Rin said. “Okay, I’ll get the back ready for him so he can get cozy and mark his territory or whatever dogs do.” You said. “He’s actually at my parents house, Osamu’s apartment doesn’t have a backyard for pets of his size.” He said.

“Well then that means we take a car instead of a train to Hyogo, right?” You asked and he nodded. “Okay cool. Now hurry and you’ll make it back in time for lunch or snack time.” You waved him off. He chuckled and gave a mock salute and he was gone. You took a deep breath and leaned back in the dining chair.

“What have I done?” You asked yourself. You avoided Rin’s emotional confession yesterday, but now you can’t stop thinking and getting confused with your own emotions. You chugged down your tea and finished making the lesson plan for today. Today is focusing on math and science. Tomorrow is language arts and history.

You got this.

You’re an independent woman.

Relax

“Damn you, Rintaro.” You huffed.

“Remember-“ you started off pointing a finger at Rin. “Do not give in to their puppy faces when they want candy, we already have some at home. We don’t need more.” You started and he nodded. “I’ll remember to get your almond milk, you still drink it right?” You asked and he nodded. “Why doesn’t daddy drink regular milk?” Rini asked, “He’s lactose intolerant.” You replied, “What’s lack toes interant..?” Akira asked, “My body can’t handle the sugar that’s in milk.” He said as you you began looking through the grocery list while he pushed the cart.

“What happens if you drink milk?” Rini asked, “His stomach will hurt and he’ll make the bathroom all smelly.” You teased and the kids said a synchronized ewww, Suna suddenly flicked your forehead and you lightly smacked his hand away. “Stop embarrassing me in front of my kids.” He huffed. “Stop embarrassing me in front of my kids.” You mocked under your breath and the kids giggled.

“Alright fruit. What kinds of fruit do you want this week?” You asked, “Strawberries!” Rini said, “watermelon.” Akira chimed in. “Rin?” You asked, “O-oh I can pick?” He asked completely confused, “Obviously, you live with us now. It’s your house too.” Akira said in a duh tone.

For a second it felt like time stopped when he saw you laughing with the kids, you all live together now. Like a family...an odd family but a family nonetheless. He’s already told you that he still loves you, and he respects your decision whether you don’t want him back or you need time. But at least you’re in his life and that’s all he wanted—no, all he needed.

“Green grapes..?” He asked, “Hey I was thinking grapes too!” You chuckled and the kids saw how their two parents divided and concurred the produce section, throwing in fruits and veggies into the cart.

“Y/N..” Rin called and you turned to see him and the kids making puppy dog eyes. He was holding a packet of chuupets, the ones where you freeze them and you can break them in half to share. You already had a half pack at home, “Seriously? I thought I had two kids not three.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “But chuupet is life.” Rin replied

“Chuupet is life.” You kids nodded, “You guys don’t even finish the ones we have at home.” You told your kids, “Because they have sugar and you won’t let us eat a whole bunch.” Akira defended, she was right. “Fine, one packet. We’ll buy one packet every two weeks.” You said and Suna fist bumped the kids and tossed the chuupets in the cart.

These past two weeks with Rin and the kids have been eventful. Rin has begun helping you with lesson plans, he likes the idea of homeschool because you both have hectic schedules and you’d rather watch the kids then hire a babysitter or nanny. The awkwardness between you both has died down and you’re comfortable in this new environment. You and Rin made a contract to split everything 50/50 and hung it on the wall of your living room as a joke.

Life was very much easier with Rin around and you began teaching him how to use a planner, he wasn’t keen on taking one with him everywhere but he found an app that works just as good. Everything was new to him as well, it was a bit hard to keep up and even though he doesn’t really like change he was comfortable as well. He just needs to stop staring too much when you’re cooking or helping the kids with school work. But it’s so hard for him to look away, you’re just so beautiful.

In his memo app he even has a list of Rini’s allergies and phone numbers for the kids doctor, dentist, and school. He was grateful you didn’t just toss all of this responsibility, when you called the doctor to schedule a six month check up, he was listening intently and took mental notes on what to ask.

He was also glad he got to know a little bit more about you as well, he didn’t know you had cooking karaoke time for the kids. The kids would sit on the counter laughing at your performance of ‘Let It Go’.

Also your favorite flower changed it’s no longer daises, you also can’t stand the taste of pickles anymore because when you were pregnant you craved them and now the smell makes you wanna vomit.

There was so many new things to discover in your little family and he was grateful that you allowed someone like him to waltz right in as if he didn’t break your heart. You were too kind for your own good.

He felt more confident now as he drove to his parents house with your head against the window, asleep. He looked at the rear view mirror and saw the kids sleeping as well with their mouths open and their snores filled the car. He smiled softly and looked back at the road, he passed the arcade he used to take you, as well as the old drive thru movie theater, and the road that led up to the hills where he took you on your guy’s first date. Before he knew it he saw his childhood home and he carefully parked the car to not startle the kids.

“Y/N..wake up.” He shook your shoulder lightly, your eyes slowly widened and you turned to him with tired eyes. “We’re here. I’ll help you take down the kids and you can go inside, I’ll have my dad help me bring in our bags.” He said softly. “Okay..thanks Rin.” You yawned and opened the door to go get the kids.

“Wake up princess.” You said as you unbuckled Akira’s car seat. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, she opened her arms for you to carry her and you rolled your eyes playfully. You held her in your arms and she wrapped her arms around your neck and rested her head on your shoulder. You grabbed her fox plush with your free hand and closed the car door. Rini was already running around and stretching with Rin.

“Akira you don’t wanna stretch?” You asked and she shook her head. “Are you really that tired..? You teased and she nodded. Rin grabbed some bags with Rini helping as well, he could only carry a backpack that barley had anything inside. You followed Rin up the familiar steps and he rang the door bell.

Soon enough the door opened and it was Rin’s dad, “Oh it’s been so long.” He sighed as he held his son in his arms. “It has.” Rin replied and slowly pulled away. He put the bag down to carry Rini and brought him eye level with his dad. “This is my son, Rini.” He spoke up and his dad gasps.

“He looks just like you.” He said and Rin nodded. “Yeah I get that a lot.” He chuckled. “Hi Rini, I’m grandpa but you can call me pops or gramps.” He said and Rini’s eyes widened. “Grandpa?” He asked and he nodded. “I always wanted a grandpa!” He yelled and tackled him in a hug. Rin’s dad took a few steps back with Rini in his arms and he chuckled. You gave a soft smile. “This is also my daughter Akira, they’re twins.” Rin spoke up and his dad look as you turned to show him your sleeping daughter.

“There’s two?!” He asked. You gave a small nod, “You must be Y/N, it’s nice to finally meet you.” He said. “It’s nice to meet you too Mr. Suna.” You said. “No need for that just call me Kauru.” He smiled softly and you nodded. “Alright, Kauru. Thank you for allowing us into your home.” You said and he waved off. “Your mom should be here in a few she just went to buy some groceries.” He told Rin and he nodded.

You were shown to Rin’s old room which is where the kids will be sleeping, you and Rin will be sleeping on futons in the living room. Akira had finally woken up and her and Rini were outside playing with Rin’s dog. A car horn honked outside and Rin and Kauru went outside to help with the groceries. You followed them as well to help and that’s when you finally met Rin’s mother.

She gave a small glare and scoffed, she walked past you, purposely bumping her shoulder with yours. She clearly stated you weren’t welcomed and you had no idea of the shit storm coming your way.

🏷: @therealwalmartjesus @differentballooncollection @aaesuki @atsunflower @dope-squish @prettysetterboiss @june-phantom @tomo-uwu @austriasmariazelle @xrnia @katsulia @aprettyfruit @shut-your-eyes-kiss-me-goodbye @tvbiio @sun-daddy-yoriichi @kamenoyaki @ppangiiroo @loeyprivvv @kmskj92 @lovinnoya @sarahvvictoria @tris-does-stuff @mokkeguts @sunaluvr6969@bara-rose-would @sempiternal-amour @volleybloop @leykyuu @bokutoichigo @stfucanunot @iloveanime691 @atsumusdomain @ohrintarou @shoutosimp @rintasuna @bokutosdivineass @anngelllla @toworuu @hidden-otaku-stuff @seijohiselite @caxsthetic @aquariarose @hhwanggu @bakuhoetoedoroki @yoozuku @osamus-onigiri @akaashi-todorki i @donica95 @kakaokenma @airheadpillar

Thank you for being patient and understanding!

More tags in comments!

[capsized-heart]

l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this. 

gif credit to @michonnegrimes​ 

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy. 

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child. 

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother. 

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed. 

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.   

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English. 

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland. 

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin. 

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre. 

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king. 

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to. 

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland. 

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk. 

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey. 

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates. 

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you. 

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey. 

A lick of fire coils up your throat. 

God save the king. 

**

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand. 

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling. 

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose. 

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly. 

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing. 

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other. 

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.  

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels. 

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. 

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance. 

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy. 

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear. 

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal. 

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation. 

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

**

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own. 

You see it all. After all, you are a woman. 

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror. 

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.” 

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”      

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact. 

King Henry IV.     

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly. 

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.     

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air. 

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride. 

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.  

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.  

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you. 

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light. 

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you. 

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”  

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law? 

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls. 

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile. 

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more. 

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue. 

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor. 

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.  

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light. 

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.   

“I thank you, sire.” 

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear. 

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”  

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced. 

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests. 

You leave him burning. 

**

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting. 

 The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria. 

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup. 

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans. 

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor. 

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted. 

Even if it is all a charade. 

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.      

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.  

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.   

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes. 

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs. 

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers. 

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.   

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.     

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek. 

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers. 

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic. 

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip. 

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.  

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat. 

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink. 

**

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily. 

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly. 

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time. 

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

**

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife. 

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil. 

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.  

“King Henry!”

**

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.  

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry. 

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood. 

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker. 

A ball for the boy king.   

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture. 

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm. 

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.    

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise. 

**

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.  

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk. 

You feign surprise and turn.     

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.  

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.  

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize. 

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection. 

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno. 

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear. 

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum. 

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity. 

“Beautiful.” He murmurs. 

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming. 

“I thank you, my lord.” 

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?” 

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response. 

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar. 

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

**

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you. 

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game. 

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands. 

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father. 

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.   

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce. 

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely. 

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game. 

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding. 

You are to let him touch you. 

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire. 

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself. 

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.  

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure. 

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth. 

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman. 

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

**

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows. 

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move. 

You only burn brighter.  

**

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase. 

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest. 

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil. 

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval? 

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago. 

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

**

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment. 

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.  

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns. 

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself. 

**

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return. 

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession. 

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England. 

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song. 

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together. 

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room. 

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.” 

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear. 

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.  

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.” 

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis. 

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely. 

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually. 

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening. 

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it. 

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm. 

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...” 

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss. 

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder. 

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed. 

You have the king’s word. 

**

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool. 

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.” 

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries. 

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly. 

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer. 

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.  

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming. 

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races. 

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.” 

**

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger. 

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this. 

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood. 

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

**

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill. 

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling. 

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers. 

Thou shalt not commit adultery. 

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

**

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have. 

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest. 

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other. 

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl. 

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos. 

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world. 

 The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone. 

 You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world. 

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below. 

[encouleurdevie]

OKAY SO HEAR ME OUT. TIMOTHEE CHALAMET AT THE GOLDEN GLOBES. THE RINGS THAT HE WEARS GIVE ME A STROKE. YOU SHOULD WRITE SOMETHING INCORPORATING THOSE RINGS CAUSE... GODDAMN 🥵

Rings

a/n: …. sorry for disappearing for a while. send me ideas, i read them all, and i literally have google docs opened for all of them it’s just a matter of making myself be productive lol i love you. thank you for reading it means more than you’ll ever know

word count: 3100

“Be there in 5 minutes.” you typed as the taxi sped down the road towards a hotel that was much too fancy for your taste. But it was where Timothee was staying and you couldn’t say no to an invitation to come and take pictures of him before his big night. He was a nominee at the Golden Globes this year, and according to his previous texts, his stylists had gone all out for the occasion. One mirror selfie prompted you to pack your camera bag and hail a taxi to where he was staying. You were already drooling over how stunning his head-to-toe black outfit would look on your newest camera, which only shot in black and white.

As a photographer, you had a knack for capturing people at their best. It didn’t matter how confident they were or how camera shy they claimed to be, you had a way of making your subjects comfortable and carefree. People often told you that your photos were some of the most unique and beautiful they’d seen, which is how you had gotten to the point of photographing the enigmatic but easily recognizable faces of Hollywood. And it was going well, for the most part. Celebrities loved the attention they received after you released their photos. They loved feeling so special because of your attention to detail and poise behind the camera, and you loved the fact that they felt beautiful because of your photos. However, many of them would simply pay you for your time and then be on their way, never to speak to you again unless someone from their team of people reached out to you for another shoot. 

Timothee, however, was not one of these people. Months earlier, he had personally reached out to you online, expressing how much he liked your photos and how he’d love to do a shoot sometime. Nothing prepared you for the whirlwind of events that were to follow.

The first time you had taken his picture, you were blown away by how effortlessly attractive he was as he posed for you. The pictures turned out beautifully, but nothing could capture his essence as clearly as you could see it in person, so animated and electrifying. It would be a lie to say you weren’t smitten from the first click of your camera. As it turned out, Timothee was drawn to your passion for photography, your eclectic style, and the way your eyes looked when you stared at him carefully and told him how to pose. The second or third time you had taken his picture, a late night shoot on some of the hidden streets in LA, you had barely gotten ten pictures before he couldn’t stand it anymore and kissed you hard in an alleyway. You remembered waking up next to him, messy haired and in your underwear, the next morning. 

The photoshoots and secret rendezvous became routine, and before long you became a somewhat permanent member of his team, showing up to events and interviews and snapping photos. On the surface, you were merely his photographer, a background character in the spotlight of his life, but behind the dressing room door, he would be carefully undressing you and kissing you with a passion you didn’t know was possible. A secret affair from the public, and an erotic motivation for your art. 

As the taxi cab turned corners, you reminisced on the stolen kisses and the heat of his body moving against yours. When the hotel, in all of its high-end California glory, came into view, you shook your head in an attempt to get your mind back on the present. You thanked the cab driver and stepped out into the heat of Beverly Hills, walking quickly into the hotel lobby. 

Timothee had instructed you where to go once you were inside, so you made your way down the winding hallways until you found his room number. You knocked on the door twice, and waited. Within seconds, the door was yanked open and you were standing in front of the man who had come to be your muse. Timothee looked even better every time you saw him, and this time was no exception. The outfit looked even better in person than it had on your phone. The pristine black fabric of his shirt and pants fit his body snugly, and the small sequins that dotted his Louis Vuitton harness glinted in the light.

“Well hello, stranger,” he smiled.

“Hello, Mr. Fashion Man,” you replied, taking in the bold yet totally tasteful outfit.

He laughed his beautiful laugh and motioned for you to come into the posh hotel room which was decorated with various art deco furniture and paintings. Instead of having you set up in the indoor space, he walked across the room and out into an enclosed outdoor patio area.

“I was thinking this would be a cool spot,” he stated and looked at you for approval. You glanced around at the tall plants that bordered the small yard and admired the varying green hues of the space.

“This will be perfect,” you exclaimed, “but we need one thing.”

You dashed back into the room, and grabbed a tall metal chair that had caught your eye on the way in. You set it down in the grass, and made sure it was perfectly framed by leaves.

Timothee watched you closely, and smirked. “Always so full of ideas, aren’t you?”

You grinned at him and started unloading your camera bag onto a table just outside of the sliding glass door. You felt his eyes on you even after you looked away, making your heart beat ever so slightly faster.

“The newest addition to my collection,” you said proudly, reaching in your bag and then holding up your new camera. 

“Is that a film camera?” he stepped closer to you to see it better. And that was when you noticed them. As he reached up to try holding the camera, you noticed the small collection of rings positioned on his fingers. One on his pointer, one on his middle finger. You’d never seen him wear jewelry before and were taken aback by how good the rings looked on him. A tiny detail against the rest of his outfit, but a detail that for some reason made you lose all focus. As you gazed at his fingers, you realized you hadn’t answered his question.

“Yes. Um, yeah. I found it at an antique store last week and fixed it up.”

His eyes flicked up to you, obviously noticing the way you hesitated, and saw your eyes locked on his fingers as he held your camera. 

You brushed it off. “Anyway, I thought it would be cool to try it out. I forgot how much I love film.”

“Yeah. Okay, let’s do it.” He handed you the camera, and you noticed the way he made sure to brush his fingers against yours. This was going to be a long shoot if your mind kept wandering to other places, like it was starting to in that moment.

Timothee perched himself gently on the chair as you finished setting up the camera. When everything was ready to go, you brought the camera to your face, ready to start snapping away. The looks he was giving you could have melted iron. He knew exactly what he was doing too. As his eyes burned through the camera and he moved between poses, he began absently twisting the rings around his fingers. He moved them around, up and down his fingers, and spinning them around. 

The slight movement, paired with the fire in his eyes was making you squeeze your legs together. The rings were sexy, distracting, and clearly causing a lot of feelings to stir within you. His fingers were the only thing on your mind. You were always surprised at how he didn’t even have to say a single world. He just had to lock his big green eyes on yours and you were putty in his hands.

You pulled the camera away from your face, accidentally revealing your flushed cheeks.

“I just… um. I need to check something with the… uh… the shutter speed.” you said and it came out sounding more like a strangled whisper.

Timothee stood up instantly, and within seconds he was standing right in front of you. 

“No you don’t.” he cooed. You felt his presence so close to yours, and once again your eyes were glued to the rings on his fingers. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You’re aching aren’t you?” 

You looked up at him, and that was the end of it. He took the camera from your shaky hands and bent down until his lips were pressed roughly on yours. If this was what getting busted for having dirty thoughts about Timothee meant, you would gladly accept the consequences. 

He started nudging you backwards into the hotel room, one hand on the small of your back the other reaching out to set the camera back in your bag. Obviously, you wouldn’t be needing that for a while. You reached up, still moving your lips messily against his, and clasped your hands behind his head, gently touching the curls that graced the back of his neck.

Timothee pulled away for a second, letting you both catch your breath. His demeanor had gone from the smiley boy who greeted you at the door, to a worked up and dominating version of himself. You could sense how worked up he was too, and how much he craved your body. Every time something like this happened between the two of you, it was like the first time. There was so much sexual tension between you and the second someone initiated anything it was like an explosion of repressed feelings. And it felt so good.

As soon as Timothee led you across the threshold of the room, he fell back onto a chair that had been pulled away from expensive-looking desk. He pulled you right on top of him so that your chests were right up against each other. You straddled his legs, causing your flowy skirt to bunch up around your thighs. Timothee’s hands followed the fabric, gently grazing the skin on your legs until he had a firm grasp on your hips underneath your skirt. As he traced his fingers along the waistband of your panties, you felt the rings against you, causing your breath to hitch. 

“I saw you looking at them, baby.” he whispered against your ear. “Thought you might like them.”

“Fuck.” you groaned against his neck. “They look so good…”

You pushed yourself closer to him, grinding your hips onto his and feeling the outline of his hardening cock beneath you. In a swift movement, he pulled one hand away from your waist and brought it back down on your ass quickly. The warmth of his hand coupled with the cool metal of the rings made you squeal in anticipation. His hands guided your body as you continued to rub your hips against his lower half.

“Stand up.” he directed, his voice coming out cool and confidently arousing. You climbed off his lap, painstakingly dragging your body away from his, despite only wanting to be touching him everywhere. You stood up on shaky legs between his knees as he looked up at you from where he continued to sit. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, his stare filled with desire. Calmly, and still gauging your reaction, he gathered the material of your skirt in his fists and tugged downward. The light fabric fell from your body smoothly and pooled around your ankles, leaving you in your blouse and lacy underwear in front of him. His eyes hungrily raked across your body.

You really couldn’t stand not touching him for a second longer, so you bent down and caught his lips in yours. His hands cupped your jaw as you licked into his mouth, and you dropped your hands to the top of his pants. You popped the first button open and fumbled around until your fingers worked the zipper down. He pushed up against you, still kissing you hard, just enough so that he could push his black pants down to his knees. 

“Now come back here.” he mumbled against your lips. You didn’t need to be told twice. You let your body fall back open, spreading your legs so that you were straddling him again, this time only underwear between your lower halves. Your draped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer to you.

Timothee snaked one hand up the back of your blouse, sending a shiver up your spine, and began inching the other hand down the front of your panties. 

“I know what you want, princess.” he whispered. “I know you’ve been thinking about my fingers since you walked in the goddamn door.”

He ran a finger teasingly across your slit, and his face broke into a cocky grin as soon as he realized how wet you were for him. His eyes were locked on yours with such intensity you felt like if you broke the stare you might burst into flames. He began rubbing his fingers in slow circles around your clit, eliciting a string of moans to come tumbling from your lips, which you were biting down on to try and stifle the noise.

But your mouth quickly fell open as he slowly, slowly pushed a finger into you. His face remained calm but he knew exactly what he was doing to you, knew exactly the way he made you feel. You whimpered as you felt his ring make contact with your entrance. 

“That feel good baby?”

You didn’t reply, but merely sighed heavily in response, feeling so worked up. 

“I said does that feel good baby.”

“Fuck.. yes I-” Before you could finish speaking he was inserting a second finger, and didn’t stop until both fingers were ring-deep inside of you. You could feel every inch of his fingers sending waves of pleasure straight to your brain. He stilled for a second, still with his fingers inside of you and tilted his face up to yours. He just looked at you, his face emotionless but stern, studying you closely. He was driving you crazy, edging you on, and still giving you that stupid look. This was exactly what you craved.

“Look at me.” he said. “Look me in the eyes when I touch you.” You dragged your eyes open to meet his only inches away. He pulled his fingers down and out in one quick motion, before sliding them right back in and starting up a rhythm. In and out, scissoring you open a bit, feeling your walls, rings colliding with your entrance each time he pushed his fingers back in. You dripped onto his fingers, covering his knuckles with your juices. Moans spilled from your mouth as you bounced lightly on his fingers. You gripped his shoulders, pulling at the black fabric that was still annoyingly on his body. The way Timothee touched you radiated this dominant energy despite the fact that you were on top. He had a way of making you feel like all of you was his, no matter what position you ended up in, and it drove you wild. 

You started feeling your stomach get tighter, teetering on the edge of cumming all over his fingers. He noticed this too and began pulling his fingers out of you, not ready to let you come apart just yet.

“Clean it up.” he said putting his fingers close by your face. You took his hand in both of yours and slowly licked up the mess you made on his fingers. Your brain felt fuzzy, still grasping for the high he denied you, and as you licked yourself off his fingers your heart pounded in needy anticipation. Timothee watched you with hooded eyes and flushed cheeks. He began edging a hand down into his underwear, which were tight as his cock strained against them. You watched his jaw clench and unclench as he began pumping himself, getting harder and harder as you licked his fingers.

The sight was enough to throw you over the edge. You could not wait any longer. 

You let his hand drop from yours and you pushed yourself up and against him until the tip of his dick was right at your entrance. 

“You gonna fuck me, baby? You wanna ride my dick?” Timothee hissed.

You groaned in response and dropped your body down, letting his cock fill you all the way up until you bottomed out. A low, loud groan fell from his mouth and his hands found their way back to your hips. You allowed yourself to fixate on the feeling of him inside of you, filling you up so perfectly and sending jolts of pleasure throughout your body.

After a second of adjustment, his hands found your hips again, and began guiding you, up and down, roughly, against him. The rhythm got faster and faster, and you whimpered above him as the incredible sensations racked through your body. He groaned beneath you, loving the way your pussy felt around him and the way your nails dug into the skin on his shoulders. He leaned forward and placed open mouthed kisses along your collarbone which was peeking out over the top of your now very messed up blouse, as the two of you got closer and closer. 

You dropped your head down onto his shoulder as you felt yourself start to tighten around him. 

“I’m gonna cum, oh my god. I’m gonna cum.” you moaned into his neck, feeling his hot skin and the tight breaths coming out of him. 

“You look sooo good, Y/N,” he whined moving his hands to your ass and rocking you against him. It was like you couldn’t get close enough to each other, and your bodies moved together in hot quick motions. Timothee angled himself into you and you suddenly felt him so deeply, so electrically, so incredibly well. You felt yourself come apart around his cock, grinding your hips down into his and crying out as the pleasure flowed through your body. 

The intensity of your orgasm was enough to throw Timothee over the edge too. He fucked up into you roughly as you clenched yourself around him, still coming down from your own high. He moaned your name loudly in your ear as he came undone, cumming in hot spurts inside you, and still holding your hips tightly against him. 

His dominant aura began to disappear as he recomposed himself, and his face melted into a smile. 

“God, I’m so obsessed with you.” he said, breathing heavily.

You leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. “You’re my muse, Timothee.” You peppered more kisses on his cheeks and neck.

The smile stayed plastered on his face for the rest of the evening, and through the award show he attended later, where he beamed at the rest of the cameras, thinking about how none of them could ever compare to you.

[bepoets]

Top 5 musicals, top 5 theme park rides?

THANK YOU EM

Top 5 musicals : in addition to actually listing them I’m doing the super fun thing no one asked for and giving info about the musicals and song recommendations for y’all to check out. You are welcome for this nonsense.

1. The Prom - This should be shocking to no one. This beautiful heartfelt musical comedy opened on broadway in November 2018 and closed August 2019. Ripped from broadway too soon and deserved any award from the Tonys ESPECIALLY BEST BOOK ILL DIE ON THAT HILL. The story of teenage lesbians that just want to go to their high school prom, an intolerant small town, and broadway stars who in their attempt to help hilarity ensues. Nothing means more to me than this musical. A song(s) to check out: “Unruly Heart” if you’re feeling emotional about love and accepting yourself and “Tonight Belongs to You” if you’re feeling the need to be confident and dance and “Alyssa Greene” because I want everyone to cry with me.

2. Amélie - Another beautiful heartfelt musical, ripped from broadway too soon. Opened on Broadway March 2017 and closed May 2017. Based on the award winning film of the same name, and starring Hamilton’s Phillipa Soo on Broadway, a kind and beautiful story about finding the little joys in life accepting love and finding magic everywhere. Criticized by theatre critics for being “too vanilla” and “too happy” because apparently we can’t have happy shows. Whatever they’re wrong it’s a work of art. A song(s) to check out: “Times Are Hard For Dreamers” if you want to feel inspired and in awe of the world and “Stay” if you want to hear a song that I feel perfectly depicts what it feels like to want something so badly but to be so terrified of the changes it brings and the uncertainty of the world.

3. Island Song - Time for me to get on my soap box about how much I love this musical oh boy. Island Song is a musical concept album, it’s been performed in concert type setting professionally (think 54 Below) and in various colleges and like regional productions but nothing seriously professional. There is a cast album on YouTube and Spotify and I’m assuming Apple Music that y’all should check out. It’s about these young people from various different lives trying to find their way and their life in the island of New York City. It portrays their relationship with life and love and the way the city entangles itself into your life. Often it portrays the characters relationship with the city as different relationship stereotypes. The city is always present Almost as a love interest for all the characters. It’s fascinating. And the score and the characters stories are all beautiful and inspiring to see and I can just SEE the set design of a broadway production I can SEE OT RIGHT THERE JUST IN FRONT OF ME if someone would just MAKE A PROFESSIONAL PRODUCTION. A song(s) to check out: “After Hours” a song that perfectly encapsulates how I felt walking through New York City for the first time, paths all criss crossing but never quite touching and the magic and the life all there in every corner every where you look no matter where or when and “Too Much” to feel all the feelings all at once and then at the end to feel so thoroughly empowered and alive. Additional recommendations from my friend Court “Island Song Opening” because it does a great job at setting everything up and explains all the characters and their lives and motives, “So Many Windows” because it shows the tender side of the show, and “New York Do You Care” because Jackie Burns and this song really shows off the relationship with the city part and also Jackie Burns.

4. If/Then - IF y’all like Idina Menzel THEN you will love this musical (see what I did there). Idina Menzel starred as Elizabeth/Liz/Beth in this original musical that was on broadway for about a year 2014-2015. It follows the life of 38 year old Elizabeth and shows us how your life can change depending on the simplest choice you make. The idea and concept that the world could change so easily just by what name you chose to go by when you move cities, but also...how much can stay the same. It shows both possibilities of Elizabthe/Liz/Beth’s life all while delivering with an incredible cast, gorgeous score and songs, a concept and message and story that is just phenomenal. Plus it takes place in New York so like ANOTHER WIN !! A song(s) to check out: “A Map of New York” to feel like you are impactful and impacted by everything and to feel like you can create something and “You Learn To Live Without” for arguably the most heartbreaking song to ever be sang ever and the lyrics are just...incredible “you learn to somehow like the dark and even love the doubt” and then “I Hate You” because it goes from funny to happy to sad to a love song to tearing your heart out throughout the entire song and I love watching Liz’s thoughts and feelings spiral and process.

5. Come From Away - Still running into broadway also on the west end and it CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED if you HAVENT checked out come from away you absolutely should. It’s the story of the thousands of people stranded in Gandar, Newfoundland during 9/11 when all the planes were redirected and the airways closed. It’s a story of kindness and family and grief and pain and finding a way to find joy and seizing the moment and the comfort we all are able to provide and humanity at its finest. I also think it does a great job at addressing the mistreatment of Muslim persons post 9/11 and the fact that they touch on it in this production is a damn good thing. They also have only like 12(?) actors and there’s like 12 chairs and 2 tables that’s the set. It’s incredible. You walk away crying every tear you’ve ever cried and feeling such hope at the same time. A song(s) to check out: “Me and The Sky” Captain Beverly Bass sings this song and it’s empowering as HECK and then heartbreaking at the end but it really is just incredible if you wanna belt it out and feel strong and “Stop The World” one of the most beautiful songs in all of theatre wanting to treasure and cherish a moment and seize that moment but stay in it forever knowing that once its gone once you leave you can’t grab it back it’s lost forever in the abyss and you want nothing more than to stop the world in the beauty of where you are just then and “Something’s Missing” if you really want to cry a lot.

Okay that covers musicals oops I got carried away.

Top 5 theme park rides:

1. Hagrid’s Magical Creatures Motorbike Adventure (Universal Orlando - Islands Of Adventure) (this is not bias because I work at this ride it is in fact the best)

2. Flight of Passage (Disney’s Animal Kingdom)

3. Twisted Collassus (Siz Flags Magic Mountain)

4. Radiator Springs Racers (Disney’s California Adventure)

5. Mickey and Minnie’s Runaway Railway (Disney’s Hollywood Studios)

[girlbookwrm]

Avengers: Age of Art Movie? ART?? MOVIE

DAY ONE

the title for this chapter of the Mighty Pre-Endgame Rewatch comes from the fact that Joss Whedon apparently said, of Age of Ultron: 

“I was trying to make a little art movie. Which is actually, a pretty shitty thing to do to a studio that gives you a lot of money.”

which??? ok?????

so we went into this looking for Joss Whedon’s Art Movie

It’s worth noting before we get into this that I’m a fan of a lot of things Joss Whedon has done over the years, as much as I give him crap sometimes, and actually, I don’t know that I hate this movie as much as is common. I enjoyed it more than I remember enjoying it in the past? I go back and forth. I saw it in theaters and was like “actually I like this it’s pretty ok” and then I saw it again like “OH NO THIS IS AWFUL” and then again like “OH NO IT’S EVEN WORSE THAN I REMEMBER” and now I’m watching it again like “actually......” and I think it’s that the quality is very. uneven? 

it is also worth noting that it took us TWO DAYS to watch this because we kept having to pause the movie  in order to GO OFF which meant that this 2 hour 22 minute movie took us like SIX HOURS to watch. at first it was just me and The Roommate @goteamwin but on Day Two the Gal Pal @pegasuschick joined us.

anyway on with the rewatch (day one)

I STILL MISS THE OLD MARVEL LOGO! SO MUCH!

So the opening shot of this movie is from the twins’ POV and this was the first point that we paused the movie to fully Go Off because goddamn

can you imagine how much better this battle scene would be from the twins’ pov?

like: there’s all these explosions and shaky cam and a monster roaring and you’re like “oh god is it aliens? it must be aliens? and these soldiers dying everywhere and the city is getting destroyed etc etc

and then you realize it’s not aliens, it’s not HYDRA, it’s not some terrible overpowered terrorists

it’s the Avengers.

now THAT would be an art film

anyway back to the rewatch

Steve Rogers: IT IS 2015, I AM NINETY SEVEN YEARS OLD AND I AM STILL FIGHTING NAZIS I AM T I R E D

this is all looking real fake it has not aged well and it wasn’t that great to start with

“they’re the avengers” he said, sounding so confused and so so tired

aaaaaand here we paused the movie AGAIN to talk for twenty minutes, mostly about how if this whole “”’”art movie”’’’’’’’ had been shot from the Twins perspective, that would have been a better set up for Civil War and also super interesting

“We are here to help” why is the Iron Legion speaking Very American English in an eastern? european? city

Old Man Dad Clint

there’s two weirdly different movies happening here and they do not sit well together: like, a dark spooky serious one and a quippy Joss Whedon action movie

and don’t get me wrong, one of my favorite things about Joss Whedon is how he uses humor to really give his sad moments Extra Punch he’s a master of that

but this is just jarring

“please be a secret door please be a secret door” followed by the world’s tiniest and most adorable “~yay~” is the most endearing thing Tony has ever done in his life I would die for him

The Problem Is Not Brucetasha. 

THE PROBLEM is that the BruceTasha dynamic doesn’t just come out of left field, it comes from a different sport entirely. it comes from another planet. 

I think there’s potential for an interesting dynamic here but we get ZERO buildup to it

like in the last movie, Natasha is scared of the Hulk, like, literally shaking in shock TERRIFIED of the Hulk, but we see nothing of her deciding to run directly at the thing that scares her most

and we get ZERO explanation of like -- Natasha likes Bruce AND the Hulk, and Bruce AND the Hulk both like Natasha and that’s an interesting dynamic too, but we get NONE OF THAT

it’s very frustrating

also, where does Wanda’s horror movie aesthetic go? is it the same place her accent goes?

Tony’s dream sequence is... p badly shot, given that it’s his driving motivation for THE REST OF THE SERIES

Me: this is weirdly shot, right?

The Roommate, A Professional: Yes. *in a very fancy voice:* ~From a cinematic perspective~ 

Me: *starts cracking up*

The Roommate: But seriously, they’ve gone for a weirdly wide angle in this very emotional moment and it would make more sense to do tight shots here, but--

Me: *still cracking up*

The Roommate: really?

Me: ~from a cinematic perspective~ trolololol

AND LITERALLY HERE IS WHERE WE GET THE TITLE CARD. THAT’S HOW LONG, SPIRITUALLY, THIS OPENING IS.

Why was Bruce NOT expecting a Code Green? like? It’s HYDRA, of COURSE they’re gonna pull out all the stops??

We get like two minutes of Thor&Steve&Tony being bros, for the purpose of exposition here, and then the party sequence, and literally the rest of the movie is them all arguing with each other

and we stopped the movie again to talk for ten minutes about how much more Impactful AVENGERS: CIVIL WAR would be if we had even one (1) movie of the Avengers actually being a team

this is exactly why it took us two days to watch this movie

“Uh, actually, he's the boss. I just pay for everything, and design everything and make everyone look cooler.”

And again, we stopped the movie (seriously, it’s our own fault this took so long to watch) because LET’S UNPACK THIS

TONY PAYS FOR EVERYTHING?

TONY MAKES ALL THEIR SHIT?

TONY DOES THEIR DESIGN WORK?

AND LET US NOT FORGET THAT SHIELD RECENTLY FELL APART

WHICH MEANS THAT THIS IS STARK INDUSTRIES PRESENTS: the avengers

and that is A L A R M I N G

legally speaking

and also morally speaking

like goddamn. 

no wonder ppl freak out about it? let’s jump on THAT for CW

(also, when we recapped this for the Gal Pal’s benefit on Day Two, she pointed out that Tony puts his name on everything and he probably got that from his daddy -- like in TFA, they’re doing this experiment for the Army but LITERALLY EVERY PIECE OF EQUIPMENT has the Stark Industries tag on it

Steve probably has the SI logo tattooed on his ass

he doesn’t know it

tony knows it 

and wishes he didn’t)

all that aside, this is an A+ On Point Steve and i Strongly Disagree with anyone who says that Joss Whedon doesn’t get Steve Rogers.

Like, we very clearly get three distinct Steves in this movie -- we get Captain America, Captain Rogers, and Steve, and they’re all a little different but they’re also all perfectly executed and they’re all STEVE. eg:

the look that he gives Maria, like english please and then after her explanation he says “well they’re going to show up again.” - Captain Rogers.

“Right. What kind of monster would let a German scientist experiment on them to protect their country” - Steve

“They are.” - Captain America

let’s just. let’s just acknowledge that Thanos had a stone. in his possession. and he gave it away. to L O K I.

“I'm going to live forever” 

ah geeze he actually is tho

*CLINT FEELS*

They talk about AI like it’s this Great Forbidden Thing, and the Roommate looks at me with the Tiredest Eyes

Everyone is working on artificial intelligence, she says.

e v e r y o n e

seriously “the man was not meant to meddle medley” is a very impressive tongue twister that Tony definitely practiced in the mirror that morning

but it’s also nonsense

the military, corporations, academia, everyone -- everyone is working on AI.

Ultron: What is this. What is this, please.

The Roommate: Me. Every morning.

Also, it’s worth noting that when Ultron goes through all the files on the Avengers and shit, he looks at Steve AT LEAST twice. 

The Roommate: To be fair, so would I.

RIGHT RHODES IS THE REAL HERO OF THIS FILM

“Where are the ladies,” said Maria Hill, a Known Lesbian. 

Sam and Steve’s whole everything is A+ Great, as usual

Rhodey’s face after everyone laughs at the “Boom, you looking for this” line is just

*kissy chef fingers*

and then this happens

the “flirting”

this is the weirdest “flirting” i have ever seen

it’s like the uncanny valley of cute flirting

it’s like they’re both actors pretending to be characters who are acting out something they’ve only ever seen in film

why is it like this

“What Are Your Intentions Towards My Daughter?” - Steve Rogers

no I kid

Captain America said that

Steve said “as maybe the world’s leading authority on “waiting too long”, don’t.”

and then suddenly they’re all teens hanging out in their dad’s basement

honestly this scene is the best scene in the movie, possibly the franchise, and it’s well worth all the bullshit we’ve put up with so far.

let’s also take a moment to pour one out for both Steve and Thor’s #looks in this scene because

goddamn

Steve and that blue button down

Thor and his hoe v-neck + pop collar maroon jacket

much fashion very hnnnngh

like it takes WORK to make these two look better with their shirts ON but you did it, AoU costume department. You Did It.

Also, James Spader as Ultron is just

i love it

gurl u r LEAKING

u CHOSE this body

u could have taken any iron legion body, you probably could’ve taken a SUIT if you wanted but instead you’re here in this janky ass leaking melty faced body with wires hanging every which way and the arms and legs on backwards

you are such a drama queen

truly his father’s son

so when Tony pulls out JARVIS’ broken corpse, how were they all supposed to know this was JARVIS? do they all get to meet Jarvis at some point? like at what point was Captain America introduced to the holograph representation of JARVIS’ “body” that he just IMMEDIATELY knows that this abstract yellow humpty dumpty is JARVIS

Team Dr. Cho Was Underutilized 2k15

Tony laughing because he’s about to be in so much trouble is very much a #mood

We can bust arms dealers all the live long day, but, that up there? That's...that's the end game.

I’m just going to present this bad phone picture of my notes because I feel like it does a better job summing up how I feel about this line:

remember when Wanda had an accent?

I’d say “good times” but I’m not sure they really were

seriously the Maximoffs have a great origin story this should’ve been theirs and Clint’s movie that would’ve been better

God Bless The AoU Costume Department

I have no idea what happened in this scene because of Steve’s smedium shirt

and that said he has to compete, visually, with Cobie Smulders in a sheath dress, and he does so with effortless grace

*distinguished golf clapping*

I actually really like the set up of Wakanda and Vibranium here it’s just nice and it gives all the background we need without really feeling like exposition and it reveals character dynamic between steve and tony it’s just nice is all

SALVAGE YARD AFRICAN COAST

Andy Serkis giving 112% AS USUAL

So Ultron steps into this scene like

and tbh it is a sexy leg good work Ultron

“I’M NOT MY DAD” -Ultron, definitely in Denial

Pietro talking to Tony in this scene like Tony was personally there when the bomb blew up his family and almost killed him and his sister

he wasn’t

u r drax in this scenario, and Tony is Ronan

he doesn’t remember ur family, dude

“pretending you could live without a war”

are we just going to ignore that Ultron gets inside Steve’s head right here right now and then Wanda exacerbates that 200%

and Steve just decides “yup that sounds right”

“i guess I’ll just be at war for the rest of my unnaturally long long life”

is anyone? going to talk about that? bring it up to him maybe?

no? 

coooooool coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool

i just ~love~ (and by love i mean HATE) that natasha romanoff (A SPY) decided to upgrade her suit (HER BLACK STEALTH SUIT) with glowing (GLOWING!) stripes

much stealth very in character wow 

(negative 200 points costume department what the hell)

pietro don’t hit senior citizens that’s rude

these dreams are actually totally fascinating and I really like them don’t @ me they’re great

“I Am Mighty.”

“only the breakable ones. You are made of marble”

“We can go home. Imagine it”

aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

“Natasha, I could really use a lullaby”

natasha isn’t here right now please leave a message after the beepbeep

this is such a fucking nightmare, could be a callback to that opening fight scene IF IT SUCKED LESS

Tony. Your green son has a special need. maybe instead of trying to turn him back into Bruce, you should try to accommodate his needs. because he’s special.

Clint MacDonald Had A Farm

“These are... Smaller agents.”

“Sorry For Barging In.”

Captain America is here from the 40s and Ready To Apologize

Thor’s Extremely Dramatic Exit

Steve: looks at the house

(very softly in the background, Peggy’s “we can go home.”)

The Roommate: nuuuuuuuuuuuuuu steve don’t think thaaaaaaaat

I honestly love Old Dad Clint. *shrug* sorry not sorry

and now we’re here. at That Scene. 

YOU KNOW WHICH ONE.

it makes no FUCKING sense for EITHER OF THEM to be having THIS CONVERSATION at THIS TIME. SERIOUSLY WHAT THE FUCK.

Honestly, the only way this makes sense is if Bruce and Nat are both ace af and think the other one is allo af 

just two hopeless asexual babies, adorably in love with each other

both of them awkwardly being like “BUT. YOU WANT THE SEX. RIGHT?” 

and neither of them realizing that the other one also does not want the sex

that’s the only way the scene makes any kind of sense. If Natasha is putting on a performance and Bruce is too and neither of them realize that the other is putting on a performance

BUT EVEN THAT DOES NOT EXPLAIN WHY NATASHA FEELS THE NEED TO BRING UP HER UTERUS

LIKE

THERE’S NO NEED FOR IT IN THIS CONVERSATION

AND THE WAY SHE BRINGS IT UP IS B I Z A R R E 

and when i saw it in theaters, I was like “oh clearly this scene is missing some important dialogue that clarifies that Nat doesn’t mean she’s a monster for not being able to have kids.

BUT I WAS WRONG.

UGH ANYWAY MOVING ON.

god bless the AoU costume department for Steve in a Smedium shirt and Dad Jeans. A+ work i can almost forgive you for putting glowing neon on Nat’s stealth suit

but honestly the whole rest of this movie is worth it this one interaction:

Tony: Isn't that the mission? Isn't that the "why" we fight, so we can end the fight, so we get to go home?

Steve:

Captain America: *externally* something something end a war something something people die something something

Steve: *internally* I SWEAR TO FUCK IF ONE MORE PERSON TELLS ME THEY WANT TO GO HOME, IMMA MCFREAKING LOSE IT.

YOU WANT TO GO HOME?? Y O U WANT TO GO HOME??? B I T C H

oh hey Tony ur dad is here

“watched my friends die” ok but 

a) are you and Steve friends?

b) if this has been eating at you, why wasn’t it shot better ~from a cinematic perspective~ and why don’t we get more of you being haunted by it and less of you talking about reinstating prima nocta

Actually this is a good time to talk for a hot second about Why We Don’t Hate AoU As Much As Some:

it’s very hard to judge AoU as a standalone film

because a lot of the things it does best are not standalone

it does a good job setting the stage for Civil War

it does a good job foreshadowing Infinity War and Endgame 

and on that note, it’s actually hard to judge it without having seen Endgame

it does a BAD job setting up the Avengers as a cohesive unit that works well together

it does a BAD job building the BruceNat dynamic

it does a BAD job making us believe that the Avengers are actually friends and not just coworkers who tolerate each other and sometimes hang out and drunkenly try to pick up thor’s hammer

that isn’t friendship, actually. you know what friendship is? look at Steve and Sam talking about Important Things That Matter, look at Tony and Rhodes’ dynamic. those are friendships.

anyway

The Roommate says it feels like AoU skipped some steps. Like, Avengers (2012) brought us in at the ground floor of this building and then we got shoved into one of those really fast elevators and dumped directly into some game changer meeting happening on floor 44 and then it kicked us directly out the window to our deaths

i’m maybe elaborating slightly upon what she said

the point is that AoU is not a good movie because it’s not a good standalone movie

the character dynamics aren’t Bad or Wrong they’re just not properly built up to. 

It feels like we missed a movie

maybe there’s an alternate universe where we got an Avengers 2 that made sense, and this is actually Avengers 3

maybe we just need to find Joss Whedon’s secret file of fanfiction and then everything that happened in this movie will make sense

ALL THAT SAID, THIS IS WHERE WE STOPPED THE MOVIE ON DAY ONE AND MY FINGERS ARE TIRED SO THIS IS WHERE I’M STOPPING TOO. AGE OF ART MOVIE DAY 2 WILL BE UP WHEN I FIND THE ENERGY TO DO THAT.

[kid-crashed]

Catch Me If You Can (Part 1)

This is a DamiJon College AU based off of some fantastic fanart by @une1st that you can find right here. Part 2 coming soon!

A shrill whistle rang over the practice field, easily being heard over the sound of rock music blasting from a set of speakers.

“Come on boys! Let me see that hustle!” The coach would have been easily identifiable, even without the booming voice. He was a giant man, easily six foot five, maybe more, with muscles straining against muted gray sweats. He was the only one standing on the sidelines, while the Metropolis City University football team practiced. “You best wake up and get your asses in gear or you’ll be running laps for the rest of the day!”

“Yes Coach!” The call came unanimously from the team as they worked through a series of warm up drills. Practice had only just started; earlier than normal, but they had their big Homecoming game tonight. This was their last chance to get a little extra training in.

The team finished their warm up, the coach stepping into the center of the field.

“Alright boy, take a knee.” The herd of college kids formed a semicircle around theman. His eyes surveyed his team  before landing on one member in particular. “Kent. Get your butt up here.”

“Sir, yes sir.” The guy in question stood up from amongst the team with a cocky grin on his face: Jon Kent. At twenty years old, he wasn’t the youngest person to ever make team captain, but he was still only a junior; a fact which had originally left a bad taste in the mouths of some of the seniors. Still, no one could deny that he’d earned this title, captain was elected by majority vote after all. But it was early in the season. This was his first big game to prove himself in.

He was tall by most standards, short by football’s, at six foot one. But more importantly, he was built almost entirely of lean muscle. His shoulders were broad, half inherited from his father, half the result of doing farm work his whole life. Unlike a lot of the members of the team, who looked like they snorted protein powder and skipped leg day regularly, Jon’s muscle mass was evenly distributed, giving him a conventionally fit, and attractive build.

He wiped the sweat on his hairline with the sleeve of his practice jersey. A clip board was handed over to him. It contained notes about each player on their team, as well as on their opponents.

“Alright folks,” He cleared his throat. “As you know, we’re going against Gotham tonight. Coach Stone can’t be trusted to call the shots ‘cause it’s his alma mater, so I’ll be taking over instead.” There was some collective snickering amongst the team. It was a running joke to five their coach a hard time for having gone to their biggest rival school. “So, here’s how it’s going to go.”

Jon started listing off the positions for roughly half of the team, mostly upperclassmen who were guaranteed a little spotlight in the homecoming game. There was a promise to all the new freshies and returning sophomores that if they proved themselves during training, they could get a little action too.

“Alright boys.” Coach Stone piped back in once Jon was done. “Take five for water, then we’re back to it.”

The members of the team split off back to their bags. Jon had left his over on the one long metal bench that stood at the bottom of the hill leading that lead to the field. As he walked up to it, he was able to look around and notice the small crowd of people interspured all over the knoll.

It wasn’t uncommon for other MU students to sit around and watch various athletic teams work out below. It was a nice place to hang out; sunny, but with a few trees for shade, and easy walking distance to one dining hall, the main gym, two libraries, and some of the larger academic buildings.

Seeing all these other students out here brought a smile to his face. He liked feeling like he was part of a community.

“Yo Kent, think fast!”

Jon’s head snapped up just in time to see a football being launched right at his head. God dammit. He ran back a few steps, thanking every fiber of his body that his reaction time was pretty high quality. Jon was able to cover enough distance that rather than being smacked in the head, the ball slammed his right in the chest. Jon wrapped his hands around the ball, pulling it in and keeping it close with his forearms. Nice. Ball: Caught. Receive: Perfect… Except… As he let his body follow the momentum, Jon felt the back of his ankle knock against something, and he toppled backwards.

“And down I go.” The exclamation was involuntary as he hit the ground with a thud. His recovery period was quick. The man sat up just in time to see one of his teammates cackling at Jon’s expense. “What the hell Batson?”

“Sorry man.” That boy was not sorry. Billy had been a close friend of Jon’s for years, but he could be a bit of a joker. “Also, uh, sorry!”

Jon scrunched his eyebrows at the second apology, noting that it definitely wasn’t for him. That was about when Jon became aware of the weird lump under his leg.

A backpack.

Shit.

“I’m so sorry.” Jon scrambled to his feet, brushing any grass or dirt off his sweatpants. He was careful for the disrupt the bag anymore than he already had.

“You should be.” The lower register voice made Jon unintentionally wince -- Please don’t start a fight right now -- He look at the person belonging to the backpack.

A guy sat on top of jacket, as if he were using it as a picnic blanket of sorts. He wore a rather comfortable looking green sweater, despite it being a nice, seventy six degree day. As Jon’s eyes traced over the figure under the sweater, taking note of how naturally tanned the guy’s skin was, leading up to the mans face and -- Oh… Oh that was a death glare if he’d ever seen one.

It was then that Jon realized he was also stepping on something, well, somethings to be exact. He took a step back and kneeled to pick up an assortment of what he was pretty sure were charcoal pencils. “Um… here.” He handed them to the guy.

This guy stared at Jon for a moment before reaching out with one color-covered hand, palm out flat. Jon dropped the pencils in the hand, being careful not to get any of whatever that ink was on his own hands. He watched as the individual organized the charcoal next to a box of what looked like oil pastels. Well, that explained the color.

“Sorry again.” Jon felt kinda sheepish. “It won’t happen again. I’ll yell at the guy who threw the ball, and uh… yell at myself for falling.”

The fellow sighed. “I didn’t think I’d be in the way when I sat here.”

“You’re not! I promise this was a one time fluke.”

Hazel eyes seemed to study Jon’s face to see if he was really sincere or not. “I’ll take your word for it.” The man then picked up a sketch book that had been resting on the grass next to him, and leaned it carefully against his knees.

Suddenly, something clicked in Jon’s head. “Oh! You’re that dude who’s always drawing here!”

“Excuse me?” The guy rose an eyebrow, and for some reason Jon suddenly felt a bit flustered.

“No I mean,” He took a step back, trying to actually think before he spoke. “I just see you here a lot. Like, during practice I’ll look and and it’s like, boom, you’re there.”

The other male let out a sigh, turning his attention away from the moronic quarterback, and back to his artwork. “I suppose I’m here often.”

“You are.” Yeah that sounds about right Kent. Tell the guy exactly how often he’s here. That’s just a fantastic idea. “I mean, well, I notice that you are.” There was an awkward bit of silence, where this other student was probably just trying to ignore Jon’s presence on that hill. Rightfully so. He was definitely just bothering the guy. “So… Do you always draw the team?”

“No.” The answer was short and simple, but one glance upward must have allowed the man to see just how painfully curious Jon was. “Sometimes I draw what’s in front of me, sometimes I draw based on assignments, sometimes I just draw whatever comes to mind first.”

“That’s so cool.” He peaked over the edge of the sketchbook once more to get a look at the work in progress. “You’re really good.”

“Thank you.”

Jon was about to open his big mouth all over again, probably to make another dumb comment, when his coach’s voice suddenly boomed over the whole field. “Kent! Stop flirting and get back over here!”

“Yes Coach!” Jon called back over his shoulder. “Uh… I’ll catch you later?”

“Perhaps.” The artist shrugged. “Goodbye, Kent.”

For some reason, that just brought a grin to the junior’s face. “It’s Jon, actually. Kent’s my last name.”

“Alright then. Goodbye, Jon.”

“Can’t I get your name first?”

The man looked up from his work with a sigh, making eye contact with the football player once more. “Damian.”

Practice ended rather uneventfully, with the usual post-training pre-game huddle Coach Stone always made them do. Supposedly it boasted moral until the more official motivational speech in the locker room, but Jon didn’t know enough about psychology to say one way or another. The members of the team started branching off, each going back to their bags to collect their things and head out. As Jon was heading back to his own bag, he looked up and noticed that the artist from before was starting to pack up his things as well.

“Hey!” Jon ran over to Damian, before the other was fully packed up. “Wait a sec.”

Damian didn’t slow as he put placed a piece of wax paper between the pages in his sketchbook, and closed it. “What do you want?”

“Are you going to the game tonight?” Jon awkwardly adjusted the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder.

Damian looked him over, then, he carefully put the sketchbook in his messenger bag. “I doubt it.”

There was a very good change that Jon looked like a kicked puppy. A pout grew on his face. Childish? Maybe. But if it works, it works. “Why not?”

The art student shrugged. “I never purchased a ticket. Besides, I’m not so interested in sports events.”

“I can get you a ticket.” H flashed a grin. “And you could just come and draw or something?”

That got a puzzled look in response. “You want me to come to your game, and not watch it?”

The quarterback shifted, rocking back onto his heels, then to his toes. “Why not? Can’t a guy want to see a pretty face in the crowd?” He studied the expression on Damian’s face, noticing the change from confusion, to what he dared to call fluster.

“How--” Damian coughed into his hand. “How will I get the ticket?”

The smile on Jon’s face would have split his head in two. “I’ll leave it at Will Call for you.”

[legendofthematriarch]

The Matriarch (Ch. 1)

Then there was something. A blink of consciousness, into a green and blue void of space and time. She sees a branch, and then words form in her mind. Language and thought, downloaded directly into her very being at a rapid but somehow still manageable pace. The basics, of course. I’m born of Yggdrasil, she thought. A newborn child of mythology, her pages blank of all history. Ready to make her mark upon the multiverse and cosmos. There was still yet so much to be done, though.

She was a beautiful woman, of darkened and tanned skin. She was nude, as all newborns are. Her skin unscarred and unmarked by time or touch. She possessed gorgeous orange eyes, along with a smooth and youthful face. Her hair was of shoulder length, black as night. It would have been considered difficult to mark her out of a crowd if she wore standard clothing, beyond her otherworldly eyes that seemed to glow in dimmer light conditions. What conditions did she find herself in, but a void that she remained in for indeterminate time. Create, another word popped in her head. What to create, though? She supposed that she was to start with the basics. Hmmm, ground. Yes, that’ll do. It was not an instantaneous process, as dirt formed beneath her feet while she levitated several feet above. Grass came after, and she found feet touching and feeling earth for what she could only perceive as the first time. She found it to her liking. The blades tickled between her toes, which cracked a smile and a giggle. There’s a voice, she discovered! My my, that will be useful. She spoke aloud for the first time in her existence, “Uh, more?” 

She noticed her plot of land being smaller than a single acre. She expected a world, somehow. That thought formulated into an expansive field, the dirt forming into a flatland of comforting grass. She frowned, the aesthetics of which displeased her. She expected rolling hills, and then it became so. The land became pregnant, birthing further plantlife. The more she thought, the more that there was. Trees began to sprout from the branch of Yggdrasil, spawning a sparse forest that dotted the landscape, which by the hour was becoming more homely and livable. Hour by hour, more necessities were required. A house, some clothes. She thought nothing of her nudity, but if she were to have guests in the future she’d figure it may be polite to possess some form of robe. So it came to pass, a lovingly layered dress formed around her, the fabrics born of grass and reeds that had made their home around her. It was simple in form, but it’ll do for her purposes. Though, her purpose still eluded her. As information slowly crawled its way into her mind, she thought of childbirth and immediately painted her spawning as irregular. She was not born directly from the gods that call Yggdrasil their home, but the universe deemed her existence necessary. What is she, who is she. So many questions, and not a soul was around to answer them. She surmised that she too, was perhaps a god. A god of what, though? She still lacks a name, and a motivation that still eluded her. She’ll have to start with something of course, and the only thing that truly came to mind was… “Matriarch”. More of a title than a name but parents have done worse, and she has none to speak of. Still, the thought of motivation creeped into her mind, and she just wanted to learn. So much, as much as possible. Just as the thoughts came to be, a massive summit of a structure broke free from the void and into her grassland. The rumbling was intense, the ground shook beneath her and she popped into some levitation to counteract the sensation. The Matriarch had to investigate of course.

The building was fairly featureless in its own right. It lacked windows, and was more of a monolith than a building. It was longer than it was wide, but it had to have been a few dozen stories in height, and easily dominated much of the early flatlands she had created. Her brows furrowed at this, as it was quite the eyesore in comparison to the beauty of the land she originally created. She still lacked a house proper, and if she was as powerful in this realm as she thinks she is then there might be plenty of room for improvement. Still, the investigation had to continue. Hells, there’s not even a door. Then there was, as her thought willed it to be. She stepped inside and was overcome with senses. It was nothing like the land of nothing on the outside. It was… a library. Refurbished and practically used. It utilized darker browns and was lit very dimly, looking abandoned and apocalyptic. There was a draft coming from an unknown source, as stacks of scrolls and papers fluttered around the place without a care. Using her very limited detective skills, she surmised that it was indeed an abandoned library. She heard no sounds of any beast or persons, but the halls and shelves echoed the flying of papers and the shuffling of books as time and weight shifted their location. Of significant interest, she randomly picked one and skimmed the initial pages. First in a language she did not at all understand, the words shifted into understanding within a few moments. It was a collection of poetry, based around forlorn lost loved ones. The themes involved wartime, or hasted divorces due to family and circumstance. Cute, she thought, but her investigation was not over. She shut the book and flicked her fingers across several bindings, enjoying the sensation of the rough leathers they boasted. Plucking another book out merely a foot or so away, she discovered that the theme could not have been more different. It was a combat manual, with plenty of pictures and diagrams. It was a sort of martial art, originating in an earthen country. Her expression was neutral, but she nodded in approval as a realization hit her. 

“Gods and hells,” she thought, albeit aloud despite not a soul to be present to hear. “There’s no sorting here whatsoever, is there.” A smile cracked upon her face, which contorted into a deep grin. It’d take quite a bit of time to sort this mess, wouldn’t it? A type of glee washed over her. Sorting would require a great deal of reading. Her motivation was a bit blurred before, just an abstract thought. However it just became very clear and very real. The Matriarch exists to learn, and that’s exactly what she would go on to do.

To a mortal’s perception, hundreds of years would have gone by. Several, in fact. The sorting of her expanse of knowledge only took a couple of decades with some focused sorting, but Matriarch would have gone ahead and added another as her focus constantly drifted into reading the books in full. Her sorting was haphazard, being categorical rather than alphabetical. She eventually decided to sort them by some earthen centuries to help her follow a linear path of technological understanding. Effectively learning things ‘in order’. 

The Matriarch learned how humans evolved from primates, to walking and speaking. They discovered fire, language, and civilization. She learned of the weapons and war they created and used upon each other, as well as educated her on their love of music and art. She loved it all. As she drifted into the more modern times that included engineering and computers, she thought those would be incredibly useful tools in streamlining her process. 

So, she created her own estate with the full benefits of electricity. An octagonal tower with various wings dedicated to the expected purposes. An office, a kitchen, some guest bedrooms. Just in case. 

Her estate was extravagant and comfortable. She went with a theme of red and white appealed to her greatly, with the occasional black highlight. Even in terms of color theory, this was a popular choice in human culture and media. The colors just complimented each other well, the sharpness of red complimented the monochrome of the black and white, and it’s a theme she would use throughout her void-spawned estate. With the occasional practical choice of brown and other colors, as to make sure her interior did not look like a cartoon of some kind.

The guest bedrooms were more or less scaled down versions of her own main bedroom, which housed some of the obvious necessities. A desk, a computer, a bed. Singles for the guests, a double for herself as she liked to sprawl around and swim in the silks from time to time. Sleep seemed to have been unnecessary for her, but she still found it useful to decompress her mind after several dozen hours of straight reading.

Her office was outfitted with computers and a sort of emulated internet; in the sense that she was not directly connected to anything. Ultimately, her systems effectively “refreshed” every so often to give her access to more updated information. 

As alluded to, none of this happened over a small period of time. She’d dedicate chunks of time to singular tasks. Sorting the library took the bulk of her first few years of existence. Again, as sleep and sustenance was unnecessary, her own estate did not become important until she read about things that she simply wanted to possess. Once a manual of interior decorating was discovered, well… she just had to have it of course.

In a way, her own personal realm remained disconnected from all others. She yearned to explore, but there was still far too much to learn in order to be prepared to interact with others. A creeping, nagging feeling became incredibly irritating to deal with over a grand deal of time. She was lonely, as the more she learned of outside worlds the more she wanted to interact with them. There was of course, nothing blocking her from directly doing so. The massive branch of Yggdrasil that hung over the blue and green alien sky still invited her soul to find the nine realms and beyond, to possibly even meet her creators. She still felt too impotent to interact with her fellow gods. As they were thousands her senior, with the activity and experience to match such a boastful existence. All she had were books, and as some mortal scholars have said; “Experience is the best teacher of all”. She wasn’t even sure her own existence was known at all. Of all the centuries she spent fixing up her realm, not a single soul or deity found themselves to her. No answers, no family, not even a reverberation in the aether. It was an awful feeling, a quivering in her heart. She wanted so much, but saw so little of herself.

[thomcoldman-blog]

Review: Iconoclasts

Iconoclasts, like the subject of a Junji Ito-esque horror, feels like it was made for me, in especially devilish and unsettling ways. It combines a lot of the elements of the classics I adore into one big ambitious, clever, gorgeous mess of a game; the item-meets-environment puzzle-solving of The Legend of Zelda, the looping, layered level designs of Metroid, the smooth traversal you'd expect from games like Mega Man X. It's a game with its eyes to the giants of the action-platformer genre, most nakedly influenced by Metal Slug and Monster World IV, but the truth is I can see so much of a million other games I love in Iconoclasts, it's almost like developer Joakim “konjak” Sandberg has been peering inside my head for ideas of where to take the game next. But you needn't have me tell you that – on the surface, from its Metroid-esque map screen, the enormous SNK-style bullet sprays and the SEGA green hills and blue skies, Iconoclasts indeed looks like a pretender to the throne, another indie retro game tribute-cum-rehash to the heyday of This Sort Of Game. Fortunately, despite first impressions, Iconoclasts has its own tune to sing.

Breaking from tradition should be paramount for any game named after “iconoclasm”, the practice of essentially rebelling against the status-quo. Iconoclasts goes one further, and becomes more of a rumination on the costs and challenges of tearing down the old and the daunting task of facing what may replace it. The story takes this theme and runs with it, depicting a world overseen by a fascistic militia known as the One Concern. This force believe everyone need have their place in the world (naturally, not a place of their own choosing), and will rain down “Penance” upon the homes of anyone who steps out of line. Despite their ranks consisting mostly of visor-clad grunts in grey, they never quite feel like a generic group of baddies, as their grip of terror comes with a religious undertone, spooking the citizens into paranoia of violent reprisal at the hands of the divine being the One Concern follow. As Robin, the daughter of a deceased mechanic now illegally fixing all manner of problems in the settlements, you attract no small amount of disdain from the citizens, who'd much rather you packed in the unlawful assistance and settled down. Naturally, this doesn't quite happen, and Robin soon finds herself becoming a one-woman resistance against the Concern, aided by a handful of similarly aggrieved allies along the way.

Iconoclasts' storytelling feels distinct and notable for a number of reasons, but first and foremost it's surprising the lengths that Konjak has gone to to develop a layered narrative in a genre where traditionally no-one bothers. The game is still driven largely by its tight platforming and satisfying puzzle-based progression, so with those successfully built you could forgive the plot for being fairly obvious girl-defeats-big-dragon fare. But here, Iconoclasts' feels eager to be seen as newer, fresher and more relevant. The characters aren't happy-go-lucky, but often filled with grief, terror and rage, and it all acts as a compelling motivator beyond filling out the map screen or crafting another upgrade. Having large boss battles with their impressive levels of animation and challenge accompanied by a sense that the characters have been through a great amount to reach the confrontation makes Iconoclasts feel more mature than its inspirations, even as you're throwing down with a giant cat or caterpillar.

The writing is sharp and sweet, not lingering on any point for too long so you're back into the action in due time, whilst never feeling perfunctory enough to make you want to hit Skip anyway. It feels tight; a feeling that permeates through most of the game. It never goes overboard with the number of characters you meet or are expected to remember, and uses them sensibly. The leading villains of the One Concern are the highlight, appearing throughout the entire game more-or-less as recurring showdowns, a constant thorn in Robin's side (and vice versa), and a font of expression for the game's themes of idealogical decadence and implosion. Much as the One Concern bleed the planet dry of its most essential materials, Iconoclasts bleeds its characters dry for drama and intrigue, giving each character exactly enough screentime to make a strong, lasting impression.

“Making the most of what you have” is a running theme in this game, reflected not just in its use of character but also location and mechanics. Robin is equipped with a stun gun and a wrench, and for a lot of the game, that's more or less it. She eventually gets a bomb launcher, and a third weapon type I won't spoil, but that's her lot. Iconoclasts isn't interested in giving you a huge arsenal, because you don't need it. Instead, the weapons serve primarily as solutions for the game's puzzles, and in combination with a couple of wrench upgrades giving Robin electrical properties, Konjak gets a LOT of mileage out of these tools. Robin's wrench lets her tighten bolts to activate level elements, as well as swing off mid-air bolts to reach higher ground or clear chasms. This movement feels exquisite, with your momentum coming off the bolt never in question, and it combines with a auto-targeting 4-way directional aim on the stun gun for quick, speedy combat scenarios. Puzzles often involve shooting the bombs through tight gaps to create an opening, using electricity to activate switches, moving level elements around via tightening bolts – how to interact with the pieces of a room is rarely in question, but the number of combinations of bomb-powered platforms, mid-air bolts, electrical switches, tight platforming and certain enemies feels limitless thanks to Konjak's incredibly inventive level design.

When you're not using the few tools at your disposal to blast through puzzles, there are plenty of enemies to take down instead. Standard cannon-fodder is found in a lot of rooms, but the game offers a tricky parry move and a mid-air stomp for defeating a variety of enemies that can't all be K.O.'d with a volley of stun-gun blasts. Keeping on brand, it never goes overboard with the number of enemy types, but Iconoclasts is smart enough to make sure each of the 7-or-so areas of the game has their own distinct fauna, such as skull bats in the dank flooded caves or bizarre bipedal cacti in the desert, each with some killer animation tooled for high readability and expressiveness. The bosses are by far the peak of the game's gorgeous sprite-art; screen-filling titans lumbering toward you with equally screen-filling attacks, and lithe assassins striking fast and hard as they leap between the sides of the screen. One highlight is an enormous caterpillar train operating in a circular forest area, chasing you down as you use your wrench to zip along magnetic rails; another, a flaming-hot femme fatale who rains hot death from the sky as you attempt to knock her into electrified railings. Each boss tests your reactions and pattern-reading skills in diverse ways, often offering allies to further differentiate encounters with their own special means of assistance. They're all instantly memorable, from the initial giant mech showdown to a frankly ridiculous ultimate confrontation that might leave you equally perplexed and enthralled.

Iconoclasts mixes up its combat and movement with its “tweak” mechanic, giving the player three perks to use in their journey. These can include defensive measures, speeding up weapon cooldowns and even making new moves available, like a handy dodge roll. Unfortunately, taking damage causes these abilities to become disabled, only becoming active once more by grabbing “ivory” dropped by enemies or from smashed or fixed objects. Iconoclasts' difficulty level isn't punishingly hard, but it's challenging enough where you'll take your fair share of scrapes, and losing useful skills such as speed boosts or attack boosts due to mistakes can be irritating. This mixed together with the fact tweaks must first be crafted using secret collectibles – and can only be crafted once their blueprints have been obtained – makes the tweak system feel more frustrating and underutilised than it could have been. Acquiring tweaks has enough barriers to entry that removing the ivory requirement wouldn't be overly generous – as it is, it never feels enough of a boon to making secret hunting anything more than its own reward.

That concern aside, Iconoclasts is an impeccable result of its 7-year development history. The story of Iconoclasts argues simply in favour of doing the right thing – not settling for quiet subjugation, not rioting against the status quo just because, but simply identifying something broken, and getting to work fixing it. In looking at the classics of video game yesteryear, Konjak clearly didn't see much broken, but what there was, the game makes a valiant effort at fixing. A tight compelling story, a rejection of empowerment-based progression in favour of a puzzle- and boss- design focus, impeccable movement with smart quality-of-life choices and a look bursting with colour, detail, blood, sweat, tears and love – in sticking to doing a few things really, really well in surprising new ways, Iconoclasts is the most successfully ambitious action-platformer I've played in years, and a game I've been wanting for a long long time.

Score: 5/5

[ocbungou]

Thank you, Fiddles, for submitting your application! Two mods have gone over it and accepted it for approval into the ring. Please have your blog ready by November 21st.

COUNTRY: APH SPain

NAME: Antonio Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Salvador Domingo Felipe Jacinto Dalí Fernández y Carriedo. Prefers to just go by Toni or Tonio.

PRONOUNS: He/him

AGE: 25

ALIGNMENT: The Guild

APPEARANCE: Antonio is probably the poster child for a classic Andalusian Spaniard – tanned skin, curly hair, clear-cut features and a nice smile, complete with dimples. His frame is lean and well-muscled, but not too well-muscled; a bit like a swimmer if it had to be compared to anything, long legs and a fantastic pair of glutes. His eyes are green, not a particularly striking color, but definitely attractive on his face. Occasionally he’ll grow a bit of stubble if he gets too lazy to shave, which isn’t often. The hard-partying lifestyle has aged him up a bit though, and he looks more late twenties, early thirties than 25 – his looks aren’t helped by the fact that he’s almost constantly hungover.

PERSONALITY: Antonio is an outwardly cheery and charismatic person, but you don’t have to look very far to see the rotten parts of that apple; while not a liar, per se, Antonio isn’t afraid of withholding pertinent information to get what he wants, and a good 99% of what he does only benefits himself in some way. He’s hot-tempered, selfish, and slightly unreliable – but even despite all of this, people seem to find him inexplicably charming at first glance. It’s probably the dimples.

Antonio is a very “my pace, my way person,” and will do whatever he wants, whenever he wants to do it; this has lead to more conflicts than he’d like to bother to count, and a bit of a problem with authority, but he’s willing to set aside his independent spirit (with a bit of grumbling) if it keeps him rolling in cash and in the lap of luxury – which, coincidentally, is his primary motive for pretty much everything he’s ever done. He has a bit of an obsession with James Bond movies, to the surprise of absolutely no one at all, and often prefers to spend his days re-watching every single one of them when he’s not throwing heckin’ wild parties and integrating himself with the rich and famous.

Strengths:

Oddly considerate sometimes – other times, just does whatever the fuck he wants

Charismatic

Free-spirited, independent thinker who don’t need no authority figures

Weaknesses:

Manipulative

Self-serving

Hot-blooded

ABILITY:

Miguel de Cervantes – Don Quixote

“Tilting at Windmills”

The definition of tilting at windmills is “to attack imaginary enemies,” which is fitting. Antonio’s power allows him to, by maintaining some kind of physical contact with a person or one of their belongings, cause them to hallucinate relatively mundane objects as horrific monsters. A pen could be a millipede with teeth for legs, a relatively large potted plant could be a horse with weird eyes, and a store mannequin would stay a store mannequin because those things are creepy as-is. The horrors come in all shapes and sizes – sometimes they take the form of phobias taken monstrous shape, other times they become things rooted in someone’s deepest insecurities. Think Silent Hill, but significantly less physically dangerous.

The drawbacks are that his powers require a tether – either the person themselves, or an object associated with them, like a piece of jewelry they wear often. They’re also incapable of being used on more than one person, due to both the nature of personal tethers, and the migraines that result from overusing his ability. He also experiences his own hallucinations as his victims are experiencing them, leading to some interesting results – he’s learned to not be particularly disturbed by anything anymore. Except Viktor.

BACKGROUND: Born in a small down in Churriana, Málaga named Alhuarín el Grande, there wasn’t much to do for a young boy of Toni’s age besides visit the many historical sites the town had to offer; but, being Toni, he never had much of an interest in history if it didn’t involve old action movies. Naturally energetic and prone to being destructive when bored, Antonio’s parents tried desperately to enroll him in some kind of constructive activity – being fans of art, they would have much preferred their son to take up something like acting, but Antonio was as much a fan of artistic pursuits as he was academia, preferring soccer and baseball to museums and paintings.

Sports worked as an outlet, for a time, until puberty when he discovered two things: he really hated team sports, he had the oddest ability to make people see things that weren’t there, and that was much more interesting than sitting the bench at a soccer tournament. Over time, and after several years of honing his abilities on his poor classmates and teachers, who were all convinced their high school was haunted by demons and had the place blessed more than once, Antonio dropped sports and academics altogether, preferring to (unsuccessfully at first) live the lifestyle of the rich and famous he’d seen so often in movies, and using his ability to achieve that. His parents were not pleased. His peers, however, managed to figure out that once Antonio left the school, so did the odd happenings and hallucinations.

Convinced Antonio was some kind of possessed, the residents of Alhuarín el Grande “persuaded” Toni pack his bags and take his “demons” with him, through some not-so-very-nice means that resulted in several hundred euros worth of damages to his parents’ house; and, much as they annoyed him with being sensible human beings who found his behavior frankly disturbing, they were still his parents. He’d rather not put them through more grief than he already had. So, at some point, Antonio slipped out of Churriana and Spain entirely (someone, somewhere, probably muttered “finally” under their breath when they’d heard the news the Fernández boy had skipped town) and ended up in Port City, with no cash, no prospects, and no idea where to start. Thankfully (or maybe not) he’d heard of The Guild and the money they could afford to shell out for his expensive hobbies. The rest is history, and can also be conveniently summed up as “poor Roderich.”

SAMPLE WRITING:

Parties were never Dmitri’s thing, exactly. They involved people, which Dmitri preferred to avoid at all costs despite being required to attend some sort of social function at least once a month.

Informal parties were another beast altogether, however, and Dmitri figured that he hadn’t actually attended a friendly get-together like this since the late 1800s at least – but his friendship with their mutual host forced him to half-heartedly participate, if only so he could hang back near the table where the food and drinks were set up so he could get well and truly sloshed off of cheap vodka and Fireball. Although, to be fair, he felt far more at home in a room full of well dressed strangers who expected him to be cool and aloof, rather than a close-knit group of friends who thought he was – at best – quiet and kind of a jerk.

Suffice to say, he was already half-way through his fifth (maybe?) glass of whiskey by the time he stumbled his way out onto the front porch for a smoke, leaning against the railing for support. At least out here the cool night hair would help him achieve some vague sense of sobriety, away from the loud music, cramped space, and boozy people. And hopefully the door would stay firmly shut behind him, and he could enjoy his newfound solitude without someone interrupting it and forcing him to either interact with them, or sit there in awkward silence until he was chased back inside.

[nerdy-bits]

Far: Lone Sails - Learning to Cope

Almost a year ago, my grandfather died. It has been hard to escape feeling like a hack because I keep bringing that up. The reality is, I haven’t written much since that day and what I have written has been punctuated by a tone that overflows with grief that I’m still not sure how to deal with. Nevertheless, here I am, attempting to write again. This time though, I am not going to steer away from that well. Part of that is self-motivated. The other part is Far: Lone Sails.

I watched the trailer for Far: Lone Sails one night while perusing the upcoming games in the Xbox Store. The music, the art, the tone, instantly hooked me. I am partial to games that have a system based in upkeep. I love building cities in City Skylines. I love managing my base, personnel, and resources in XCOM. Maintaining the mechanics of this land ship, traveling across a wasteland was an easy pre-order. 

The first moments of this title froze me. My character sat in front of what I can only assume is the grave of their father. A picture lays propped against a tree. The music is soft and sweeping. The environment monochromatic. Grays and whites punctuated by the red coat and hat of the player. 

If there is one thing that stands out immediately in Far: Lone Sails, it is its ability to deliver an aesthetic swiftly and creatively. As a long time fan of Playdead’s Inside and Limbo, the task of telling a compelling story in the limited space of a side crawling platformer is a challenge not easily overcome. Music and art take center stage, while gameplay often takes a back seat, punctuating the visual tableaus with puzzles. Okomotive’s ambitious entry into this genre is an outstanding accomplishment. 

———

My grandfather served 23 years in the Navy. A period of his life he spoke of sparingly. To this day I am unsure if that was because it conjured memories he didn’t care to relive, or if there was another reason. The stories he told were always comical. Stepping up several decks in a single bound while the ship flexed in choppy waters. Drinking hot beers on the deck while docked at shore in the Philippines. Nearly missing the boat back while resupplying. His Navy career was a mystery to me. It will always be a mystery.

———

Far: Lone Sails takes place in a world made desolate by a disaster given no explanation. As you step down a sandy beach, the sound of an ocean never comes. Instead a windswept desert stands in its place, the carcasses of various ships strewn about the wastes. As you step into your ship (the eponymous Okomotive), crank up the engine, and pull away from the scaffolding surrounding it, you set off across this lonely place. The destination: unknown. 

Within moments the world begins to unfold itself around you. Broken down ships are everywhere. Dust crept onto their decks. Debris lays scattered, half submerged in the sands of of time and abandonment. Something happened to this place. It is hard to keep from imagining a world full of color. Rippling seas teeming with life. Nothing remains but shattered hope, abandoned dreams, derelict homes. 

———

When my grandfather passed it was sudden. He had interstitial lung disease. One day he felt worse than usual. He and my grandmother went to the Emergency Room. Eleven days later he was gone. Despite the expertise of the doctors that attempted to help, they never found out what caused this flare up. Despite everything they attempted there was no explanation. I remember my uncle, sitting in shock next to his dead father. “My whole life I have believed in science. And science has failed me.” The words were sobering.

———

As you progress through Far: Lone Sails the obscured history of the world begins to unravel itself. The shallow, dried out seabed gives way to rolling pastures. Billboards pass by for a small farming and industrial town, The Blue Isles. This town, as picturesque as it may look with its rolling green hills, rests abandoned. The hills are washed grey-green, and before long you find barns and farmhouses torn asunder. Cars rest on roofs. 

A tornado appears just beyond the last partially standing buildings. Without words it becomes clear: the damage done to this world is deep and irreparable. 

The game continues this story of unnatural disaster as you progress. Color comes and goes, rarely, but those colors are always bleak. Dreary. Joel Schoch’s score moves emotionally throughout these moments, rising as the Okomotive churns forward, dipping as night falls, rising as the day breaks, the amber glow of the sun projecting into the thick clouds that cover the world. Schoch’s score is incredible. I’ll never forget trudging through the rain, the drops plinking off of the Okomotive, while the score receded. Leaving me to the sound of the rain and my thoughts. One of the best parts of Far: Lone Sails’ score is its willingness to leave you in silence, proving that even in its absence it can have a dramatic impact.

———

It was rainy the day he died. I remember thinking, “thank god no one else will be happy today.” I had always found comfort in rain. Since then, rain has been…different. No longer just a source of comfort, it is a reminder. Every time it rains, I am brought back to that day. Each time a little less, sure, but it is still there. I think it may always be there. I’m not sure I want it any other way. 

The thought that he died of natural causes so suddenly felt, well, unnatural. He was tough, he rarely complained, and to think that one day his body just decided it was tired of struggling was hard to understand. 

For the next six months it was hard to see color in anything. Everything felt greyed out. Food tasted different, sleep was less rejuvenating, laughter didn’t linger like it used to. My inability to write became apparent quickly. I struggled for hours to get singular thoughts onto a page. I was afraid that talking about this loss openly would look like a crutch I was leaning on. So I didn’t write. 

———

The billboard for the Blue Isles says “A Fresh Start” just beneath the name of the town. Another says, “We Build Our Future”. The people of this place tried their hardest to move past the fact that their world was dying. But they don’t appear to have ever attempted to address the issue. The rusted and hulking remains of industry and manufacturing tell a story of a people who believed in science, and who were betrayed by that belief.

As the remains of civilization pass you can see people building escape hatches, not treating a wound.

———

Writing has always been my release. My means of escape, of coping, of healing. Not writing meant I did none of those things properly. I bottled and distilled my grief, making each moment it returned stronger. I tried everything to get away from it. I hid my pain from my grandmother, trying to be strong for her. I hid my pain from my wife, trying to prove that I was fine. That I was able to hold it together. I tried my best to move past the fact that a part of my world had died. In reality I was building escape hatches. 

Without giving away the ending of Far: Lone Sails, because you should absolutely play it, I realized that part of me needed to let go, sure, but a larger part of me needed to face the problem head on and push through it. My grief is my Okomotive right now. I need to maintain the ship pushing me through life. I need to remember that, even if the ship is damaged, it is fixable. But it won’t be forever. Someday, it will decide it can go no further. When that time comes, it will be okay to let it go. To move on to another vessel. To take a moment and say, “Goodbye old Friend.”

The front of the Okomotive in Far: Lone Sails has two figures etched on its prow. An adult and a child. The house you pass through in the opening moments show you a Father and his child and the machine they created together. I am not entirely self-made. I owe a lot to Timothy Sawyer. His family was the thing he was most proud of. I realize now, that is why he didn’t share a ton about his service in the Navy. It wasn’t what he built with his hands. His family was. Now that he is gone, we must take journey forward, through the waste and colorlessness, to a new place. And he is still here for the ride. Even in his absence he has had a dramatic impact on all of us.

———

I valued every moment I had with Far: Lone Sails. It has brought me a lot of peace over the last few weeks and helped me better contextualize the struggle and pain of moving on. Of pushing through the shit to get to the other side.

Mechanically easy to pick up, hard to put down, a brilliant and evocative score, and entrancing art elevate Far: Lone Sails into the poetic. A contemplative and somber yet unwaveringly charming journey It hooked me immediately. Despite having beaten it twice, I keep finding myself coming back for a little more every couple of days. 

Bravo, Okomotive.

Thank you for making this game.

@LubWub

[kelloggwrites]

To Tour or Not to Tour

A Travel Journal Series

By Bonnie Kellogg

When I consider the aspects of travel that I most enjoy, reasons why I get on a plane as often as I can and transport myself to places unfamiliar, I conclude that my motives are threefold: First, I enjoy breaking away from the daily grind and crave new experiences. Second, I learn so much! One of the best things about traveling is how it changes your point of view and expands your perception of the world. Finally, and most true to form, I have wanderlust.

My usual means to satisfy wanderlust is to simply go somewhere—anywhere—and quite literally stroll around, exploring at my whim and leisure. So when my friend, Virginia, had the idea of going on a trip to India, a place I’ve wanted to see for sometime, I said yes before we worked out any of the details. Then she told me she had already looked into tours. Having never gone on a tour, and given my MO when it comes to traveling, I was a bit uncertain if that was the way to go. We discussed itineraries and, ultimately, concluded it was the perfect method of travel for two females whose goal was to see as much of the country as possible in a couple of weeks.

Upon arriving in Mumbai, it becomes apparent to me at once that there will be no easing into the place, no dipping my toe in the waters to test its temperature before diving in. Rather, I’m pulled straight into the vortex that is India and its 1.3-billion populous.

Broken down, the country is comprised of warm people, vibrant colors, aromas of varying appeal, confronting poverty, hypnotic architecture, a vast history, and captivating spirituality. India, it seemed to me, was bursting at the seams. It’s too much, all at once, when you’re not used to it. But, as it turns out, it would be a good initiation for the days to come. It was time to leave on our first organized excursion, and this frenetic energy would carry over to the tour itself — a tour that I dubbed the Fast & Furious Tour of India.

It takes us to six different cities and a national park where we go on safari. After Mumbai, we travel to Udaipur, Jaipur, Agra, Panna National Park, Varanasi, and Dehli. In each city we visit the sights that draw the usual masses; museums, palaces, forts, places of worship, parks, and in Agra, the most famous of monuments: The Taj Mahal. Incredible! We take three flights, two long coach rides, and a train ride. We arrange wake-up calls, keep our bags organized and ready to go, and seem to have a strictly regimented timeframe at each locale. The tour is, well, fast and furious, as I’ve said.

When at last I reach my hotel, I take a few minutes to decompress before joining Virginia on the pool deck for a cocktail. One last respite before we set out on our journey. The next day we meet our guide and fellow travel companions and then set off on a city tour, where even a simple bus ride turns into an epic adventure. Driving on the streets of India is an art form, and not for the faint of heart.

We see the contrast between the affluent and the needy throughout our tour—you can’t miss it—from the slums and Dhobi Ghat to South Mumbai’s multi-million dollar properties. Disparity abounds. As always, the architecture draws me in. My favorite was the spectacular Gothic beauty Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus (formerly known as Victoria Train Station), with its stone domes, turrets, and multiple decorative arches.

                            Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, Mumbai

We visit the Prince of Wales Museum and then Mani Bhawan, a guesthouse turned museum, dedicated to the life and works of Gandhi. The next day it is a boat trip to Elephanta Island, the carved rock archeological site constructed in the mid-5th century and into the 6th. Then we’re off to the state of Rajasthan and the picturesque city of Udaipur.

We putt along Lake Pichola to our accommodation, the gorgeous Lake Palace Hotel, which is situated in the center of the man-made fresh water lake. The rulers of the day used this palace as their summer home. I fell in love with it at first sight: its marble architecture, lush courtyards and fountains, and scenic view over Udaipur. What a place!

The next day we tour the City Palace, built by Maharana Udai Singh and his successor Maharanas over the next 400 years.

                                      Pichola Lake, Udaipur

On our last day in gorgeous Udaipur we visit two temples, Eklingji, dedicated to Shiva, and the deserted temple called Nagda, constructed in honor of Lord Vishnu.

Our whirlwind travel itinerary speeds along to the state capital, the famous pink city, Jaipur. Here we tour two sections of the City Palace: the Mubarak Malal, which displays a good collection of textiles, including costumes worn by the royal family as well as Kashmiri pashminas and silk saris, and then Hawa Mahal, know as Palace of the Winds.

Built next to the women’s chambers in the City Palace, this unique 5-storey sandstone structure, with its 953 windows patterned with intricate lattice work, was built to allow the royal ladies to view the streets below without being noticed.

                                    Palace of the Winds, Jaipur

After, we’re whisked off to Amber Fort and the gardens at Amber Fort. The reddish-pink sandstone structure, adorned with intricate doors and windows, is laid out on four levels, each with its own courtyard. It was built on the hill above the town of Amer, just outside of Jaipur, and served as home for the Rajput Maharajas and their families. It’s a gorgeous view up here and an interesting site to visit.

The next morning we leave Jaipur and spend the day driving to the most celebrated symbol of love in the world, the Taj Mahal. Now, I’m not one of those women who fall over themselves upon hearing a story about undying affection, but this one is rather special and even I can appreciate the sentiment behind it. As always, though, it’s the architecture that has me most intrigued; the four pillars at each corner of the structure, the marble arches, the perfectly round central dome, topped with the sacred Hindu pinnacle, and the marble inlay ornamentation. It’s beautiful!

Lighting is everything, we’re told. In keeping with that theory, we make our first visit to the site in late afternoon as the sun is setting over Agra. The ivory-white marble glistens under the sun. I expect that some of the glints of light come from the 28 different kinds of rare stones and metals used in the inlay details of this stunning monument. We make our second and final visit to the Taj Mahal at sunrise the next morning. The verdict: it’s just as beautiful as it was at sunset.

Our last item on the agenda is a visit to the Agra Fort before catching our train the following morning and setting off to our next destination, Jhansi and into the Panna National Park. We board a coach and are given fair warning that the ride will be a rough one; the monsoons have washed out a stretch of the road, turning our luxury coach trip into a long amusement park ride. We arrive and check into our remote wilderness accommodations, a little green around the gills but otherwise intact.

The next morning, after a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast over excited chatter about the day to come, we eagerly head out on safari in hopes to spot the forest’s top predator, the Bengal Tiger. Despite Panna National Park being declared as one of the tiger reserves of India in 1994 and it falling under a National Protection Act entitled Project Tiger, by 2009 the entire tiger population had been wiped out by poachers, and it had been done with the collusion of the very forest department officials hired to watch over them. In the years since, efforts have been made to replace the population by relocating tigers from other reserves around the country. Altogether, four tigers (two male and two female) were relocated, established their territory, and bore cubs, bringing the population to 14 in total.

After a couple of hours on safari, we have seen a number of animals, including the Sambar and Spotted Deer, gazelle, the small jungle cat known as the Caracal, vultures, and a number of exotic bird species. As the day comes to an end, it’s becoming less likely we will see a tiger. By sunset all safari jeeps must leave the national park. With just under an hour to go, and despite their low numbers and elusive nature, we get word of a tiger sighting from another jeep. The naturalists communicate its whereabouts to one another. We race across the forest over dirt trails. Several jeeps converge on the cliff’s edge. Everyone jumps out. The naturalist points to the valley below, and then we all squint in the direction of his index finger. Way down, in the gorge beneath us, the tiger lies on a rock by the river, his half eaten meal of what may have been a deer spread on the ground next to him. It’s a long, long way and only those with a better camera lens get a proper photo. We stay for 30 minutes and then it’s time to go. I’m happy to have seen him in spite of the distance.

Next, we travel onto Varanasi and this is where things get rough for me. I actually thought about wrapping up this travel story without ever mentioning what happened at the tail end of my trip, but since its impact affects me to this day, it seemed insincere to omit such a significant event.

As the trip was coming to an end—we had four days left—I abruptly became ill. On the River Ganges I suddenly felt flushed and woozy. I was quick to chalk it up as my reaction to the highly sensitive funeral rituals that were going on around me, but upon my return to the hotel my fever only got worse. Over the next four days, including on a flight from Varanasi to Dehli, I continued to fight a severe fever and nausea. I was lucky to have had travel companions on our tour who were nurses and worked to get my fever down. In Dehli, I saw a doctor who prescribed medication.

When my fever finally broke, I had a short window of time in which I felt just well enough to fly home. After 20 hours of traveling, with my pal, Virginia, who had changed her flight to accompany me, we arrived in Vancouver. I was exhausted and feeling worse than ever so I went into the hospital. After much testing and several weeks back at home and in bed I was diagnosed with a viral tropical fever known as Chikungunya.

Today, six weeks later, I am recovering and well enough to two-finger type this travel story. For my friends, my getting sick seems to have outshone the whole trip. The first thing they want to know is: “Do I regret going to India?”

When I think about all the places we visited, all the sights where we left our footprints, albeit sometimes at a breakneck pace, I’m left with fond memories of the country, its people, and the group that I traveled with on this journey. So when they ask me if I regret having gone, the answer is no. For me, India was an adventure I’m glad I undertook.

I must admit, at times it struck me as strange way to travel, tailing our guide from one locale to the next. But, in the end, I concluded the following: For Virginia and me, an organized tour was the best way to see India. Fitting in all the cities and attractions that we visited in a 16-day period is miraculous, and we could never have achieved that on our own. However, I don’t see myself taking a tour like this again. The pace was too feverish-no pun intended-and the tour too structured. It left no room for spontaneity. In spite of all we did, all we saw and experienced, at my core, traveling to me still means to simply wander. Ah, freedom!

Photos by Bonnie Kellogg

[biofunmy]

They Were Victorian Dandies Who Made Art. Now They’re On the Outs.

Once in the late 1970s, somebody insulted David McDermott’s mother at a party, so he went to Tiffany & Company and had a note engraved: “Mr. David Walter McDermott is pleased to announce the elimination of _______ from his guest list.”

The note, which was mailed out to the offender’s friends, now hangs on the wall of Peter McGough’s apartment in Greenwich Village. “Now, that’s pretty brilliant, to insult someone at such a high level,” he said, laughing at the memory.

But it is now Mr. McGough’s turn to be disinvited.

Half of the Victorian-inspired art duo McDermott & McGough, Mr. McGough has written a memoir about his partnership with Mr. McDermott, “I’ve Seen the Future and I’m Not Going,” in which he recounts their bizarre journey as time-traveling artists known as much for their retro lifestyle as for their pseudo-historical art.

They dressed in Edwardian clothes, drove a 1913 Model-T Ford and eschewed modern conveniences. As lovers, they shared an apartment on Avenue C that lacked a telephone, television or electric lights.

But they have not had a cordial conversation since last spring, which not only makes it awkward for Mr. McGough to promote his new book, but also practically impossible for him to finish a series of drawings based on their paintings from the 1980s.

“He’s very angry with me,” Mr. McGough said, in his walk-up apartment stuffed with artwork and bric-a-brac. “We fight about money, and he blames me for a lot.”

Mr. McDermott is said to be living in Ireland, having left the United States after the Internal Revenue Service seized the couple’s upstate house and other assets because the men didn’t pay income tax (he later renounced his United States citizenship).

As the more doctrinaire of the two, Mr. McDermott never joined the digital age. He has no smartphone or email, Mr. McGough said, and it’s not clear if he has even heard of Facebook and Twitter.

Contacting him is not quite as antiquated as sending a messenger on horseback, but close. Mr. McGough has to first send a text message to a man named James, a friend of Mr. McDermott’s in Ireland. If James happens to be in Mr. McDermott’s presence, he passes on the message, at which point Mr. McDermott may or may not agree to speak.

If Mr. McDermott is not in the room, it’s unclear if the message is ever conveyed. “He’s been fighting with me for a year,” Mr. McGough said. A recent attempt at détente was met with silence. “He didn’t want to talk to me. He said he’s not in the mood.”

Instead, Mr. McGough received a letter from Mr. McDermott, sealed in black wax, with the lyrics to the old song “Thanks for the Memory.”

Old-Fashioned Party People

That certainly would not be their most epic fight. Their roller-coaster partnership began in 1980, shortly after Mr. McGough, then 21, moved to New York City from a suburb of Syracuse, N.Y., seeking glamour and excitement.

One night, while attending a New Wave Vaudeville show at Irving Plaza, he met Mr. McDermott, who was 27 and a downtown club performer. A few weeks later, he went to a dinner party at Mr. McDermott’s apartment on Avenue B and became fascinated with his 1920s-era lifestyle.

“He is incredible how his brain works — that’s what fascinated me,” Mr. McGough said. “I found most people were nice and fun, but it never went anywhere. But with him, it went someplace.”

The two became inseparable, not only as lovers, but also as artists who collaborated on paintings, photographs, films and sculpture. Mr. McDermott brought time and history to their work, and Mr. McGough brought homoeroticism and sexual politics.

“A Friend of Dorothy,” perhaps their best-known painting, features slurs like “queer” and “mary” written in antique typeface on a sunny yellow background.

The men spent their 1980s in downtown Manhattan dancing at the Mudd Club, attending openings at Fun Gallery, dining with the Schnabels at Indochine. And as their art career took off, they attracted people into their fantasy world, a candlelit “Barry Lyndon” on the bombed-out Lower East Side.

Their 18th-century house in upstate New York had a hand pump for water, a hearth for cooking and tin tubs for laundry.

When they dropped by Andy Warhol’s Factory wearing top hats and dress shirts with detachable collars, the receptionist would announce, “Those old-fashioned people are here again.”

“It was this mania for fun,” said John Patrick Fleming, a fashion designer who has known both men since their days partying at Danceteria. “Lots of important, successful people got lured into the McDermott and McGough fun train. One time, they had Bianca Jagger upstairs, wooing her with vegetarian food.”

Burning Through Money

The partying, however, was not sustainable. “With David, there was never any control,” Mr. Fleming said. “He was not controllable when he had a penny, and he was not controllable when he had millions. There was never any reasoning. There were no boundaries.”

In the book, Mr. McGough, who is more compromising in temperament, recounts how Mr. McDermott fought with gallery owners, alienated their friends and burned though a fortune to build his antiquated world.

There was the 1930 Graham-Paige automobile and the Model T; the $7,500 monthly rent on a Brooklyn studio in a former bank, where the duo once hosted a costume party inspired by Louis Comfort Tiffany’s Egyptian Fete of 1913; the team of assistants; the rooms of period antiques; the construction of a $50,000 stone wall at their circa 1790 house in Oak Hill, N.Y.

When Mr. McDermott became enamored with a young man that Mr. McGough calls “Bastian” in the book, the pair moved him into Oak Hill and made him a living doll. They bought Bastian two Morgan horses, sent him to train as a carriage driver at a Virginia farm and dressed him in old-fashioned riding gear.

Although Mr. McDermott and Mr. McGough ended their romance around 1985 (Mr. McGough said that Mr. McDermott had multiple affairs that precipitated the breakup), they continued making art for decades after.

Their works were included in three Whitney Biennials, and were exhibited by prestigious galleries including Cheim & Read in New York, Galerie Jérôme de Noirmont in Paris and Bruno Bischofberger in Zurich.

But in 1992, the I.R.S. showed up at their studio. The couple owed six figures in back taxes, having ignored all their bills. The government seized the Oak Hill property and auctioned off its contents. The Brooklyn studio was soon gone, as were the Model T and Graham-Paige touring car.

Mr. McDermott was devastated by the losses and moved to Ireland in 1994. Mr. McGough joined him, but he missed New York and his friends, and moved back to Manhattan in 1998. (Mr. McGough was also suffering from AIDS, which he learned he had in 1997.)

By the mid-2000s, McDermott & McGough were again riding high. But earlier mistakes were repeated, and the couple burned through more money. Mr. McDermott “lost this big mansion in Ireland and he blamed me,” Mr. McGough said.

(Several attempts to reach Mr. McDermott through his friend James were unsuccessful. James eventually responded to an email query, apologizing for taking so long to reply, but follow-up emails went unreturned.)

In writing the memoir and telling his side of the story, Mr. McGough could be seen as evening the score, since Mr. McDermott’s erratic behavior so often derailed the duo’s career. “Isn’t this his ‘Mommie Dearest’ moment?,” Mr. Fleming said.

Mr. McGough downplayed any psychodrama behind the memoir. The motivation was simpler, he said: “I thought maybe there’s money in it, because I was broke.”

‘Odd Bookends’

These days, Mr. McGough seems to have settled into a scrappier bohemian life in the Village. If he is no longer rich, he is still making art and grateful to be alive.

“I get out of bed, I stand up and I say, ‘You made it.’ And I immediately get in a good mood,” he said on a Thursday afternoon last fall.

He was perched with his Chihuahua, Queenie, on a French divan upholstered in green velvet. He wore pale-blue trousers with a pin stripe, which he had custom made in the wide-legged, high-waisted style of the 1920s. His thick, steel-gray hair was swept back Gatsby style and lacquered with what looked like pomade.

He still lives like a man out of the past, though he has moved up in period and incorporated semi-modern conveniences. “My cooker is from 1930, and the kitchen sink and the bathroom are 1930,” said Mr. McGough, who was charming, fun to talk to and utterly un-self-serious. “I like to think I’m a bohemian living here during the Depression.”

Perhaps out of habit, Mr. McGough seemed to want his partner’s opinion of his aesthetic choices, since Mr. McDermott had never visited his one-bedroom railroad apartment, which he began renting three years ago.

“If he comes here, what would he like and not like?” he said.

Pointing to a side table of his own creation, affixed with large graphic phalluses, Mr. McGough said, “He’d probably think the table is vulgar.”

Despite an ocean separating them and Mr. McDermott’s unresponsiveness at present, Mr. McGough still sees himself, and perhaps always will, as one half of McDermott & McGough. “We’re so bound together,” he said. “We are odd bookends that held up a life and a career. I can’t imagine my life without him in it.”

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[networkingdefinition]

Lavender Quotes

Official Website: Lavender Quotes

  • A rhododendron bud lavender-tipped. Soon a glory of blooms to clash with the cardinals and gladden the hummingbirds! – Dave Beard • Add a drop of lavender to milk, leave town with an orange, and pretend you’re laughing at it. – Bill Bailey • As a kid I’d play with homemade recipes, like putting pineapple on my face to exfoliate my skin and doing facial steams with lavender or peppermint oils. I just loved doing stuff like that. It’s what motivated me to launch my skin care line. – Demi Lovato • As far as what I do love, I love birds; I love lavender. – Michael Moore • Avoid men who call you Baby, and women who have no friends, and dogs that scratch at their bellies and refuse to lie down at your feet. Wear dark glasses; bathe with lavender oil and cool fresh water. Seek shelter from the sun at noon. – Alice Hoffman

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Lavender', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_lavender').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_lavender img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Before bed, I read a book or flip on the radio – I’m not picky, I’ll just turn it on and see what comes up. I burn a yummy lavender- scented candle. – Carrie Underwood • Blue is the insides of something mysterious and lonely. I’d look at fish and birds, thinking the sky and water colored them. The first abyss is blue. An artist must go beyond the mercy of satin or water-from a gutty hue to that which is close to royal purple. All seasons and blossoms inbetween. Lavender. Theatrical and outrageous electric. Almost gray. True and false blue. Water and oil. The gas jet breathing in oblivion. The unstruck match. The blue of absence. The blue of deep presence. The insides of something perfect. – Yusef Komunyakaa • Both Matilda and Lavender were enthralled. It was quite clear to them that they were at this moment standing in the presence of a master. Here was somebody who had brought the art of skulduggery to the highest point of perfection, somebody, moreover, who was willing to risk life and limb in pursuit of her calling. They gazed in wonder at this goddess, and suddenly even the boil on her nose was no longer a blemish but a badge of courage. – Roald Dahl • Bursts of gold on lavender melting into saffron. It’s the time of day when the sky looks like it has been spray-painted by a graffiti artist. – Mia Kirshner • But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me. – Edna St. Vincent Millay

[clickbank-storefront-bestselling] • Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender? – J. K. Rowling • Day after day we looked for rain, and day after day we saw nothing but the sun. Lavender that we had planted in the spring died. The patch of grass in front of the house abandoned its ambitions to become a lawn and turned into the dirty yellow of poor straw. The earth shrank, revealing its knuckles and bones, rocks and roots that had been invisible before. – Peter Mayle • Even talking, I’m super-loud. I could never have that kind of meek, little wispy whimsical lavender and lace voice. It comes from my body. There’s no way I can fight it. – Beth Ditto • Gay people do not fight for freedom to live in a lavender bubble, but in a more just society. – Urvashi Vaid • He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple—the true Episcopal colour and countless variations of it. – Willa Cather • Here’s flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. – William Shakespeare • Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun, and with him rise weeping. – William Shakespeare • I love Thieves, it is therapeutic, if you’re not feeling well. It has a very strong scent but is quite wonderful. I also use lavender. Peppermint, when my stomach is upset. – Donna Karan • I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back, rubbing his eyes wearily. Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don’t let Lavender hear you saying that.” “I won’t,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will . . . then she’ll ditch me . . . – J. K. Rowling • I put a drop of lavender essential oil on my pillow before I go to sleep. – Melissa Joan Hart • I saw Chungking for the first time more than 40 years ago – a city of hills and mists, of grays and lavenders, two rivers shaping it to a point and the cliff rising above me like a challenge. – Theodore White • I turned over, and those big hands got to work on my back. I stifled a whimper in the pillow, because Marco’s idea of a massage bore no resemblance whatsoever to the relaxing spa variety. There was no lavender oil, no soothing music, no hot towels. Just an all-out assault on cramped muscles, until they cowered in surrender and turned to Jell-O. – Karen Chance • If feeling anxious about anything Dr Bachs night time rescue remedy is great. Sometimes a bath before bed helps. Burning Lavender or Clary Sage in the room before retiring. Try not to work on my computer very late and then bed straight after. Getting enough exercise definitely helps sleep. – Rachel Ryan • If you had to choose an oil…it would have to be lavender essential oil, because it is antibacterial and antiviral. So, it’s great to have when people around you are sick; it can also be used to relax. – Karen Rose • it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She’s one of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her sweetness lingers long after she goes away. – Myrtle Reed • It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer. Everything fades: the shimmer of gold over White Cove; the laughter in the night air; the lavender early morning light on the faces of skyscrapers, which had suddenly become so heroically tall. Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days. And so I will try to tell you, while I still remember, how it was then, before everything changed-that final season of the era that roared. – Anna Godbersen • It was our favorite part of the day, this in-between time, and it always seemed to last longer than it should–a magic and lavender space unpinned from the hours around it, between worlds. – Paula McLain • Lavender is the new pink. I’ll never stop wearing pink but I wanted to venture out. – Nicki Minaj • London life was very full and exciting […] But in London there would be no greenhouse with a glossy tank, and no apple-room, and no potting-shed, earthy and warm, with bunches of poppy heads hanging from the ceiling, and sunflower seeds in a wooden box, and bulbs in thick paper bags, and hanks of tarred string, and lavender drying on a tea-tray. – Sylvia Townsend Warner • Look, why don’t you go talk to Ron about all this?” Harry asked. “Well, I would, but he’s always asleep when I go and see him!” said Lavender fretfully. “Is he?” said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron perfectly alert every time he had been up to the hospital wing. – J. K. Rowling • My favorite name for a color is “puce.” It’s kind of a dried blood color. It’s a hideous color. But I love the word. It’s so euphonic. But my favorite colors are lavender, purple, periwinkle blue, and white. – Elizabeth Taylor • Oils of cinnamon and eucalyptus are as powerful against some microorganisms as conventional antibiotics, and are especially effective against flus. Sandalwood oil from Mysore, India, is not only a classic perfume oil but is also a traditional remedy for sore throats and laryngitis. Lavender oil, so often used in toilet waters and scented sachets, has a dramatic healing action on burns. – Robert Tisserand • One trick I swear by: I pour a little neroli or lavender oil onto a hot towel and use it to wipe off my makeup. It opens up my pores, and then my face cream sinks in better. – Courteney Cox • The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows. – William C. Bryant • The raindrops played across the coast all through the night, until the soft new day shrugged itself awake, tried on amethyst and lavender for a while, and finally decided on pale yellow. – Gary D. Schmidt • The scent organ was playing a delightfully refreshing Herbal Capriccio – rippling arpeggios of thyme and lavender, of rosemary, basil, myrtle, tarragon; a series of daring modulations through the spice keys into ambergris; and a slow return through sandalwood, camphor, cedar and newmown hay (with occasional subtle touches of discord – a whiff of kidney pudding, the faintest suspicion of pig’s dung) back to the simple aromatics with which the piece began. The final blast of thyme died away; there was a round of applause; the lights went up. – Aldous Huxley • There are some things, after all, that Sally Owens knows for certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can. – Alice Hoffman • To make a perfume, take some rose water and wash your hands in it, then take a lavender flower and rub it with your palms, and you will achieve the desired effect. – Leonardo da Vinci • Valentine’s Day money-saving tips: Break up on February 13th, get back together on the 15th. In place of bubble bath, use lavender-scented dish-washing liquid. Forget rose petals. Sprinkle the bed with sliced beets! – David Letterman • We lavender folk spray up, spontaneously flowering in the color we had learned as an identifying mark of our culture when it was subterranean and secret. – Judy Grahn • What a turnaround in sentiment ‘Glee’ exemplifies. It was only a few years ago that pursuing the dream of a Broadway career or cabaret stardom relegated some poor yearning dope to a lavender ghetto of losers, self-deluders, and social rejects. – James Wolcott • What woman, however old, has not the bridal-favours and raiment stowed away, and packed in lavender, in the inmost cupboards of her heart? – William Makepeace Thackeray • When hope is fleeting, stop for a moment and visualize, in a sky of silver, the crescent of a lavender moon. Imagine it — delicate, slim, precise, like a paper-thin slice from a cabochon jewel. It may not be very useful, but it is beautiful. And sometimes it is enough. – Vera Nazarian • When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots? – Shel Silverstein • With this recitation of paraphernalia and detritus, O’Brien manages to encapsulate the experience of an army and of a particular war, of a mined and booby-trapped landscape, of cold nights and hot days, of soaking monsoons and rice paddies, and of the possibility of being shot, like Ted Lavender, suddenly and out of nowhere: not only in the middle of a sentence but in the midst of a subordinate clause. – Francine Prose • Womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender. – Alice Walker • Yours is… il sent comme lavande.” Is that French for ‘You stink’?” It means ‘lavender’.” Huh.” She sniffed at her wrist. “I thought I smelled more like a grape Popsicle. – Lynn Viehl

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'a', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_a').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_a img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'e', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_e').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_e img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

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jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'o', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_o').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_o img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

[equitiesstocks]

Lavender Quotes

Official Website: Lavender Quotes

  • A rhododendron bud lavender-tipped. Soon a glory of blooms to clash with the cardinals and gladden the hummingbirds! – Dave Beard • Add a drop of lavender to milk, leave town with an orange, and pretend you’re laughing at it. – Bill Bailey • As a kid I’d play with homemade recipes, like putting pineapple on my face to exfoliate my skin and doing facial steams with lavender or peppermint oils. I just loved doing stuff like that. It’s what motivated me to launch my skin care line. – Demi Lovato • As far as what I do love, I love birds; I love lavender. – Michael Moore • Avoid men who call you Baby, and women who have no friends, and dogs that scratch at their bellies and refuse to lie down at your feet. Wear dark glasses; bathe with lavender oil and cool fresh water. Seek shelter from the sun at noon. – Alice Hoffman

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Lavender', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_lavender').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_lavender img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Before bed, I read a book or flip on the radio – I’m not picky, I’ll just turn it on and see what comes up. I burn a yummy lavender- scented candle. – Carrie Underwood • Blue is the insides of something mysterious and lonely. I’d look at fish and birds, thinking the sky and water colored them. The first abyss is blue. An artist must go beyond the mercy of satin or water-from a gutty hue to that which is close to royal purple. All seasons and blossoms inbetween. Lavender. Theatrical and outrageous electric. Almost gray. True and false blue. Water and oil. The gas jet breathing in oblivion. The unstruck match. The blue of absence. The blue of deep presence. The insides of something perfect. – Yusef Komunyakaa • Both Matilda and Lavender were enthralled. It was quite clear to them that they were at this moment standing in the presence of a master. Here was somebody who had brought the art of skulduggery to the highest point of perfection, somebody, moreover, who was willing to risk life and limb in pursuit of her calling. They gazed in wonder at this goddess, and suddenly even the boil on her nose was no longer a blemish but a badge of courage. – Roald Dahl • Bursts of gold on lavender melting into saffron. It’s the time of day when the sky looks like it has been spray-painted by a graffiti artist. – Mia Kirshner • But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me. – Edna St. Vincent Millay

[clickbank-storefront-bestselling] • Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender? – J. K. Rowling • Day after day we looked for rain, and day after day we saw nothing but the sun. Lavender that we had planted in the spring died. The patch of grass in front of the house abandoned its ambitions to become a lawn and turned into the dirty yellow of poor straw. The earth shrank, revealing its knuckles and bones, rocks and roots that had been invisible before. – Peter Mayle • Even talking, I’m super-loud. I could never have that kind of meek, little wispy whimsical lavender and lace voice. It comes from my body. There’s no way I can fight it. – Beth Ditto • Gay people do not fight for freedom to live in a lavender bubble, but in a more just society. – Urvashi Vaid • He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple—the true Episcopal colour and countless variations of it. – Willa Cather • Here’s flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. – William Shakespeare • Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun, and with him rise weeping. – William Shakespeare • I love Thieves, it is therapeutic, if you’re not feeling well. It has a very strong scent but is quite wonderful. I also use lavender. Peppermint, when my stomach is upset. – Donna Karan • I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back, rubbing his eyes wearily. Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don’t let Lavender hear you saying that.” “I won’t,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will . . . then she’ll ditch me . . . – J. K. Rowling • I put a drop of lavender essential oil on my pillow before I go to sleep. – Melissa Joan Hart • I saw Chungking for the first time more than 40 years ago – a city of hills and mists, of grays and lavenders, two rivers shaping it to a point and the cliff rising above me like a challenge. – Theodore White • I turned over, and those big hands got to work on my back. I stifled a whimper in the pillow, because Marco’s idea of a massage bore no resemblance whatsoever to the relaxing spa variety. There was no lavender oil, no soothing music, no hot towels. Just an all-out assault on cramped muscles, until they cowered in surrender and turned to Jell-O. – Karen Chance • If feeling anxious about anything Dr Bachs night time rescue remedy is great. Sometimes a bath before bed helps. Burning Lavender or Clary Sage in the room before retiring. Try not to work on my computer very late and then bed straight after. Getting enough exercise definitely helps sleep. – Rachel Ryan • If you had to choose an oil…it would have to be lavender essential oil, because it is antibacterial and antiviral. So, it’s great to have when people around you are sick; it can also be used to relax. – Karen Rose • it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She’s one of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her sweetness lingers long after she goes away. – Myrtle Reed • It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer. Everything fades: the shimmer of gold over White Cove; the laughter in the night air; the lavender early morning light on the faces of skyscrapers, which had suddenly become so heroically tall. Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days. And so I will try to tell you, while I still remember, how it was then, before everything changed-that final season of the era that roared. – Anna Godbersen • It was our favorite part of the day, this in-between time, and it always seemed to last longer than it should–a magic and lavender space unpinned from the hours around it, between worlds. – Paula McLain • Lavender is the new pink. I’ll never stop wearing pink but I wanted to venture out. – Nicki Minaj • London life was very full and exciting […] But in London there would be no greenhouse with a glossy tank, and no apple-room, and no potting-shed, earthy and warm, with bunches of poppy heads hanging from the ceiling, and sunflower seeds in a wooden box, and bulbs in thick paper bags, and hanks of tarred string, and lavender drying on a tea-tray. – Sylvia Townsend Warner • Look, why don’t you go talk to Ron about all this?” Harry asked. “Well, I would, but he’s always asleep when I go and see him!” said Lavender fretfully. “Is he?” said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron perfectly alert every time he had been up to the hospital wing. – J. K. Rowling • My favorite name for a color is “puce.” It’s kind of a dried blood color. It’s a hideous color. But I love the word. It’s so euphonic. But my favorite colors are lavender, purple, periwinkle blue, and white. – Elizabeth Taylor • Oils of cinnamon and eucalyptus are as powerful against some microorganisms as conventional antibiotics, and are especially effective against flus. Sandalwood oil from Mysore, India, is not only a classic perfume oil but is also a traditional remedy for sore throats and laryngitis. Lavender oil, so often used in toilet waters and scented sachets, has a dramatic healing action on burns. – Robert Tisserand • One trick I swear by: I pour a little neroli or lavender oil onto a hot towel and use it to wipe off my makeup. It opens up my pores, and then my face cream sinks in better. – Courteney Cox • The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows. – William C. Bryant • The raindrops played across the coast all through the night, until the soft new day shrugged itself awake, tried on amethyst and lavender for a while, and finally decided on pale yellow. – Gary D. Schmidt • The scent organ was playing a delightfully refreshing Herbal Capriccio – rippling arpeggios of thyme and lavender, of rosemary, basil, myrtle, tarragon; a series of daring modulations through the spice keys into ambergris; and a slow return through sandalwood, camphor, cedar and newmown hay (with occasional subtle touches of discord – a whiff of kidney pudding, the faintest suspicion of pig’s dung) back to the simple aromatics with which the piece began. The final blast of thyme died away; there was a round of applause; the lights went up. – Aldous Huxley • There are some things, after all, that Sally Owens knows for certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can. – Alice Hoffman • To make a perfume, take some rose water and wash your hands in it, then take a lavender flower and rub it with your palms, and you will achieve the desired effect. – Leonardo da Vinci • Valentine’s Day money-saving tips: Break up on February 13th, get back together on the 15th. In place of bubble bath, use lavender-scented dish-washing liquid. Forget rose petals. Sprinkle the bed with sliced beets! – David Letterman • We lavender folk spray up, spontaneously flowering in the color we had learned as an identifying mark of our culture when it was subterranean and secret. – Judy Grahn • What a turnaround in sentiment ‘Glee’ exemplifies. It was only a few years ago that pursuing the dream of a Broadway career or cabaret stardom relegated some poor yearning dope to a lavender ghetto of losers, self-deluders, and social rejects. – James Wolcott • What woman, however old, has not the bridal-favours and raiment stowed away, and packed in lavender, in the inmost cupboards of her heart? – William Makepeace Thackeray • When hope is fleeting, stop for a moment and visualize, in a sky of silver, the crescent of a lavender moon. Imagine it — delicate, slim, precise, like a paper-thin slice from a cabochon jewel. It may not be very useful, but it is beautiful. And sometimes it is enough. – Vera Nazarian • When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots? – Shel Silverstein • With this recitation of paraphernalia and detritus, O’Brien manages to encapsulate the experience of an army and of a particular war, of a mined and booby-trapped landscape, of cold nights and hot days, of soaking monsoons and rice paddies, and of the possibility of being shot, like Ted Lavender, suddenly and out of nowhere: not only in the middle of a sentence but in the midst of a subordinate clause. – Francine Prose • Womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender. – Alice Walker • Yours is… il sent comme lavande.” Is that French for ‘You stink’?” It means ‘lavender’.” Huh.” She sniffed at her wrist. “I thought I smelled more like a grape Popsicle. – Lynn Viehl

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'a', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_a').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_a img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

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