#not that i particularly like that one either and some parts are really rubbish but i really think its not so bad

[playingonedchess]

[redacted] most stupid city why even bother

[aquaquadrant]

from eden, part XI (act II)

Word count: 15,152 Warnings: Language, blood/injury, descriptive violence, fictional racism, mild gore, death, kissing, body horror, unreality  Summary: Tango is forced to finally confront his past at Hels Tek, this time with Jimmy and friends behind him. But he soon finds that there are some battles he must fight alone, the outcome of which will change his life- and the universe- forever.

A/N: Due to Tumblr’s paragraph limit, I had to split this into two acts again. Link to the first half here. Hope you enjoy, please reblog/comment if you do! - Aqua

~*~

from eden, part XI (act II) - honey, you’re familiar, like my mirror years ago

~*~

Bravo emerges from the portal, blinking.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust from the dim basement to the brightly-lit garage. It looks just like he remembers it, save for a few scattered chests lying about. The floor-to-ceiling bay doors that lead out to the surrounding lava lake are closed at the moment, leaving the iron side door as the only access point.

The portal behind him now has that same red-yellow-green light as the old one, flickering as the other players begin to appear. Jimmy follows closely after, then Ren the dog man and Cleo the zombie take up their positions on either side of it, weapons at the ready.

“Well, what’s this, then?”

Clear’s alone, just like Grian reported before they came through. He’s crouched by one of the flying machines, a slimy rag tossed over his shoulder, black lab coat stained and rumpled as always. He doesn’t look particularly shocked to see them or the portal- mildly surprised, at best.

So far, so good.

Bravo takes a step forward, hoping to keep Clear’s attention on him as the rest of the others come through. “Hey, hey there, how’s it goin’?”

Clear straightens up and puts his hands on his hips, nonplussed. “Open House day already, is it? Could’a bloody reminded me, how am I meant ta’ keep track of all this rubbish…” He sighs, wiping his hands on the rag. “Right. Suppose you lot will be wantin’ the tour, then?”

“Uh, don’t worry, I’ve got it,” Bravo says quickly, holding his hands up. “You can just stay here, keep doin’ what you’re doin’... don’t let us interrupt you, I- I know your work’s important. But uh, mind if I borrow your ID? I seem to have misplaced mine.”

Clear blinks. “Oh, alright then. Sure.” He reaches into his inventory, fishing out a slip of paper. “Makes no difference t’me if-” He stops abruptly, his mouth falling open as he stares at something behind Bravo. “Scáil?”

Confused, Bravo follows his gaze- and his heart jolts. Grian’s just come through the portal, and Clear’s looking at him like he’s seen a ghost.

Grian seems similarly confused. “What?” he asks, startling under the sudden attention.

“Oh, Scáil!” Suddenly Clear is running to wrap Grian in a hug, sobbing. “God, I- I thought I’d never see you again-”

“Um?” Grian’s voice is strained, eyes wide as he goes rigid in Clear’s arms. “Hello?”

Jimmy and Scar rush forward to help, but Bravo holds out a hand to stop them. He knows Clear is harmless; there’s no reason he’d be trying to hurt Grian right now. But what is this about? Scáil… he feels like he’s heard that name somewhere before-

Oh, no.

“Really?” Bravo demands, exasperated. “Of- of all the Hels in this world, you chose his to fall in love with?”

Clear ignores him, of course, continuing to blubber. He’s fallen to his knees at this point, face buried in Grian’s sweater- which is quickly growing damp with tears. It’s kind of sad… in a gross, pathetic way.

“Come again?” Jimmy asks, eyebrows shooting up.

Bravo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Atlas mentioned once that Clear used to have a boyfriend named Scáil who up and vanished on him, and he’s had trouble tellin’ me and Tango apart before, so…” He shrugs. “Guess he had a thing with your doppelgänger.”

Surprise flashes across Grian’s face, followed quickly by sympathy as he exchanges a glance with Scar. “Um- look, buddy,” he starts, wincing, “I- I’m not… whoever you think I am, alright, I need to get goin’-”

“No!” Clear pleads, voice tinged with panic as he clings even tighter. “No, no, p- please Scáil, don’t go! Please, stay.”

Bravo can see Grian’s resolve falter. Hands that he’d raised to push Clear away instead come down to rest on his shoulders. “Ey,” he murmurs, wings curling around them, “it’s alright.”

Jeeze, he must be closer to that Mumbo guy than Bravo thought. “We don’t have time for this,” Bravo huffs. “Let’s just knock him out and get movin’.”

Jimmy hesitates. “Grian?”

Grian seems to make up his mind. “Just go, okay? I’ll stay with him.”

“You sure?” Scar asks worriedly.

Grian nods. “Yeah, I got Cleo and Ren to back me up if I need, okay.” He reaches an arm around to pluck Clear’s keycard out of his grasp, holding it out to Bravo. “Here.”

Bravo takes the keycard, mind racing. He would’ve liked Grian to stay with them- his ability to fly is a huge asset, especially when combo’d with Scar’s ace shooting, and not to mention his weird spectating ability. But if this is how he wants to handle his friend’s doppelgänger, then Bravo has to respect it.

And they certainly can’t waste any more time arguing about it.

“Alright, let’s go.” Bravo turns away, and is relieved when he hears footsteps behind him. Approaching the door, he slips Clear’s keycard into the dispenser, picking it back up as he steps through and holds the door open for the others.

Now that they’re inside the facility itself, the group is instantly alert, moving down the hallway as quickly yet quietly as they can.

Bravo leads the way, with the archers- Scar and Scott- at either side. Jimmy and Pearl follow closely behind, in case they need to fly ahead, and Martyn so he can lob a slowness potion if needed. Joel and Bdubs are next, with Etho between them, and Impulse bringing up the rear.

The hallway soon splits and veers off into multiple directions; a virtual maze of identical quartz walls to the uninitiated. But Bravo spent years learning these halls, and he hasn’t forgotten, despite his last couple weeks spent on the run. He swiftly takes them on the shortest path to the south wing, where the blaze farm is located.

As they creep through the halls, he tries to keep an ear out for anyone approaching, but it’s difficult to hear above the pounding of his heart. Being back in this place is more unnerving than he expected. After all, it was basically his home for five odd years, so he would’ve thought he’d be perfectly at ease here.

But maybe it’s a good thing that he isn’t.

“Wait,” Pearl breathes.

Bravo halts the group, looking over at Pearl. Her fuzzy antennae are twitching, her eyes wide, and she meets his gaze and mouths the word ‘one.��

Now that they’re standing still, he can just make out the faint echoes of footsteps down the hall, around the corner. They’re getting closer but they aren’t rushed; sounds like someone is just strolling. Likely one of the night guards on patrol. 

Scott’s on it right away, creeping forward a few steps to crouch and draw his bow. Bravo shifts over to gesture Martyn forward- which he does while pulling out a splash potion of slowness.

For a few, brief moments, they’re all frozen, waiting with bated breath.

Then the guard rounds the corner.

Scott fires almost immediately- an arrow appears in the guard’s leg. In the same heartbeat, Martyn launches the potion through the air. By the time it shatters at the guard’s feet, showering them in particles, Martyn’s closed the distance.

The guard opens their mouth to shout, raising an arm to block, but between the arrow and the potion, they’re too slow. Martyn slams the pommel of his sword against their head, and the guard crumples to the ground.

Bravo lets out a breath and advances the group forward. They come up on Martyn right as he’s securing the unconscious guard with chains.

“Good work,” Bravo murmurs before glancing at Pearl. “You got super hearing or somethin’?”

Pearl nods excitedly. “It’s these halls,” she whispers, “the way they echo- I didn’t expect it to amplify the vibrations so much, but…”

Bravo exchanges a look with Jimmy. “Well, that’s handy.”

He can see the same hesitant relief reflected in Jimmy’s eyes and recognizes what he’s feeling. Their plan for encountering guards worked like a charm, but they’ve still got a way to go, so they can’t get complacent. The night’s not over yet.

Bravo unlocks a random lab for them to shove the guard inside before pressing on.

They continue through the facility in tense silence. It’s eerie being here at night, the rooms behind the endless iron doors all dark and quiet. A far cry from the bustle of noise and activity Bravo recalls from his time here. There was always so much going on at Hels Tek, countless projects being tested and reworked, all manner of redstone farms and contraptions.

It makes him wonder why, exactly, Atlas was so dead set on recapturing Tango for the blaze farm. He had already been chasing the idea for years before Bravo arrived on the scene with his own motivations. Surely, at a certain point, it would’ve been more trouble than it was worth? Especially since he knows good and well that Atlas wasn’t after portals.

But then again, why does anyone in Hels do anything? They all seem to be insane in one way or another. Maybe that’s just how it’s manifested in Atlas; single-minded obsession, like a dog with a bone.

Soon enough, Pearl is signaling the group to stop again. Another guard incoming, but they’re prepared for this. Everyone takes up their positions, waiting for the guard to appear… and then-

Arrow, potion, knockout. The guard is groaning from the floor in the blink of an eye.

Bravo is just starting to feel reassured when something on the ground flashes; a dropped item disappearing. It looked like a slip of paper- an ID keycard, like the one they took from Clear, was in the guard’s hand when they were knocked out. And now it’s gone- but how? It’s been nowhere near long enough for it to despawn, and it landed too far away to be picked back up into the guard’s inventory. It almost seemed like it was sucked beneath the floor, like into a hopper… but why would there be hoppers here?

Frowning, Bravo steps forward to investigate, opening his mouth to warn the others. But before he can, a faint yet distinct sound reaches his ears; the clicking of an observer and the churning of pistons.

Then the ceiling opens up, and a ravager drops on their heads.

~*~

One second, Jimmy’s thinking maybe things are going to be alright, and the next, he’s looking up at the underbelly of a ravager.

Pure instinct kicks in. He grabs Bravo by the arm and takes off into the air. The ravager lands with a heavy thud right behind him, close enough for him to feel the wind through his feathers, and crushes Joel and Bdubs into a cloud of respawn smoke.

Immediately, it’s chaos.

Shouts of alarm mix with the ravager’s roars, echoing off the walls into a deafening din. Pearl’s followed Jimmy into the air, struggling to hold Scott steady enough to shoot amidst her slightly erratic hovering-

Martyn’s thrown against the wall as the ravager charges, head slamming against quartz with a resounding crack. He’s in the ravager’s jaws before he can recover, before he can even scream, respawning away to leave only bloodstains and scattered items-

Etho manages to put some cobblestone down. In a hall that’s only three-by-three, it’s just enough of a barrier to keep the ravager back; with the consequence of it now standing between him and the rest of them-

Beneath Jimmy, Scar’s backing up, firing arrow after arrow, but at this close of a distance and with his less powerful bow, it’s barely affecting the ravager. Walled off on one side, the ravager turns and lunges forward to close its jaws around Scar, killing him with its crushing bite-

Everything seems to slow down.

The ravager has now set its sights on Jimmy, and his wings can’t pump fast enough to escape it. He’s flying as close to the ceiling as he dares but he knows it won’t be enough, certainly not to keep Bravo out of its reach in such close quarters.

“Back up, back up!” Bravo’s shouting, fumbling for his sword, and the ravager lowers its head to charge-

Impulse appears in the air above it. He’s in full demon mode; with a powerful sweep of his leathery black wings, he launches himself onto the ravager’s back, sinking his claws deep into its flesh. The ravager bellows in pain and rage, thrashing to try and throw Impulse off, and his glowing golden eyes snap up to meet Jimmy’s gaze.

“Go!” Impulse snarls, his deep voice booming through the air.

Jimmy doesn’t need to be told twice. He takes off down the hall, Pearl right behind him.

It’s a frenzied flight, breathless and panicked, the ravager’s fading roars echoing in his ears. Wings and lungs burning, it’s only thanks to Bravo’s directions that he manages not to crash into a wall, twisting and turning through the maze-like halls. His mind is racing on an endless loop of ‘oh gosh, oh gosh, what now?’ as the reality of the situation starts to sink in.

The jig is up, that much is for certain. There’s no shot that Atlas doesn’t know they’re here. Jimmy would be less concerned if this was after they got Tango free; now, there’s a chance they’ll be stopped before they even reach him. Especially since it’s just the four of them. Pearl and Scott are both skilled fighters, to say nothing of Bravo, but there’s strength in numbers and no telling how many guards they might face.

(Well, that was exciting!) 

(Ooh, things are getting spicy.)

(Can’t see this ending well…)

It’s not long before Jimmy has to stop, dropping Bravo to his feet and stumbling to an ungraceful landing. He leans against the wall to catch his breath, his wings sagging with exhaustion. Pearl seems similarly winded, landing heavily beside him. For a few moments, no one speaks.

“Fuck,” Bravo says, which sums up the situation fairly well. He kicks the wall. “Fucking- fuck!”

Scott rolls his shoulder, but seems none the worse for wear. “I take it tha’ ravager is new, then?” he asks, quirking a brow.

“Yeah, no,” Bravo snarks, “I- I just completely forgot about their aerial ravager deployment system, yeah.”

“Oh man,” Pearl wheezes, doubled over. “I haven’t flown like that in ages…”

“Well, this’s bad,” Scott drawls. “What’s tha’ plan?”

“We press on,” Bravo says, his expression steely. “Now we’re on a time crunch. No doubt that little trap also sent off a warning to Atlas, so- so I expect we’ll be seein’ more guards any minute now.”

As much as Jimmy would like to rest longer, he knows Bravo’s right. “Okay,” he huffs, pushing off the wall. “Lead the way.”

They set off again on foot, moving quickly now that stealth is out of the question. Jimmy spares a moment to be thankful that Bravo is with them. These halls all look the same to him, but Bravo seems to know where he’s going, even after their chaotic flight.

Jimmy pulls his communicator out as they go. Glancing down at chat, he winces; Impulse and Etho were killed by the ravager as well, so they’re truly on their own here. Even though the others will have come back through the portal after respawning on Double Life, they won’t be able to find their way through this facility to meet up again.

In fact, Bravo had advised against it. Their contingency plan, in the event that anyone was killed, is to stay by the portal. Now that Hels Tek knows they’re here, it’s more important than ever to defend it and make sure it stays open. Besides, if people started wandering off on their own, it would only increase the likelihood of someone getting captured, lost, or left behind.

So right now, the four of them are all Tango’s got. 

(Oh, I can’t wait for-)

(Shh, don’t ruin it, just watch.)

That’s not worrying at all. This is fine. This is fine, they can handle it. He just needs to keep his head, stay the course. Failure isn’t an option. Failure would mean leaving Tango trapped here, and Jimmy refuses to let that happen. So he’s got to keep going, stay alert, stay focused-

“Stop,” Pearl says suddenly, grabbing Scott by the arm. “We’re ‘bout to have company.”

No sooner has she finished her sentence than five guards turn the corner at a sprint, swords bristling.

Wings unfurling, Pearl jumps into the air, allowing Scott to rain down arrows from above. They hang back to provide aerial support, giving Jimmy and Bravo the floor.

Jimmy spreads his wings, shooting forward to scoop Bravo beneath the arms. He flies straight at the guards, gaining speed, before spinning mid-air to launch Bravo at the nearest of them.

Bravo comes down on the guard with his sword, stabbing through the curve where their neck meets their shoulder. Jimmy dives after him and slams a foot down on the sword, driving it deeper into the guard’s body- deep enough to slip into their chest cavity. 

Blood splatters on Jimmy’s face. The guard explodes into a shower of respawn smoke and items.

Jimmy lands on his feet in a crouch, and Bravo vaults over him to kick another guard back. Straightening up, Jimmy equips his sword and catches Bravo’s eyes for a heartbeat, understanding passing between them.

There’s no discussion. They charge forward together, fighting side by side.

The last time Jimmy fought Hels players, it didn’t go well, and he’s still got the crooked nose to prove it. He’ll be the first to admit his PVP skills are lacking. But this time, the slowness from Scott’s arrows makes all the difference.

Dodging the next guard’s swing, Jimmy retaliates with a wide sweep of his own, their swords locking with a screech and a shower of sparks. In the same breath, Bravo ducks in between them and plunges his sword up- under the bottom of the guard’s chestplate, into their stomach.

Poof.

Jimmy uses the momentum to charge forward, bringing his sword down on the next guard’s helmet. It’s a clumsy but heavy blow- the guard staggers, and Bravo whips around to slash through their neck. Blood sprays through the air.

Two down, three to go.

On any other day, under any other circumstances, Jimmy knows he wouldn’t have stood a chance. Even now, he hasn’t miraculously developed the strength to overpower these bigger Hels players, nor the speed and knowledge to execute those clean, skillful attacks like Bravo.

But he doesn’t need to. All it takes is a strike to unbalance his opponent, to keep their attention, draw their defense. He’s the larger target, and with the slowness arrows doing their part, the guards can’t react fast enough as Bravo twists around them to deliver the killing blow.

Slash, jab- poof.

The last guard’s slowness has worn off at this point, but it’s too late. Jimmy’s already there; a powerful flap of his wings takes his feet off the ground to strike out at the guard, kicking with all his might.

Clang!

It hits the guard square in the chest, toppling them backwards. They land hard, and Bravo springs on top of themt, plunging his sword down right between their eyes.

Splat, poof.

Bravo straightens up, wiping the blood off his chin with the back of his hand. Jimmy braces his hands on his knees for a moment as his heart rate comes down. They’re both bloody and out of breath, but they managed not to take a single hit. And sure, the slowness arrows helped a lot, but Jimmy will take his wins where he can.

Bravo gives him an appraising look. “Nice job.”

Jimmy cracks a grin. “I have my moments.”

“Oh-kay,” Scott whistles as he and Pearl catch up, “go off, Timmy!”

Oof, that feels strange- but it’s just a force of habit, Jimmy knows. He glances over his shoulder at them. “Thanks for the cover fire. You guys good?”

“Yep.” Pearl nods expectantly. “Lead on.”

Bravo flicks the excess blood off his sword, speckling the white walls. “Alright, the south wing is just through here.” He nods toward the iron door at the end of the hallway. “Let’s go.”

They start moving again. Residual adrenaline itches across Jimmy’s skin, the metallic scent of blood clogging his nose. He’s surprised with their brutality himself, but he doesn’t regret it. There’s no reason to hold back here. These players are standing between him and getting Tango back, so it has to be done.

He’s honestly more surprised at how well he and Bravo fought together- as if they’d rehearsed it. Not what he would’ve expected, considering the way they butt heads, his own lack of expertise, and the fact that they were on opposite sides of a fight just earlier today. 

But privately, he’s just glad he didn’t make an absolute fool of himself. There’s a reason he’s always been out first in their death games.

Once they reach the door, Bravo motions for them all to crouch before nodding at Pearl. She listens for a moment, antennae twitching, before she holds up two fingers.

Bravo doesn’t bother with the keycard this time. Pulling out his pickaxe, he breaks the door down- and Pearl and Scott swoop through.

There’s an aborted shout, the sound of arrows flying, and the clang of a sword. By the time Jimmy’s through the doorway, Pearl is standing down the hall amidst a scattering of dropped items, sword lax at her side and a fierce grin on her blood-stained face.

“Jeeze, Pearl!” Scott says, raising his eyebrows and lowering his bow.

Pearl glances over her shoulder at them, expression growing sheepish. “I’m sorry, I think I got a little bit crazy…”

Jimmy flutters over to them, Bravo in tow. “No, no, I- don’t be sorry, I’m…” he trails off as he takes in the sign next to the door, the one the guards were posted outside.

It says ‘Tango Tek.’ Jimmy feels his blood boil.

“Well, this is it.” Bravo glances at Pearl and Scott. “You two keep watch out here, alright?” Then he unlocks the door, holding it open for Jimmy. “Come on.”

Jimmy rushes inside, Bravo following after him. But the sight that greets them makes him stop cold, anger quickly giving way to shock and horror.

He knew, roughly, what all the blaze farm entailed. But he’s still not prepared to actually see it.

Behind a wall of glass, Tango’s suspended by iron chains inside a little one-by-two chamber. Wither roses sprout from the soul sand beneath him, long vines wound tightly around his body, thorns digging into his skin. Particles of regeneration bubble around him, but the withering is clearly causing damage; the blaze rods above Tango’s head respawn as quickly as they’re sucked away by hoppers.

Tango looks absolutely miserable. He hangs limp and lifeless in his chains- but as the door clicks shut behind them, he lifts his head and manages a tired smile.

“Hey, honey,” he rasps, “good to see ya.”

“Tango!” Jimmy flies over, his eyes stinging with sudden tears. Their health might not be linked in this world, but his heart aches for Tango all the same. “Tango, oh gosh, I- I’m so sorry. I’m here, I’m here.” He pulls out his pickaxe and sets to shattering the glass wall.

“Sorry we took so long,” Bravo adds, walking up beside Jimmy. “We had a uh, unforeseen complication… there may have been ninja ravager airdrop-ification involved.” As soon as the glass is gone, he starts cutting the wither rose vines off Tango with careful slices of his sword.

Tango huffs a hoarse laugh. “Oh, oh great. Guess our buddy’s Atlas has been busy these last few weeks, huh?”

With the wither roses cut away, he seems to be breathing easier, now. And thankfully, they don’t look to have left any new wither stains on his skin. Jimmy hopes that the lingering regeneration effect will take care of the rest.

“Okay, okay, hang on…” he murmurs, turning his attention to the chains. His eyes widen as he realizes just how many are locked around Tango’s body- his arms, his legs, the collar around his neck. “Jeeze, this is- they went absolutely mental with these. Overkill much?”

“I know, right?” Tango snorts. “It’s- it’s almost flattering, in a way.”

Fortunately, they all seem to be made of regular run-of-the-mill iron with no complicated redstone bits. It’s easy enough for him and Bravo to slip their tools in between the links and give a sharp twist to snap them. Working quickly but methodically, they break the chains in an order that won’t awkwardly drop Tango to the ground- or choke him out by the collar around his throat. And as the last chains fall away, leaving only his old cuffs around his wrists, Jimmy’s right there to catch him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, easing Tango to the floor. “I mean- sorry, that’s- that’s a dumb question-”

“No, no, I’m okay,” Tango says. He’s trembling slightly and clinging to Jimmy so tight it’s just shy of being painful, but his red eyes are bright, and he grins at Jimmy with all his sharp, lovely teeth. “I’m okay.”

It’s hard to imagine how Tango is still functioning after what he’s been through. From the emotional side of things, too, not just physically. Being locked back in that farm must’ve not only been painful, but the realization of his worst nightmare, the one that’s chased him for nearly a decade. The culmination of all his deepest fears and insecurities, his self-hatred and feelings of worthlessness… being reduced to nothing more than a mob whose only use is in a farm. Even done intentionally, as part of a plan, it takes a lot of strength to overcome something like that.

Yet strangely enough, Jimmy believes him. There’s a change in Tango’s eyes- it’s like nothing Jimmy’s seen before, not even back in those peaceful days they spent together before this whole Hels mess started. Back then, Tango had been hiding from his past. Haunted by it. Only through hindsight has Jimmy realized just how badly it was affecting Tango all that time, the host of subtle little things he’d brushed off suddenly clicking together and making sense.

So only now does he see what Tango looks like without that fear hanging over him. The shadow that’s gone from his eyes. They’re fierce and determined and alive in a way that sends chills across Jimmy’s skin. While he knows for a fact that they’ve found joy and contentment and love together, it’s apparent that only now does Tango feel free.

No doubt there’s still a long road ahead of them. But for this step, right now, Jimmy couldn’t be more proud of his soulmate.

He presses a kiss to Tango’s forehead. “Well- good, but it’d be okay if you weren’t, y’know?”

Tango’s smile turns fond. “I know.”

Bravo clears his throat. “Hey, uh, if you two are done cuddling, we need to get moving. Most of the others got wiped out,” he explains, putting his pickaxe away, “so they’ll be waitin’ for us back at the portal. But first, we gotta find Atlas.”

Tango knits his brows together. “All this excitement probably drew him out of his hole. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on his way here right now.”

“Good.” Bravo nods. “Saves us the trouble of trackin’ him down. All we gotta do is make him open his ender chest to get the key, right, and then we’re outta here.”

Jimmy helps Tango to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” Tango assures him. “That regen is powerful stuff.”

He’s still a little shaky for Jimmy’s taste, but true to his word, he stands on his own. Jimmy turns to the door. “Right. Let’s-”

“Watch out!”

Pearl’s voice cries out from the hallway. There’s the distinct twang of a bow firing, a shout from Scott- only to be cut short.

Jimmy sprints through the door, followed closely by Tango and Bravo.

Two more piles of items are on the floor. Down at the end of the hallway stands Atlas with a raised crossbow and an arrow in his shoulder, flanked by half a dozen guards.

Atlas’s black lab coat cuts a sharp figure against the quartz walls, like a shadow come to life, light flashing in his shades. Slowly, he lowers his crossbow and reaches up to pull the arrow out, unflinching, as that sickly grin splits across his face.

“Well, well, well.”

(Speak of the devil.)

~*~

As soon as Tango sees Atlas, he steps in front of Jimmy, a low growl starting in his throat.

Now that he’s out of the farm and away from the wither roses, his adrenaline is kicking into overdrive. His muscles are rife with tension, ears twitching, and his heart pounds against his chest.

He takes in the scene quickly. Behind them is a dead end, and the other direction is blocked; Atlas, tossing a bloody arrow to the ground, and six guards. They’re all big, burly humans with mean faces. Most of them brandish swords, while two of them have tridents with what looks like a net of chains strung inbetween. Do they have net launch-ification technology?

“I was hoping I’d catch you three together,” Atlas drawls, folding his arms behind his back. Slowness particles bubble out of his shoulder wound like blood. “Mr. Bravo, I must say, I was rather disappointed to discover your treachery.”

Bravo scowls. “Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit what you think about me.”

Amused, Atlas’s gaze slowly travels over to Tango. “And how did you manage to turn him to your side, hm, Tango?” His lip curls. “Manipulative little monster.”

Tango hardly processes the insult, but Jimmy’s wings puff up indignantly. “Don’t call him that!”

“You know,” Atlas continues, unbothered, “all that’s going to come of this little escape mission is the addition of some new farms to my collection.” He grins at Jimmy. “Starting with you.” 

The guards throw their tridents in tandem, launching the net across the hall.

Tango dives out of the way, but Jimmy isn’t fast enough. The net knocks him flat onto his back, pinned into place by the weight of the chains and the tridents embedded in the floor. He cries out in pain, and only now can Tango see that the net is studded with wither rose thorns, piercing Jimmy’s skin.

Tango sees red.

A snarl tears itself out of his throat. He charges forward to meet the attacking guards, leaping into the air and slashing the nearest one across the face. 

The guard howls with pain, striking out blindly. Their sword grazes Tango’s arm but he hardly notices it, hardly even feels the sting, too focused on sinking his teeth into their throat. The instant the guard disappears, he’s darting away, on to the next one.

Tango’s senses are hyper-alert, nose flaring at the scent of blood. His pulse thrums in his ears. He’s scarcely aware of Bravo fighting beside him, just a blur in his periphery. A distant part of him is aware of how savage he’s being, but he can’t bring himself to care.

If they want to treat him like a monster, then he’ll fight them like one, too.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t question the feel of his claws tearing through flesh. There’s something primal inside him shrieking with bloodlust, and he’s more than happy to oblige it. It feels good. It feels natural. Like he’s been fighting with his right hand all his life only to discover he’s a leftie. No wonder traditional PVP has never been his strength; in this one way, perhaps he is more mob than player.

And he’s perfectly fine with that.

By the time Tango reaches Atlas, his slowness effect has worn off. He’s locked in combat with Bravo, swords clashing in a series of rapid jabs and slashes- a skillful and deadly dance. It’s clear he’s got plenty of experience with PVP, trading blows with Bravo like it’s nothing, as simple and instinctive as breathing.

But he isn’t prepared for Tango to leap at him like an animal, claws outstretched and teeth bared.

Atlas dodges, but it’s a near thing. He’s thrown off-balance, scrambling to back up as Tango advances with another wild swipe- it tears through the front of his lab coat, carving a shallow gash across his chest. He brings his sword up to parry but it doesn’t catch Tango’s claws like it would another blade- a costly miscalculation that sends his sword flying from his grasp.

It clatters loudly to the ground. Bravo takes the opening; he jabs the point of his sword into Atlas’s leg, behind the kneecap, and twists.

Pop!

This time Atlas doesn’t hold back his scream. He goes down instantly, his right leg no longer able to support him. Bravo kicks Atlas’s sword away, out of reach, before grabbing Atlas by the collar and throwing him at the wall. He slumps against it, injured leg curled awkwardly beneath him, breathing raggedly but making no move to rise again.

All six of the guards are dead, respawned away and leaving behind a blood bath.

It’s over.

And just like that, Tango’s calm again, pausing to catch his breath. He hasn’t lost himself completely to the rage of a bloodthirsty animal. He hasn’t surrendered his rational thought or his sense of being. It happened, and now it’s passed. Just like if he’d fought with sword and shield over claws and teeth. He almost feels silly, to have ever feared otherwise.

He glances at Bravo; they’ve both sustained a few minor cuts and bruises, but overall, nothing serious. “Hold him there,” he tells Bravo, before turning to run back down the hall. “Hang on, Jimmy!”

Jimmy is right where Tango left him, struggling beneath the chain net. He’s managed to work one arm out from under it, trying in vain to free himself, but he can’t get the right leverage on the tridents anchoring the net to the ground. Tango falls to his knees and rips one of the tridents away, tossing it aside, and starts pulling the net back.

Jimmy pushes himself upright with a pained grunt, shoving the last of the chains off. There are dozens of little marks dotted across his skin, like a constellation of inky pin pricks- leftover from the wither thorns.

Tango throws his arms around Jimmy. “God, are- are you okay, honey?” he asks frantically, pulling away to study Jimmy’s face.

Jimmy shudders. “Man, that wither rose is brutal,” he says, aghast. “How’d you stand it?”

Despite it all, Tango manages to crack a smile. “Well, you know, I’m basically part furnace,” he says, straightening up and offering Jimmy his hand.

Jimmy huffs a faint laugh, letting Tango pull him to his feet. The black spots are already starting to vanish, to Tango’s immense relief. He doesn’t think he could handle it if Jimmy ended up with permanent wither stains.

He doesn’t let go of Jimmy’s hand as they walk down the hall together. Bravo steps back when they approach, though he keeps his gaze and his sword trained on Atlas.

Atlas’s face is pale and sheened with sweat, but he still grins at them. “Well, well,” he breathes, struggling to his feet. His right leg won’t support him; he braces a hand against the wall. “Seems you caught me off-guard, Mr. Tango. I wasn’t expecting you to embrace that monstrous nature of yours so willingly.”

Tango shrugs. “Sure, why not? Some of my best friends are monsters.”

Clearly, Atlas wasn’t expecting that response. But he only falters for a moment before his grin returns to full strength. “This is pointless. You’ll never make it-”

“Hey, hey, no one asked you,” Bravo snaps, placing down an ender chest. “Now no funny business, okay, or I’ll break all your fucking fingers.”

Atlas eyes him for a moment, as if debating the validity of the threat and whether or not he’d be able to escape. But ultimately he must decide it’s not worth it, because he flips the ender chest open, reaches inside, and withdraws a familiar iron key.

Tango’s breath catches. Despite how well their plan has worked so far, part of him wasn’t expecting to actually make it this far. It’s almost too good to be true, but it seems like Atlas has finally run out of tricks.

Atlas holds the key out with a flourish. “Your prize,” he sneers.

Jimmy’s quick to snatch it from him, shooting him a glare. He softens as he turns to Tango. “Here, can I…?”

“Please do,” Tango hums nervously, lifting his chin. 

“Alright, here goes.” Jimmy puts a hand on Tango’s shoulder to steady him, reaching forward with the other to slip the key into its lock.

There’s a click, and the collar falls away, clattering to the ground.

Tango inhales sharply at the feel of wither thorns pulling out of his skin. The relief is immediate; his blaze rods ignite with renewed fire, warmth spreading through his body all the way to the tips of his clawed fingers. It’s tingly, like moving a limb after it’s fallen asleep, but he’s glad for it.

He sees his relief reflected in Jimmy’s expression- though it’s quickly replaced with a wince as his gaze traces Tango’s neck.

Tango exhales. “It stained, huh.”

Jimmy swallows, eyes full of anger and sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”

Tango’s almost surprised by how little it bothers him. “Hey, no problem,” he says easily, reaching up to squeeze Jimmy’s hand. “I mean, I’ve got such a unique style already, I- I feel like it’ll fit in perfectly. A little studded choker action, right?”

That manages to get a laugh out of Jimmy, though he wipes at his eyes. “Right, yeah. You pull it off well.”

Bravo clears his throat. “Okay, so, we good?” He jerks his chin at Atlas. “Let’s kill this asshole and get moving.”

“This doesn’t change anything,” Atlas says mildly, leveling his gaze at Tango. “You’ll always be nothing more than a monster-”

“Shut up!” Jimmy takes a step forward, gripping his sword, but Tango puts a hand out.

He knows they don’t have time to linger very long, but he’s got unfinished business with Atlas. Before he walks out of here, he needs to say his piece, because if he doesn’t, he knows he’ll never fully shake Atlas’s hold on him.

“You know,” he starts thoughtfully, “I- I’m startin’ to think that term isn’t the uh, the moral condemnation that you think it is. The way I see it, it’s like- okay, I’m a blond, I’m a redstoner, I’m a monster, yada-yada-yada. They’re just… traits, right? Like, sorta… physical descriptors without any, er- particular positive or negative connotation attached. ‘Cause uh, bein’ a monster doesn’t automatically make me a bad person- same way being a human doesn’t make you a good one.” He tilts his head. “I mean, you’re one of the shittiest people I’ve ever met, so.” 

Atlas is still grinning, but there’s a sudden shiftiness in his eyes that makes Tango pause. Almost like he’s hiding something. The gears start to turn in Tango’s mind.

“So uh,” he continues, “if you genuinely think our biology or- or data is what determines the choices that we make, and the kinda person we become, then… you’ve gotta be pretty stupid.”

There- Atlas’s face twitches.

Bravo seems to pick up on where Tango’s going. “Yeah, same for Hels players,” he says, crossing his arms. “I mean, basing the whole idea of ‘the inherent evilness of Hels’ on a little bit of data analysis? I- I can’t believe I bought into such a poorly supported theory, it’s just- it’s shoddy science.”

Jimmy gives Atlas a reproachful look. “Tango has shown himself to be one of the most caring, generous, and brilliant people I’ve ever met,” he spits. “You think that’s not possible, just because he’s part mob? Then honestly, I feel sorry for ya, mate.”

Tango’s heart swells; Jimmy doesn’t seem to realize what they’re doing, he’s just coming to Tango’s defense anyway. “I know, right?” he laughs. Then, just to really drive the point home- “And here I always thought you were the smart one-”

“Of course I know that!” Atlas finally explodes, throwing an arm out. “I’ve always known that! You think I grew up in this world truly believing that humans weren’t just as capable of depravity? That hybrids weren’t our intellectual or moral equals? No, I’ve always known. But portraying you as a vicious, mindless monster makes you easier to exploit. And I’ve not only convinced my sponsors, clients, and employees of that, but I even got you to believe it, yourself!”

His grin is truly manic now, eyes wild and blazing with fury behind his shades. “Do you know how clever I had to be to pull off such a degree of dehumanization? How methodically and painstakingly I wove that narrative over decades of work? ‘Shoddy science’?! It was my magnum fucking opus!”

A stunned silence follows his outburst. Tango lets out a slow, heavy breath, and Atlas’s anger quickly drains from his face as he realizes the weight of what he’s just revealed.

It wasn’t Tango’s fault.

He was never too monstrous, too chaotic, too evil. Sure, he’s got his vices, but who doesn’t? Claws or not, no one is perfect. Now he knows that it was never anything he did to bring Atlas’s torture onto himself, nothing he ever did to deserve it, because even Atlas doesn’t believe that. Atlas did it because he’s evil, and cared more about producing a revolutionary new farm than considering the harm it would do to a fellow player. He could’ve done the same to any other mob hybrid- and in fact, still fully intends to.

It’s nothing to do with who Tango is as a person, and all to do with the blaze rods floating above his head. Nothing else. Tango can live with that.

Bravo shakes his head, incredulous. “Son of a bitch…”

But Tango smiles. “Thanks, Atlas,” he says sincerely, “I needed to hear that.” 

Then he punches Atlas in the face.

The resounding crack is immensely satisfying. Atlas’s head snaps to the side, glasses and spit flying as he falls backwards. Tango’s hand is aching but it’s worth it to see Atlas look so… human. Gone is the unnatural grin and that tall, dark figure who always loomed so large in Tango’s mind. Right now, he’s just a man sprawled on his ass whose blood is staining Tango’s knuckles.

(He’s got a feeling Atlas won’t be showing up that much in his nightmares from now on.)

Atlas pushes himself up and spits out a tooth- one of his upper incisors. Blood streams down his nose and trickles out of his parted mouth. He stares up at Tango, and without his tinted glasses, Tango realizes their eyes are exactly the same shade of red.

“Clever devil,” Atlas breathes.

Bravo steps forward to deliberately crush Atlas’s shades under his shoe. “Always gotta be the smartest one in the goddamn room, huh?” he asks, twirling his sword in his hand.

Sching!

Tango briefly glimpses the inside of Atlas’s skull before he respawns away, blood and brain matter painting the wall.

“Good riddance,” Jimmy sniffs.

Bravo glances at Tango. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Tango grins. “After you, good sir.”

The three of them take off, leaving the south wing- and the farm- behind. 

Their pounding footsteps echo loudly in the empty halls. It doesn’t take Tango long to recognize where they’re headed. The garage makes sense, considering they used Clear to open the portal. He’s surprised, however, that they don’t encounter any guards along the way. There’s plenty of evidence of them; items littering the hallways, blood smears on the floor. But not a single player to be found.

If Tango didn’t know better, he’d chalk it up to good luck. But of course, once they burst through the door to the garage, the true reason immediately becomes apparent.

Nearly the entire workforce of Hels Tek, scientists and security guards alike, are embroiled in battle with the Double Lifers. It’s a chaotic scene, the air filled with shouts and screams and the clashing of metal-

Cleo stands tall beside the portal, bodily throwing any opponent who attempts to sneak through, while Ren slashes at them with his massive claws-

Grian and Pearl are airbound, zipping around the garage while carrying Scar and Scott, respectively, who fire arrows into the crowd-

Etho and Joel fight back to back, shields raised against the heavy blows of their bigger opponents, while Martyn tosses a potion into the air-

Bravo whips around to decapitate the player that charges through the door behind them. “We can’t stay here!” he shouts above the noise.

Heart pounding, Tango scans the room. Movement catches his eye; Impulse, waving at them from behind a parked flying machine.

Tango makes a beeline for it, trusting that Jimmy and Bravo are following. Dodging swords and arrows alike, they manage to reach their target unimpeded, diving behind the cover of the large contraption.

Impulse pulls Tango into a quick hug. “You made it!”

He’s crouched beside Bdubs, who’s got one leg stretched out, riddled with arrows. “Well, look here- lookie who it is!” he crows. “Nice’a you guys to join us!”

Tango manages a breathless laugh. “How we lookin’?”

“Not great,” Impulse frowns, “we can’t go through ‘til they’re all dead, or else they’ll follow us before we can break the portal on the other side. But we can’t kill them fast enough- they just keep respawning and coming back.”

Tango dares to peek around the flying machine. The fighting is pretty thick, and centered in the middle of the garage. If there was a way to create some sort of barrier in front of the portal that would hold Hels Tek back long enough for everyone to escape… something that they had full control over, and would persist even after they left… 

Sudden realization seizes him.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says, turning away. “Get everyone through, now-”

Jimmy catches his arm. “Hold on, where are you going?” he demands.

Tango shakes him off. “Don’t worry. Just get to the portal, alright-”

“Uh, ‘scuse me? We’re in this together, right-”

“There’s no time-”

“I’m not leavin’ without you!”

“- you to get hurt!”

“Please, Tango.” Jimmy grabs his shoulders, voice filled with desperation. “I- I can’t lose you.”

Tango softens. He takes Jimmy’s face in his hands and pulls him into a kiss, slow and reverent. “You won’t,” he murmurs, easing back to smile at him. “I promise.”

Jimmy searches his expression for a moment before relenting. “Alright,” he whispers, squeezing Tango’s hand. “Go get ‘em, babe.”

Steeling himself, Tango steps back out onto the battlefield.

A strange sense of calm settles over him. All the noise is muted in his ears, like he’s underwater, the sea of movement a blur. He moves with an ease that’s entirely foreign to him, lightly twisting through and around the writhing mass of bodies until he’s standing alone in front of the portal.

Tango closes his eyes and reaches for his fire.

Flames erupt from his blaze rods, swirling madly and spitting embers. It grows into a cyclone around him, ebbing and flowing with his breath, expanding to envelop him completely. The flames wash harmlessly over his skin; his own fire can never hurt him. There’s no hesitation inside him- no doubt, no fear.

He’s entirely in control, the captain of his own personal firestorm.

Tango opens his eyes and pushes his hands out and up, directing the flames to spread and rise into a great, fiery wall. Arrows shot his way are incinerated instantly, exploding into ash. As he concentrates on his task, he’s aware of his friends in his periphery, and is careful to keep the fire from reaching them.

The Hels Tek players receive no such care. Anyone too slow to react or too bold to flee is readily consumed, the room filling with their screams and the scent of burning flesh. Using smooth, delicate movements, Tango closes the wall into a ring of fire around the portal, as focused and steady as an artist composing a painting.

This is his magnum opus. Blaze and player perfectly united as one being, at peace in mind and body.

Once it’s complete, he steps back out of the flames. He takes a long, final look around the place. The remaining Hels Tek players watch from behind the firewall, furious but helpless to stop him. All the Double Lifers have departed, with the exception of Jimmy, who is waiting by the portal. Firelight glimmers in his deep brown eyes, face glowing with awe and pride.

Smiling, Tango turns his back to Hels Tek and walks over to his soulmate, taking the offered hand.

“Ready to get outta here?” Jimmy asks softly.

“Yeah,” Tango says, “let’s go home, honey.”

Together, they step into the portal. Tango turns his head just in time to see Atlas burst into the room, frantically shoving his way through to the front of the crowd. He locks eyes with Tango through the flames.

“No!” he shouts, and Tango is much gratified to see that Atlas’s front tooth is still missing after his respawn. His trademark grin is gonna look so goddamn stupid now.

Tango turns away, looking into Jimmy’s eyes as light swirls around them. 

~*~

Atlas sits hunched on a rock outside, cast in the shadow of Hels Tek.

The facility is still burning, thick smoke billowing out of shattered windows that flicker with light. He can hear the distant roars of a ravager inside; the guards he sent in to recapture the beast have thus far been unsuccessful. The flames will likely take it soon, along with all the other mobs locked away in their various farms.

What a waste.

Most of his personnel have given up on trying to stop the fire. They mill about uselessly, stained with soot and blood, speaking in low tones and casting not-so-subtle glances in his direction. Clear is running around in a panic, ranting to anyone who will listen about how he needs to find Scáil. It was his doppelgänger they used to open the portal, as Atlas has come to find.

Of course.

Part of him is aware of what a poor sight he makes; his lab coat rumpled and dusted with ash, his sweaty hair mussed and plastered to his forehead. Without his shades, there’s no hiding how tired his eyes must look, set into his haggard face. And his normally commanding posture is weak and weary, entirely lacking any presence of control.

Worst of all, though, is that he can’t bring himself to care.

His communicator lies forgotten in his lap, chat blinking up at him. He’s scrolled through it all a dozen times already, mentally replaying the sequence of events over and over again- though he has yet to make sense of it.

Absently, he presses his tongue into the gap left by his missing tooth.

(All the while, his mind is spinning. How had he missed it? How had he missed it? To be outsmarted by Tango and Bravo, of all people… they’d shown him exactly what he wanted to see, and he hadn’t thought to question it. He was too eager to believe that his manipulation had paid off, that he’d turned Bravo against his own doppelgänger and convinced Tango to give up.

His shame is rivaled only by his hatred. All the work he’s done in the last ten years, all his patient waiting and careful planning, his effort, his progress, has gone up in smoke. It’s not just the physical damage to the facility that concerns him; no doubt word is already starting to spread. He rebuilt himself from bedrock bottom once before, and he isn’t sure if he can do it again-)

“Hey man,” a familiar voice calls. “Rough day?”

bX is walking up to him, followed by a large group of players- hired muscle from Alisker. Their appearance quickly gets everyone’s attention, a sudden hush falling over the area as all eyes turn their way.

Heart jolting, Atlas jumps to his feet. He hastily smoothes the front of his coat. “Mr. bX, I can explain-”

“Save it.” bX waves him off. “We already know what happened. And uh, I gotta say… Papa Al isn’t happy.”

Atlas’s stomach drops. He folds his arms behind his back, trying for a placating smile. “I’ll admit, the situation got slightly out of hand, but-”

“I don’t think you get how bad this is,” bX says lightly, tilting his head. He raises his voice to address the gathered crowd. “Papa Al is repossessing all of Hels Tek’s resources and assets, effective immediately. We’ll honor the contracts of anyone who wants to stay employed, but uh… yeah, we’re done here.”

He lifts a hand, and the group behind him disperses. Setting up piles of chests and shulkers, they descend upon Hels Tek with pickaxes in hand, throwing down splash potions of fire resistance as they go. Then, to Atlas’s horror, they start to dismantle the facility, block by block.

“No, stop!” Atlas protests. He tries to rush forward, but bX casually steps forward to block his path. “This is my life’s work, you can’t do that-”

“Oh, yeah?” bX puts his hands on his hips, amused. “Are… you gonna stop us? ‘Cause uh, looks to me like your employees don’t mind.”

Atlas hates that he’s right; no one is lifting a finger to stop them. In fact, a few of them move forward to help. “Mr. bX, please reconsider-”

“Sorry, but you’re out of chances, Atlas,” bX chuckles. “From now on, all of New Helington’s redstone needs will be fulfilled by someone else. I actually think you know him, it’s Instinct E.V., over at iRaid?”

Fuck. “What?!” Atlas demands, eyes widening. “You can’t be serious! Instinct is a charlatan- all he cares about is churning out the cheapest, quickest product for the masses. He’s not an innovator, he’s not interested in expanding our scientific horizons-”

“So?” bX shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to Papa Al so long as it’s profitable.”

“But he’s already invested so much into Hels Tek, into hybrid farming-”

“Yeah, uh... about that…” bX inhales through his teeth. “He’s not, like… super attached to the whole idea.”

Atlas splutters. “What do you mean? How could you possibly say that-”

He stops. bX just blinked sideways, a clear membrane sliding across eyes that suddenly have slitted pupils. He grins with teeth that are inexplicably sharp, and for a brief moment, the skin on his neck flaps up to reveal gills.

Then he blinks again, and his appearance shifts back to that of a human.

A chill runs down Atlas’s spine. “You..?” he breathes, taking a step back. “But… why? Why would Alisker fund me if he knew I was after hybrids?”

bX hums noncommittally. “Y’know, when an up-and-coming redstone entrepreneur comes to Papa Al with a revolutionary new idea, it can go a couple ways. If he turned you down, he knew you’d just go get sponsored by one of his rivals, and then he wouldn’t have any power over you. You’d become a threat. So he took you up on it, making sure he’d be able to keep you under his thumb. And hey, if your idea was successful, then he’d make a nice profit while also making sure you never came close to me. No harm, no foul.”

“But if your idea wasn’t successful?” he continues, quirking a brow. “If you failed again and again, despite all his generous support? Well, then clearly the problem lies with you, and no other bigshot in Hels would be crazy enough to give you another chance. Not after seeing how much time and effort Papa Al sunk into you, with no return on his investment.”

“And sure, yeah, he could’ve tried to shut you down at the start with threats and intimidation.” He scratches casually at his beard. “Could’ve had me break every bone in your body, or trap you in a death loop ‘til you got the message. But that’d be too suspicious- why would Papa Al have a reason to be against hybrid farming? It’d be exposing a weak spot for his rivals to strike. So instead he decided to do things this way, and kill you in the only way that matters.”

Without warning, bX swings his fist into Atlas’s stomach. Gasping in pain, Atlas doubles over, and bX leans in to speak lowly in his ear.

“Your name is dirt, now. I hope you enjoyed your time at the top of the redstone game, ‘cause you’ll never reach it again.” He turns his back to Atlas, pausing to call over his shoulder, “But hey, cheer up... they’re always hiring at iRaid.”

bX walks away, laughing.

Atlas falls to his knees. He watches helplessly as his entire world is destroyed and, despite the hatred churning inside him, he knows that he’s the only one to blame.

~*~

Somewhere in Hermitcraft, a player stands before a crowd.

“So, uh- that’s pretty much it,” Tango finishes, clapping his hands together. “Any questions?”

The Hermits look back at him, speechless. It took a while to get through the entire explanation, to manage the waves of shock and anger and sorrow as they came. But now that the story’s finished, and he’s emphasized just how okay he’s doing now- while also announcing he’ll be taking a little vacation to Double Life, they seem to have finally settled on acceptance.

It was easier than he thought it’d be, to tell the rest of his friends about his past. But having a few of them already aware of the situation helped a lot- Impulse, Bdubs, Etho, Cleo, Ren, Pearl, Grian, Mumbo, and Scar were very supportive the whole way through. They even hang around to answer questions about the whole Hels Tek ordeal, offloading some of the work from Tango.

As Tango mills about among the Hermits, there’s still plenty to talk about. He gets some apologies for things said or done that might’ve unknowingly harmed him- “I’m so sorry for puttin’ you in a lab,” Zedaph cringes, “I- I feel so foolish!”- which are unnecessary but appreciated. There are technical questions about the portals and counterparts- “Do you think I could get a look at your comm, sometime, maybe?” Doc asks, trying and failing to not sound suspicious- which Tango answers as best he can. A few of them even say things that make him raise an eyebrow- “Hey, uh, d’you think you could swing by my base when you get back?” False asks lowly. “For- for no reason.”- which makes him think he’s far from the only Hermit with secrets.

And of course, he gets a lot of reassurances and condolences, which doesn’t surprise him at this point. But still, it’s nice to know he’s fully accepted by his friends, and it feels amazing to finally come clean about it all.

Later, Grian takes him aside. “See? I told you, nothin’ to worry about.”

“Oh yeah, fly boy?” Tango asks, folding his arms. “So are you- does that mean you’re gonna tell everyone what’s up with you?”

“Nah, nah, nah.” Grian shakes his head with a wry grin. “Later. I- I don’t wanna steal your thunder, here.”

Tango snorts. “Oh, trust me, I- I would love to have some of my thunder stolen right now.”

All the attention is a bit uncomfortable- but he knows it comes from a genuine place of sympathy and concern. He was prepared for it as soon as he decided it was time to fill the rest of the Hermits in. Talking about it all isn’t as hard as it was before, even just a couple weeks ago, and he has a feeling it’s only going to get easier from here on out.

He’s looking forward to it.

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, a player lounges in a pool.

Water laps at Alisker’s shoulders. bX’s scales are warm against his skin, the other man draped lazily across Alisker’s chest. His tail curls behind him, orange fins cutting through the water while his legs float listlessly. He’s stopped breathing, letting his gills take over respiration for now; a stillness that, while eerie at first, Alisker has grown familiar with over time.

The lavish private pool, tucked away through a hidden door in his office, has become a sort of sanctuary for them both. A place where Alisker can escape the pressures of his work, and bX can safely indulge his guardian hybrid instincts. Today, though, it’s a celebration of sorts.

“Tell me again, queenie,” Alisker coos, lightly stroking the spines along bX’s back. His fingers trace scars from the Arena, transferred from skin to scales.

“He looked like shit,” bX chuckles. “Missing a tooth, front and center. I told him- I said, ‘sorry, bud, you’re out of chances,’ and punched him in the gut for good measure.”

Alisker hums with satisfaction. Seeds of doubt he’d planted in Bravo’s mind years ago, regarding Atlas, have since flourished- nurtured further by Instinct’s aid during his time of need. In the end, he helped Tango escape Hels Tek, giving Alisker the ammunition to take Atlas down once and for all.

“He couldn’t do anything,” bX continues, “and he knew it. He just watched us take it all down. Oh, man, if you could’ve seen his face…”

Alisker tips bX’s chin up to kiss him, deep and languid, unflinching against his sharp teeth. “It’s about time,” he grins. “I been sick’a dat guy for years. See ya, Hels Tekky! Buh-bye!”

“Buh-bye, that’s right,” bX laughs.

The future of New Hellington is bright.

~*~ 

Somewhere in Double Life, a player stands in front of a portal.

It’s a standard comm portal, filled with swirling green light. Whenever Bravo looks at it, apprehension bubbles in his chest. A new solo survival world awaits him. He’s excited for it- the peace and solitude- but he’s scared of it at the same time. There won’t be anyone or anything to distract him from everything that’s happened. Just him and his thoughts. 

“Do you… really have to go?” Timmy murmurs, fidgeting with his hands.

Bravo sighs. “Hey, c’mon, you’ll be alright. You got Bigb and Ren lookin’ out for you, okay?”

Jimmy had offered him a place at the ranch, of course, but Timmy thought it’d be better for him to get a little distance from his doppelgänger. A chance to really grow himself as a person, rather than a shadow. 

With all of the Double Lifer’s support, he’s already made considerable progress in just the span of a few days. It’s amazing what a bath, a new set of clothes, and a good preening can do. His wings are now smooth and glossy black, to match his silky hair, with the faintest shimmer of blue when the light hits just right. It’s caused a significant change in the way he carries himself; nowhere near as closed off and afraid.

There’s still a long way to go. His feathers haven’t grown back in yet, so he’s been limited to ground exercises with Jimmy to start building up his strength. And while he’s finally been reintroduced to solid foods, it’s slow going, hardly making a difference in his emaciated condition. It makes Bravo anxious, to know just how much farther Timmy has to go without him here to oversee it.

But it’s for the best.

“Yeah, but…” Timmy exhales shakily. “I’ll miss you.”

Guilt gnaws at Bravo. “Look,” he says quietly, putting a hand on Timmy’s shoulder, “I’m not- you deserve better, okay? I- I don’t want you held back while waitin’ for me to work my shit out. You just focus on yourself, and maybe someday… we can try again.”

The hope glimmering in Timmy’s big eyes is a miraculous thing. “Okay,” he whispers, a faint smile pulling at his lips.

Bravo leans in- slowly, carefully, giving plenty of time to react- and presses a light kiss to Timmy’s cheek. He pulls away quickly, turning before Timmy can see the sudden tears in his eyes. “So, uh,” he clears his throat, “see ya later.”

“Bye,” Timmy says softly.

Taking a deep breath, Bravo steps into the portal and vanishes into the light.

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, two players walk through a jungle.

“I- I’m tellin’ ya,” Dbubs insists, holding his communicator out to Patho, “somethin’ weird is going on. I was just scrolling chat, you know, just- uh, just catchin’ up on today’s news. And I saw- there’s a- a- name in chat, same- similar name, and it’s… eeugh, it’s freaking weird! I got a bad feel- um, you know, dev- deja vu?”

”Yeah?” Patho asks, amused. “Like- is this like the time when you told me Herobrine had joined in chat?”

Dbubs flushes. “Oh, for goodness- can you just- can you please just check?” he pleads. “For me?”

Patho sighs good-naturedly, taking the comm. “Okay, okay…” He stops short as he processes the words staring up at him from chat.

BdoubleO100 has joined the game.

Patho has read a lot of player data over the years, enough to recognize the inherent patterns that translate to a player’s gamer tag. He’s memorized Dbubs’s player data by heart, enough to recognize its inverse pattern in this player’s name. That can only mean one thing.

He scrolls further.

Etho has joined the game.

This one sends a jolt of electricity down Patho’s spine. Abruptly, a series of images flashes through his mind- fishing rods and jungle leaves- a scarred hand holding a redstone torch- mismatched eyes peeking over a black mask. It’s an instinctive thing, shockingly familiar yet wholly unexpected.

“Well?” Dbubs is looking up at him, his big red eyes shimmering with apprehension.

“It’s nothing,” Patho says with an easy smile, handing the comm back. “Don’t worry about it.”

He’ll leave tonight, as soon as Dbubs is asleep. 

~*~

Somewhere in Hermitcraft, a player slips through a hidden door.

The bookshelf pushes back into place, sealing False in darkness. She pulls a torch out as she creeps down the stairs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Excitement bubbles inside her. Her mind is still reeling from all that Tango disclosed. To think, they might finally get some answers, after all this time…

“Hey, Sym?” she calls, stepping into the lab. “I- I think I know what’s wrong with you.”

Her mirror image stares back through the glass, giving her a baleful look through the curtain of hair in her face. Hanging limply in her chains, she says nothing. 

False isn’t discouraged, though. She presses a hand against the glass, a small, earnest smile playing across her lips.

“And I think I know someone who can help us.”

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, a player sits in a cave.

Clutching his knees to his chest, he rocks back and forth, wings drawn up around him like a cocoon of feathers. His physical eyes are long gone, empty sockets scarred over and caked with dry blood from his most recent episode. That doesn’t stop him from seeing, of course. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop seeing fragments of other worlds, fractured images that make up a chaotic sort of mosaic, flashing rapidly through his mind, nonstop.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, how long since he’s heard another player’s voice- for real, not the disjointed echoes from across time and space. Existing without end, without the slightest glimpse of light or taste of food. The universe sustains him now, like an unwitting parasite. His physical body is an afterthought at best, and a prison at worst.

It’s all suffering.

But something different happens today. He feels a sudden presence brush past him, oblivious, and it’s like looking in a mirror. It’s gone before he can react, before he can think to reach out to it, and he wouldn’t know how to even go about finding it again. He’s never had any control over what he sees. But there’s a name swirling in his mind; he clings to it, at once certain of its importance, though he doesn’t know why.

“Xᒷꖎᑑ⚍ᔑ,” Scáil whispers.

~*~

Somewhere in Hermitcraft, a player lands outside the perimeter.

“Doc?” Stress calls out, the echo of her voice immediately swallowed up by the massive bedrock-floored hole that stretches before her. “Are ya ‘ere?” She fires off a couple of the rockets in her hand for good measure. “Dooooc!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” Doc gripes, emerging from the building behind her. What’s he calling it, the Hall of the Goat? Hall of the Geezer, more like. “Calm down.”

“Doc!” Stress spins around, running to jump up and throw her arms around his neck, beaming. “‘Ello, luv!”

Doc begrudgingly tolerates the show of affection, stiffly patting her on the back before prying her off. “I’ve been researching,” he says without preamble, dropping her to the ground, “through the Hivemind, you know, and I looked through Tango’s communicator… comparing, doing calculations…”

“Yeah?” Stress looks up at him eagerly. “So, what’d you reckon, ey?”

Doc makes a noncommittal noise. “This, eh, doppelgänger thing…” His face screws up; though only the organic half, as his cybernetics can’t mimic such an expression. “I don’t think either of us have one.”

“Oh, fank gawd.” Stress clutches her chest, exhaling. “Tha’s a relief, innit!”

A frown tugs at the corner of Doc’s mouth. “Is it?”

“Of course!” Stress says incredulously. “Dont’cha fink? I- I don’t want an evil Stress Monstah runnin’ round, luv! Or an evil Doc Monstah, for that matta’.”

“Me either. But it feels, eh, kind of… strange, no? To be the only players without a counterpart out there. I mean, are we now lacking something else that every other player has? We’re more alone than ever.”

“Well, look a’ it this way, yeah? If Axis did’n know ‘bout countah-parts, then it must’a been overworld data what he made us wif. So we got the good stuff and none’a the bad!”

“Hm. Good, bad…” Doc grumbles, flicking his ear. “It’s subjective, alright…” 

Stress clicks her tongue. “Aww, don’t you worry your gorgeous lil’ head ‘bout it,” she says, reaching up to playfully tug on his horn. “Way I see it, we just carry on, alrigh’? An’ if you eva decide you wanna tell the others where we came from, well… now we know it’ll be fine!”

Doc glances away. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, like he always does whenever she brings this topic up. “Anyway, just wanted to let you know…”

“Well, fank you!” Stress hums. “I’m always ‘ere if you wanna talk, ‘kay?”

As she flies away from the perimeter, she can’t help but think they’ve all been rather silly about this whole thing. ‘Poor Tango,’ she thinks. ‘Don’t he know he’s on a server of plonkahs? Oh, bless ‘im.’ 

Someday, they’ll have a lot to talk about.

~*~

Somewhere in Hels, a player watches from the shadows.

Golden eyes gaze out over the iRaid display floor, Instinct’s forked tail idly flicking through the air behind him. His longtime- rival-turned-underling is doing work, wheeling and dealing his fifth client of the day.

“Wonderful!” Atlas is saying to the player admiring the auto-sorting storage system. “I can promise you won’t be disappointed. If you’ll follow me to my office, we can work out all the pesky little details, including our flexible down payment options and brand new extended warranty…”

As he ushers his client towards his office, he notices Instinct watching him. Quickly excusing himself, Atlas hurries over, breaking into a wide grin. Its impact is somewhat diluted, however, by the gold tooth that features prominently in the front.

“Ah, Mr. Instinct,” he greets, straightening his yellow plaid suit jacket, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you!”

“Hey, man!” Instinct says cheerily- his tone a sharp contrast to his deep, growling voice. “Just uh, wanted to congratulate you on having the highest sales in the department- and in your first month, might I add!”

“Well, about that,” Atlas says haltingly, fidgeting with his clip-on tie. “If I may be frank, I’m not just some two-bit salesman. This is hardly a good use of my talents.”

“You think so, huh?” Instinct asks thoughtfully. He claps Atlas on the shoulder- the gesture nearly knocks him off his feet. “Could’a fooled me. Your numbers are great!”

Atlas readjusts his shades and summons his grin again; his teeth are gritted so tightly, it’s a wonder he doesn’t break them. “Mr. Instinct,” he starts, “while I am of course grateful for the opportunity you’ve given me, there’s so much more I could be doing for the company. If I were permitted to work with your research and development team, I’m certain I could come up with something revolutionary.”

‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ Instinct thinks. He knew it was only a matter of time before Atlas began trying to climb the corporate ladder. But Alisker was quite clear on the terms of their agreement; Atlas can be useful however Instinct sees fit, so long as he isn’t allowed any degree of power or authority.

That suits Instinct just fine.

“Nah,” he says with a fanged smile, “I’ve got you right where I want you.”

~*~

Somewhere in the universe, a player watches a video on their comm.

“Heyyy, everybody!”

A redstone tutorial from Tango Tek, of Hermitcraft- but it’s unlike any tutorial he or anyone else has ever published, titled ‘Hels Portal Tutorial.’

“So, this is a bit different for me. Long story short, I’m originally from a world called Hels. It’s like, a super secret hidden world where normal portals don’t work? And it’s filled with doppelgängers of every other player in existence. Yeah, probably even you, watching this video right now.”

The video has already been viewed millions of times since it was uploaded. Word is spreading through the multi-net like wildfire as experts in data analysis debate the validity of its claims.

“I know it sounds hard to believe. So uh, I’d like to present: counterparts Jimmy and Timmy! Say hi, guys.”

Two more players enter the frame; two avians, one black and one gold. It’s immediately apparent upon first glance that, despite a few key differences, they were cut from the same cloth. They both wave shyly at the camera before it pans back.

“Uh, bit of a disclaimer; Hels players can be pretty intense, alright. And- and not all of them are interested in becoming better people. But if you give them a chance, I- I think there’s a whole lotta good to be done.”

Here’s the part that’s caused a lot of discourse. Do all players have a responsibility to seek out these so-called counterparts? Why would they be locked in a prison if they weren’t meant to stay there?

“Remember, your comm won’t work there. Just don’t set your spawn, okay, so if you die, you’ll end up back in whatever world you left. I- I don’t wanna be responsible for anyone gettin’ stranded, alright. Portal at your own risk.”

Though some can’t deny the intrigue. It’s a fascinating concept, after all. To see yourself reflected in another being. The curiosity alone is enough for some players, while others respond to the moral obligation. The desire to make things right.

“So uh, with that, let’s- let’s get to building. Here’s a list of all the materials you’ll need…”

All over the universe, players pause the video.

~*~

Somewhere in the universe, a player joins a world. 

The first world.

The player has been here many times before over its long life. It’s well familiar with the spawn town; a massive medieval village that sprawls for thousands of blocks in every direction, overlooked by a castle on the mountain. The build is humble, comprised mainly of cobblestone and oak wood variants, painstakingly detailed with plain glass windows and red wool banners. A fossil of a bygone era.

Looking around with eyes of white light and a permanent smile, the player notes the distinct lack of a gamer tag. Its target isn’t here. Rising into the air, it leaves the village behind in an instant.

As it travels through the world, the player passes countless unique areas, each one another step in the evolution of building. Sleek modern cityscapes with towers of concrete and glass. Futuristic quartz utopias. Oceans full of pirate ships and krakens. Cozy forest cottages. Zoos filled with a combination of captured mobs and hand-crafted animals. Whimsical copper airships. Fantasy lands of mountains and dragons. Haunted mansions. Endless redstone farms and contraptions, fine-tuned over rows and rows of previous models. Entire custom biomes.

The player doesn’t stop to admire any of the builds. It’s seen them all before.

It keeps flying until the builds start to peter out as the world’s generation stutters, creating ever stranger landscapes. Chunk errors and floating islands, infinitely falling sand. There are few builds here. Small huts for a night’s sleep, denoting a more nomadic lifestyle. It follows the trail until it can’t go any farther, arriving at its destination.

The far lands.

Walls of stone stretch all the way up to build height, whereupon they flatten out and transition to dirt, peppered with trees. The cliff face is completely smooth, carved out into great tunnels in a nonsensical pattern.

There’s a familiar gamer tag floating inside. Another player. It slowly sinks down to meet him, hanging motionless in the air before the mouth of the tunnel. The other player is leaned back against the slope of stone, his arms behind his head. He’s not at all surprised by its presence, not even turning to look at it. Brown haired and blue eyed, he has a plain face.

The first face.

“Hello, Adam,” Steve says.

He’s the only person who calls it that, anymore. 

Even though it hasn’t spoken, Steve inclines his head. “Sorry,” he amends. “Herobrine. I take it you know about the universe’s little experiment?”

Even now, after all these years, Herobrine envies Steve’s connection to the universe. He achieved this through enlightenment. He left his worldly possessions behind and communed with the universe for lifetimes, tasting it, talking to it, reading its code.

Herobrine connected to the universe like a virus. It tore through the universe’s skin and entered the datastream through a glitched end portal, traveling in the realm between worlds. It left its physical body behind and fused itself with the universe’s code, corrupting it, consuming it, but never truly becoming it.

W̶̠̮͓͍͕̰͂̌̄͜͝͝⍑̷͔̪͇̀͊̈́̍͝͝͝ͅᔑ̶̢̧̩̙̗̉̇͝ℸ̴̢͚̟̣͈̏̄̎́͜ ̸̺͙͎̤̘̼͂͊̔̐̕ ̵̯̖͍̙̮͒̋̄̇̆ ̸̛̤̗̦̃̂̓̀̋͘リ̷̧͚̣̲͕̑̈́͛͒̊?̶̛̫͍̗͐͐̇?̸͈̯̻̦͍̰̒̅͗̄̒ͅ∴̴̨̞̰̼͈̄̀̈̉͌͐̕?̷͚̻̋̋̄͌ Herobrine asks.

Steve knits his brows together. “The universe is about to become a much more confusing place. With the firewall down and word starting to spread through the multi-net, players will be making portals in and out of Hels at an exponential rate.” He finally turns his head to look at Herobrine. “Hels could really use its admin back.”

Herobrine stares back impassively. I̵͕̘̻͓̅ ̶͉̙̰̣͝ᒲ̶̦͙̆̔̀͒́́ᔑ̷̲̹̓̋͋↸̴͔̮̤̻̋ᒷ̶̛͎̬̃̿̂ ̴̙̂̓̾̓̾̈͝ᒲ̷͓̀́͛̉|̸̢́̐̕|̷̡̙͔̺̜͂͆ ̷̛͈͇̯̬̈́̿��͝ᓵ̸̡̂̌⍑̸̖̹͛̉̄͌̀͝?̵̛̞͇̯͕͌̉̓̔?̴̙́̌͆̕╎̴̣̠̹̙͙̙̐̔̏̿͝͝ᓵ̷̥̱͕̹̔̓͛̀̓̀ᒷ̸̦͔̟̈́.̵̪̩̬̖̝͙̙̿̊̓

“Very well.” Steve pauses for a moment, listening to the universe. “From now on, new players won’t be split into their counterparts anymore. They’ll be left whole.” He smiles. “The first one just spawned, actually. Her name is Alex.”

I̷̧̋͆͘ ̶̳̈̊̇ꖌ̶̨̛̦̤̲̰̩̀̇͊͑͘͜リ̵̢̭͓̞̙̓?̶̛͙͎͔͂̒͂̔?̶̼̹̐̀͜͜∴̶͙͍͊͂͠.̸͇̤̳̇͐̈́ Herobrine says. That’s why it’s here.

“The universe isn’t sure how this will go,” Steve continues casually. “She could turn out to be more dangerous, more powerful than any other player in existence. Or she could turn out perfectly fine.” He shrugs. “It won’t spawn any more until it knows for sure.”

Herobrine tilts its head.

“No, no, not yet,” Steve warns. “We have to let her grow up like any normal player. No meddling. But once she’s ready for inter-world travel, we can go meet her.”

Herobrine doesn’t move.

Steve reads its silence clearly. Letting out a good-natured sigh, he slowly gets to his feet, popping stiff joints with a groan. “You sure you want to do this?” he asks, equipping a diamond sword. “Took you decades to respawn after our last battle.”

He’s the only person who is able to kill it. But even so, Herobrine has never feared its counterpart.

“Alright, old friend,” Steve says, cracking a grin. He’s never feared Herobrine, either.

And for all their differences, neither of them have ever feared death.

~*~

Somewhere in Double Life, two soulmates sit under a tree.

They’re nestled against one of the big oaks in their wheat field, Tango leaning back against Jimmy’s chest. His arms and wings are draped loosely around Tango, chin resting atop his head, unflinching from the blaze rods lazily swirling around him.

“Y’know,” Jimmy says softly, “you don’t have to do it right now. You can- we got plenty of time.”

“No, no,” Tango murmurs in his raspy morning voice. “I’m ready.”

It’s early- earlier than Tango’s usually awake, but as soon as he opened his eyes this morning, he knew today was the day. The sun is just cresting above the rolling hills that stretch beyond the ranch, washing everything in gold. Wheat sways gently in the warm breeze. Animals call to each other from the pastures, a comfortable soundtrack to a gorgeous day.

Sunlight filters through the leaves above them, casting dappled shadows across Tango’s face. It’s as peaceful a moment as he’s ever known. He closes his eyes, takes a slow, deep breath, and wraps one of his hands around the shackle on his other wrist.

A small, controlled flame ignites in his palm. Metal heats up against his skin. After a couple seconds, he feels it soften in his grasp, pooling into liquid iron that drips onto the grass beneath him. He exhales, and the cuff falls away. 

Tango repeats the process on the other side before he opens his eyes, and when he sees his hands unshackled for the first time in ten years, his first thought is of how much lighter they feel.

(He hadn’t realized just how much weight he was carrying.)

Tears spring to his eyes unbidden, a wave of emotions crashing over him; relief and happiness, of course, but there’s a little apprehension, too- the fear of the unknown waters he’s treading, the new horizon that lays before him.

Healing. True healing, not hiding.

Tango flicks the last drops of molten iron from his clawed fingertips, managing a hoarse laugh. “Well, that was easy.”

Jimmy’s embrace tightens around him, his head dropping down to kiss Tango on the cheek. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers.

The love pouring through their soulbond is almost overwhelming. Tango turns his face up to catch Jimmy’s lips. “Us,” he corrects Jimmy, pulling back to look at him. “I mean, I don’t- I couldn’t have done any of this without you, I don’t think. So, you know.”

Jimmy hums, settling again. “We’re good for somethin’,” he jokes.

Tango sighs happily, looking out over the ranch. He can scarcely believe he gets to have this, after so much pain and turmoil. This simple life, of love and peace and freedom. The sky set to burst above them. He knows darkness will always creep back into the corners, and there are still hard days ahead, but that fear doesn’t control him anymore. This journey has changed him forever, and he’s never going back. He’d rather stay here, with his soulmate, basking in the light.

The first light of a new day, a new life.

“Yeah,” Tango says, smiling. “We’re good for something.”

~*~

This must be the end, then.

The end of one story, yes. But the start of many others. This is how it’s always been. You know as well as I do, L⚍リᔑ∷.

I still don’t get it.

What?

Why would the universe switch them? If they were meant to be somewhere else, why not begin there? Does the universe not design all worlds and all players?

Does the universe not praise players for slaying the dragon in her nest and calling it freedom?

Take care, Aᑑ⚍ᔑ. There is a player with us.

I see them. They’ve reached a higher level now.

You think they’re ready for this story?

That’s why they’re here, isn’t it?

Tell them, then.

You know the universe as light, and warmth, and love. But it is also darkness, and cold, and hate. It is endless patience and it is senseless cruelty. It is the truth and it is the lie. It is the leap and it is the fall. It is the lamb and it is the wolf whose teeth have sunk into wool, red blood on white snow. It is the sword against the shield. It is life and death, good and evil, and everything in between. It is constantly evolving, tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code-

That’s an old story. They’ve heard it.

It’s the same story. They haven’t heard it this way.

Very well then.

There was a time when the universe loved its players so much, it sought to protect them from themselves. It removed all their darkness, their cruelty, their hatred, and locked it away into separate beings, in a world between realms they could not escape from, so the players could be free of them.

Those are the Hᒷꖎᓭ.

Yes. But this player cannot read that thought. This player knows them as counterparts. They are also known as doppelgängers, analogues, doubles, alter egos, equivalents. Clones, copies, shadows. The yin and yang. The same word in different languages.

So what happened?

Players are not as simple as the universe thought. They are not all the same. Some slipped through the cracks, some weathered over time, and some were so full of darkness that the universe could not remove it all. And the Hᒷꖎᓭ no longer fit the definition the universe had given them. And the players evolved beyond the simple divide between good and evil, and so did their counterparts.

So the universe does not love them as much now?

No. It loves them even more.

Why so?

Does the universe not evolve too? Is the universe not always expanding, growing, changing? Dreaming of new colors and new trees and new creatures? It dreams of new ways to play the game, and new players to play it. But it cannot determine what kind of player a player will be. That’s up to them.

They surprised it.

Yes, in a way. It didn’t realize they were ready for a higher level yet. But once it did, it decided to test them.

Why did it choose those two? Surely there are better players in Hᒷꖎᓭ, and worse players outside of it.

There are some things only the universe knows.

Did the players pass?

Yes. It took time, and effort, and sacrifice. It wasn’t easy or straightforward. It was messy. The players did not pass on their own, either, and not on the first try. But they got there eventually.

Different players might’ve done better.

Yes. But this is what the universe chose. And it proved that players are ready to accept their darkness, and that Hᒷꖎᓭ can learn to embrace the light. The universe doesn’t need to protect them anymore, not from themselves and not from each other. Maybe it never did.

So what will it do now?

The universe cannot change the past. But it can amend the future. I imagine new players will be left whole, spawned with all their good and evil, their light and darkness in one.

What will become of Hᒷꖎᓭ?

Hᒷꖎᓭ will always remain. Whether or not the players will depends on them. The first door has been opened, and many will follow.

What was the point of it all?

Do you not see it yet?

No.

Then let me tell you. It’s a story about the dichotomy of good and evil, about strength and weakness, about nature versus nurture. It’s about how every player has a dark side, but some see it as a separate entity while others see it as their shadow, and it’s about the debate of whether one can exist without the other. It’s about having sympathy for the ugliest parts of yourself, and how making peace with them is the only path to true growth. It’s about rejecting predetermined fates and roles and destinies in order to pave your own way, for better or for worse. It’s about how heroes and villains are constructs of their societies and their own expectations, about the double-edged sword of self-hatred, about the two sides of the same coin. It’s a story about mirrors.

I see. That’s quite a good story.

This player seems to think so.

Hah, if you do say so yourself, Aᑑ⚍ᔑ.

Someone has to tell it.

And what would you tell the players now?

I would tell them that their universe is about to become a bigger, wilder, louder place, but that it is beautiful. I would tell them to not be afraid, that the only way forward is to confront the past and embrace it. Some will fail, and some won’t even try, but for every one of them there are countless more who will do better, and that will be enough. I would tell them all players have the capacity for great good or great evil, no matter what world they spawned in. But if they’ve been watching closely, they already know.

And what would the universe say to them?

What it has always said. That hasn’t changed.

Some things never do, I guess. Through it all, it is the same game. All that changes is how they play it.

Now you’re getting it.

I’ve grown quite fond of those players. What will become of them now?

We’ll just have to watch, as always.

And this player?

They will return to their game. There will be more stories, I’m sure. In the meantime, I’ll tell them to dream of a world where love and hatred are twins, not opposites. A world where heroes and villains can look the same, based on where you’re standing. A world where happiness is fought for and held onto as fiercely as vengeance, where love can be a blessing and a curse, where soulmates are chosen, not designed.

Dream of a world where a canary falls in love with the coal mine.

And if you listen, you can hear it sing.

H𝙹リᒷ||, ||𝙹⚍'∷ᒷ ⎓ᔑᒲ╎ꖎ╎ᔑ∷, ꖎ╎ꖌᒷ ᒲ|| ᒲ╎∷∷𝙹∷ ||ᒷᔑ∷ᓭ ᔑ⊣𝙹

╎↸ᒷᔑꖎ╎ᓭᒲ ᓭ╎ℸ ̣ ᓭ ╎リ !¡∷╎ᓭ𝙹リ, ᓵ⍑╎⍊ᔑꖎ∷|| ⎓ᒷꖎꖎ 𝙹リ ╎ℸ ̣ ᓭ ᓭ∴𝙹∷↸

╎リリ𝙹ᓵᒷリᓵᒷ ↸╎ᒷ↸ ᓭᓵ∷ᒷᔑᒲ╎リ⊣, ⍑𝙹リᒷ|| ᔑᓭꖌ ᒲᒷ, ╎ ᓭ⍑𝙹⚍ꖎ↸ ꖌリ𝙹∴

╎ ᓭꖎ╎ℸ ̣ ⍑ᒷ∷ᒷ↸ ⍑ᒷ∷ᒷ ⎓∷𝙹ᒲ ᒷ↸ᒷリ, ⋮⚍ᓭℸ ̣  ℸ ̣ 𝙹 ᓭ╎ℸ ̣  𝙹⚍ℸ ̣ ᓭ╎↸ᒷ ||𝙹⚍∷ ↸𝙹𝙹∷

[nerdyrevelries]

Jo March: The Pragmatist

One of the most common complaints I hear about Little Women is the way it ends. Many people think that Jo stifles her creativity and gives up on her writing in order to marry Professor Bhaer, which isn't true. Jo writes a very successful book in one of the sequels, Jo’s Boys, but let's set that to the side because what I really want to discuss is what Jo actually thinks of the writing she’s doing in the latter half of Little Women. 

In Part I of Little Women, we see the type of writing that Jo does prior to selling her work. In “A Merry Christmas,” the family puts on The Witch’s Curse, an Operatic Tragedy, which seems to be a Shakespearean melodrama. In “Jo Meets Apollyon,” the book Amy burns in anger is “half a dozen little fairy tales.” In “The P.C. and P.O.,” Jo writes a comedic poem and a lament for one of Beth’s cats. Finally, in “Secrets,” Jo submits a tragic romance to The Spread Eagle (one assumes that this name was less funny when Little Women was originally published in 1868.) The Spread Eagle doesn’t pay beginners, so we can assume that everything written up until this point is the type of writing Jo does for herself when there’s no pressure to make changes to please an editor in order to get a paycheck. 

Part II begins with the chapter “Gossip,” which catches us up on what’s been happening over the past three years. Jo is now a regular contributor to The Spread Eagle who receives a dollar for each story. She refers to them as “rubbish,” so she doesn’t seem particularly proud of the writing she’s doing, but she’s in the process of writing a novel she hopes will win her fame and prestige. 

In “Literary Lessons,” Jo observes a boy reading a newspaper story illustrated with a dramatic scene of “an Indian in full war costume, tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat” and two men stabbing each other while a terrified woman flees the scene. When the boy offers to share, Jo agrees more because she likes the boy than because of an interest in the story. The story is sensation fiction, which Jo privately thinks is trash anyone could have written. However, when she learns the author is making a good living from her stories, Jo decides to try her hand at this new style of writing. She submits the story to a contest the newspaper is running and wins $100. Jo uses the money to send Beth and Marmee to the seashore. She’s proud of her ability to earn money to help her family, so she continues to write these kinds of stories since they are lucrative. 

She later finishes her novel and sends it to multiple publishers, only one of whom is interested, and only if there are major cuts and revisions. After conflicting advice from her family, she decides to make the requested changes, which earns her $300 and some very mixed reviews that lead Jo to respond, “Some make fun of it, some over-praise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I’d printed it whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged.” 

In “Calls,” Jo reluctantly joins Amy to return calls to their neighbors with generally disastrous results. One incident involves Jo receiving a compliment on her writing. 

Any mention of her “works” always had a bad effect upon Jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now. “Sorry you could find nothing better to read. I write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it.”

This passage makes it very clear that Jo isn’t proud or fond of what she is writing. The reception to her novel combined with the money she can make from sensation fiction has changed Jo’s primary motivation for writing. She is no longer doing it for the love of writing or because she’s pursuing her dreams. She’s trying to make money to help out her family.

I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing. We all have periods in our life when we take a job that we aren’t extremely excited about because it will allow us to achieve something that is more important to us. However, it’s a different narrative than is usually spun about Jo who is frequently depicted as continually working towards her dream. There is a role in Castles in the Air that fits that narrative. It’s called the Striver, but I don’t think that’s the role that Jo has. Instead, Jo is the Pragmatist, which is a role about setting aside your dreams for the moment because you have other responsibilities. Both are interesting conflicts, but they lead to very different conclusions when it comes to Jo’s story! 

With that in mind, let’s take a look at “Friend,” which follows Jo in New York. She’s now writing for a newspaper called the Weekly Volcano, which has required Jo to make so many changes to her stories that she decides to have her work published anonymously. That certainly wouldn’t be a good career move if she was truly trying for fame! She’s also come to greatly respect a man staying at her boarding house named Professor Bhaer. One day, he makes a comment about a newspaper that publishes sensation stories like the ones Jo is writing. Her response is telling:

Jo glanced at the sheet, and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it; but the impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure, but fear, because, for a minute, she fancied the paper was the “Volcano.” 

Professor Bhaer notices her look and guesses the truth, but instead of letting her know this, he decides to gently explain his reasoning. After this, Jo goes back to reread the stories she has been writing and decides to burn them. Far from stifling her creativity, Professor Bhaer is the one who sees that Jo is ashamed of her writing and reminds her that she is capable of more.

This is part of a series on the literary inspirations behind game elements for my upcoming tabletop RPG based on the novels of Louisa May Alcott and L.M. Montgomery, Castles in the Air. To see a complete list of the posts I’ve written thus far, check out the master post. If you would like more information, visit the game’s website!

[utilitycaster]

Would you be willing to share your thoughts about The Salt Grows Heavy if you've finished it by now? When I read it, I was left quite disappointed/it felt pretty lackluster to me on several points and I'm very curious about your opinion, especially beyond the prose style (I have a higher tolerance for purple prose than you, it seems, but at points it could get over the top imo. If I wanted to read flowery words that sound pretty when strung together, I'd read some poetry or a thesaurus and not a prose horror novella.)

So this is a little tough because when it comes to body horror, I tend to have to judge it on the Ebert “does it achieve what it’s intending to do” metric rather than “do I think it’s awesome” because I’m not very into body horror as a genre; either it grosses me out too much or, more often, I’m just like “was there a point to this other than trying to be shocking.” I do like retellings of fairy tales, and I do think the Little Mermaid often gets made too cute, though I think this swung the pendulum way too far in the other direction. I particularly enjoyed the relationship between the mermaid and the plague doctor, and found that the core of truth and real poignancy amid the rubbish of way too many adjectives. I also enjoyed the fact that the mermaid could regenerate, since explorations of immortality are very much my thing and since a lot of Little Mermaid Darker and Edgier retellings lean way more into how she is forever voiceless and hobbled by sacrifice; I like that she has far more power here.

I also came in with truly basement-level expectations because I was so put off by the writing style, so if you were coming in with a lot of hype, that might mean we felt the same but I was pleasantly surprised that it was OK and not awful, and you were disappointed that it was OK and not incredible.

If I can be a little dismissive, the book does seem geared towards the Cannibalism As Devotion Girlies and I find all that shit kind of tedious. Like live your truth and I know we are on the Cannibalism As Devotion/Loyal Like a Guard Dog website but actually I vastly prefer when people are independent and do not throw themselves on a pyre when their love dies; ironically the part of the story that interests me most (the ten years of figuring out how to bring back the plague doctor) gets skipped over. Which I get, because that’s not the story being told, but basically the whole time I’m like “I feel there’s a better story with these characters that didn’t have enough random gore in it for the author’s taste, and they are entitled to that taste, but it sure ain’t my taste.”

This probably doesn’t help you because the above is all extremely idiosyncratic which is why I’ve tried to stress that Khaw’s style is just not for me on a multitude of levels, and reserved my judgements beyond “boring to me specifically but that is just me.” I will say the final bit at the end is maddening (And in Our Daughters We Find A Voice) because it is written more sparingly and it’s MILES better as a result, although Khaw might be going for the contrast.

Would also add. Khaw uses "slants a look" (or occasionally "cranes a look" the way R.A. Salvatore uses "lavender orbs" and I WILL be slanting a look with my olivine orbs at the Laudna book for this phrase and keeping count, bc it's like, if you use this phrase once or twice it's whatever, it could even have an effect depending on context, but using it repeatedly is like. what does this achieve that saying "I look at him" doesn't? This isn't adding anything. I may have lost my attempt to maintain my stance of "it's just not really for me" here, but increasingly I feel like this is one of those writing styles that only impresses the kind of people who have gotten into impassioned arguments on Twitter about how YA and fanfic are the most valid forms of literature and all books for adults are just about middle-aged white people divorcing. The thing about embellishment is that if you use it constantly on everything it just becomes a literal and figurative drag.

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Eighteen

“You’re right.” He says. “It’s really nice.”

“I’m glad it actually is. I could only kind of imagine how it might look when it was daytime.” 

It’s like little stars have fallen from the sky and become tangled in the branches of the oak trees over our heads. It’s a blanket of light encompassing us as we sit together on the ground looking up at it. It’s a rare, quiet place in the middle of the commotion, but it’s so late now that most people are either back in their tents or at one of the late DJ sets dotted around the festival. There’s still music somewhere in the distance, but apart from that it’s pretty serene. The small stage nearby has closed up for the night and the only other human I can see is a man in a high-vis jacket putting rubbish into a bin bag, clearly getting an early start on tomorrow’s cleanup. 

Normally I feel nervous when I’m alone with Jude, but tonight I’m calm. Maybe it’s because I’ve already used up all of my adrenaline after a hectic day, or if it’s because of the magic that happens after midnight, when you begin to hear grasshoppers chirping and feel the dew forming on the grass. There’s this smell that only exists on rare summer nights, a sweet, grassy scent that I have a hard time explaining, but when it invades my nostrils I feel the thrill of being out at night, on my own in a secret garden after everyone else has gone. Everyone but us. 

“I like it when it’s quiet like this.” I tell him. “I feel like I’ve forgotten what quiet is.”

“Right.” He agrees. “It can be hard going, a festival. It takes a lot out of you.” He turns to me and says earnestly: “I hope that you’re having a good time, like I hope it isn’t overwhelming, in spite of the thing at the rave.”

“I’m having a good time.” I say. “Today was honestly a little weird, but it had its moments.”

“Today was a bit weird for me too.” He admits, and I wait for what feels like forever for him to elaborate. “I’ve had a lot on my mind, I think.” He eventually manages, and I push him for more information: “Do you get like that a lot?”

“What, like have stuff on my mind?” He smirks. “Do you?”

“Well, Yeah.”

“Same.” 

“Jen said you’re a scorpio, and that’s why you’re moody.” I tease, and this makes him laugh. “Oh yeah? What else does she say whenever you two are gossiping about me?”

“Rich of you to assume that we spend time talking about you at all.”

“Do you?”

“Well, do you talk to her about me?”

“Yes, obviously.”

His frankness takes me by surprise. “Oh.” is all I say for a minute, then I venture: “What do you talk about?”

He says “None of your business.” Which is what I expected. 

“Well then I’m not telling you either.”

“Bet I already know.”

“You think?”

“I bet she tells you that I’m secretly a boring, moody dickhead under all the facade or something, doesn’t she?”

“She didn’t say ‘boring��. You’re not boring.”

“But she did say ‘moody’.”

“Sour, I think, is the word she used. Which, like, I never thought of you like that. You always seem happy to me. Well, mostly.”

“Maybe because when I’m having a particularly sour day I just stay in my room.”

“And you couldn’t stay in your room today.” I sort of regret saying it as soon as it comes out of me, but I really feel like we’re being very honest with one another so it seems right. He shakes his head and laughs dryly. “No, no I couldn’t stay in my room today. Sorry, I didn’t think it was that obvious.”

“I thought it was.”

“Sometimes things pile up.” He says with some difficulty. “I overthink. And… maybe I’ve been overthinking too much this summer.”

“Are you overthinking what happened last night?

He starts anxiously picking at bits of grass. “Yeah. Yeah maybe.” His brows are knitted together, and he’s just watching his fingers poking at the ground like they’re not a part of him, but just a separate entity that he can’t control, performing some hypnotic, repetitive task. I’ve never felt less vulnerable than him before, it strikes me. Always in our interactions he seems to be the one who has the upper hand on me; more confident, more stable, stronger, better at handling himself, but now it feels like the tables have turned. When I look at him now it’s like I’m seeing a different person to the one I’ve been seeing all summer, and it’s clear that he really isn’t as different to me as I believed. Before now the year and a half between our ages had seemed enormous, like there’d never be a way to bridge the differences between our experiences, but I see now that he’s really not the mature, self-assured adult that I thought he was. He’s an eighteen year old teenage boy, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing either. He doesn’t know how to be more than anybody else, perhaps he’s just better at hiding it. 

“Hey.” I say. “I know I’m a bit younger than you, and I’m sorry if that freaks you out, but I know that we’re really not all that different when you think about it. Like, yeah I have less experience than you and I’m sure that’s-”

“It’s not that.” He insists, cutting me off mid monologue. “That’s not what I’m overthinking about. It isn’t you, or your age or your experience.”

“Well, what is it then?”

He makes a frustrated sound and then waits ages before answering me. I’m starting to think that he won’t say anything at all, before he shrugs and takes a breath to say: “I don’t think it’s a good thing. For you to like me, I mean. I don’t really want you to.”

I feel myself begin to deflate. “But it’s hard not to.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

“How could I not? It’s you.”

“Hm.”

“Can you look at me for a second?” And he does, his eyes snap to mine and they’re so intense and so startling, and they do things to the insides of my body that empties my head of any thoughts but how badly I want to kiss him, and once I’ve had that thought I can’t think about anything else. The thought just hangs there, and I forget what I wanted to say to him. I skate my eyes over his cheeks, his freckled nose, his pretty mouth that is usually smirking like he knows a secret that I don’t, but now is downturned at the edges, and I’m obsessed with the idea of kissing the sadness away. I’ve never kissed a boy before, I’ve only ever let them kiss me. It’s been something that’s felt like it was happening to me, but right now I can’t help but try. I reach for him and brush my lips delicately against his. I give him a flurry of tiny butterfly kisses all across his mouth, not really knowing what I’m doing, if it’s the right way to do it, or if he likes it, and just when starts to feel as though he isn’t going to kiss me back, he softens and pulls me into him so he can show me how it’s done. He kisses me so slowly with an open mouth, hands moving up my sides until they’re gently cradling my face, his breath hot on my cheek. It’s soft and sweet, and he’s so careful with me, and as he grazes my bottom lip with his teeth I can’t help but whimper gently, and wonder why I ever thought my mouth was for anything but kissing him. All this time I’ve been using it to speak and to eat, and I never knew it could be like this. It’s never been like this with anybody else.

He traces a line with his lips along my cheeks and kisses my nose and my forehead before burying his face into my neck and kissing me there too, gently sighing my name like it’s a prayer. I didn’t think my own name could sound beautiful, but it does, the way it comes out of him, it does. 

I have a new thought then, that maybe I could do it. Maybe I really am the kind of girl who sneaks back to empty tents with boys. Maybe when we go, and he helps me out of my clothes and touches and kisses the skin beneath them then everything will be alright. Maybe then I’ll be able to take his despair away, and when he looks into my eyes he’ll realise that we’re meant for each other, and I’m enough for him, and he won’t need anything else. I reach out and stroke his hair, then I bring my lips to the top of his head and kiss him there. His hair is soft, clean, and smells like his shampoo. “If you want to go back to my tent, we can.” I whisper, running my hand down his neck and taking his face in my hands so I can lift his face to me. 

He looks confused. “Hm?”

“I can get Claire to sleep in with Shane, we can have it to ourselves.”

Prev // Next

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Gender Clinic SHUT DOWN: Journalist Breaks Down Investigation

Francis Foster: It's also the element of, how many of these kids who are going through this process... they're just gay, They're just gay kids.

I mean, because the show has got quite big now, the people who come up to me, I get quite a lot of gay men and gay women wanting to talk to me about this. And I remember talking to this gay lady - makes me sound like I'm from the 1950s when I say that but - a few weeks ago, and we were talking about this and she approached me and we were having a nice conversation, and she just looked at me and she went, "thank God that I'm in my late 20s because if this had been around when I was 12, I would have transitioned, and I would have screamed the house down until, you know, there was medical intervention. because that's how upset I was at the fact that I was gay or I am gay."

Hannah Barnes: I think this is the part of the story which people, particularly in, you know, liberal metropolitan cities find the hardest to accept. And certainly that's like the reaction that I've had to the work, like, it just can't be true, you know. And clinicians themselves, they would get young people coming in and using these vile homophobic slurs that we had at school in the - I think we're probably a similar age - you know, the 80s and 90s. And hearing that I kind of, I thought we were done with that. I thought it just wasn't a thing anymore to, for people to think it's not okay to be gay. But it is, and it's not me saying that.

Every clinician I spoke to said that so many of those young people were same-sex attracted, even those that spoke really favorably about the work at GIDS, and particularly the girls and actually, when those clinicians who were gay themselves raise those concerns, they say they were accused of being too close to the work, that they were seeing something that wasn't there. And what they've turned around and they say, look at the data. It's really rubbish, we don't have much of it, but what we do have absolutely bears that out.

So, GIDS's data for every single young person that was referred to them in 2012, of the ones they have data for, which is the sort of the older ones, they didn't ask the very young kids, what was it, 90 percent of the girls identified as either same-sex attracted or bisexual. And eighty percent of the boys. And then in slightly more recent stats, those come down to about 70 and 60 respectively, but they're still incredibly high.

So they're saying, we weren't seeing something that wasn't there. And I've spoken to young people themselves, there's a there's a case in the book, Harriet, who said "I was a lesbian, and it was so obvious. I went into my GIDS assessment and I talked about the first relationship that I'd had with a girl, and I felt really ashamed about it because she wouldn't talk to me in public, and I've never been attracted to a boy." And all that was ignored.

So it's not... the data, the personal experiences, the experiences of the clinicians... it's there. And I have to stress that of the people I spoke to for the book, not all of whom are named or quoted but, collectively, they've worked with thousands of young people directly, sitting in a room like we are now, face to face. I don't think it's credible to pretend that the overwhelming number of people who might be affected by this are[n't] gay, bisexual, lesbian. And that's always been the case.

So, every study we have in this field is quite rubbish, but all of them highlighted that. And when Domenico De Chelly opened GIDS back in 89, he always made that point. That of any group of kids, some would grow up to be trans, but they would be the minority. The majority wouldn't, and the majority of them would be gay.

And somehow this gets lost over the years, even though it was in the clinical presentations. And even though their own data showed them that.

==

"Gender affirming care" is gay conversion therapy.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

De Amore

My fic for @aceomenszine is finally available on AO3!

Aziraphale has come to Paris to find the answer to an important question: What's it like to be in love? Crowley's not sure why he wants to know, but he's willing to discuss it to make his angel happy. Full text below!

--

“What’s it like to be in love?”

Crowley stumbled to a stop on the Paris street, glaring at the angel beside him. Aziraphale stared straight ahead, walking with his usual expression: calm, poised, slightly arrogant. As if he were talking about the weather.

“Dunno. S’a human thing, isn’t it?” He scowled at a few gawking peasants, hurrying to catch up. “Romance. Lust. Sex. Nothing to do with us.”

“You could say the same of hunger, or exhaustion, or boredom.”

“Yeah, and I’d be right.” Crowley held out an arm to stop Aziraphale from walking directly into a produce cart. “Neither of us gets exhausted. You’re never tired, and I just like a good nap sometimes.”

“Really?” A flicker of that mocking bastard smirk. “How many nights did you sleep this past week?”

“Nrrg. Five or six, but that’s not the point.” They started walking again, Crowley tossing an apple he’d snuck from the cart. “I could stop if I wanted to — I’d miss it, but s’not the same as being tired. Same with you and eating.”

“But if I desire a food, so strongly I can already taste it, surely that’s…if not exactly hunger, a close approximation?”

“Don’t think so.” Crowley offered the apple, but Aziraphale shook his head. “Spend a couple days in the city, you’ll see what hunger looks like. S’not about pleasure or wanting a particular food. It’s need, desperation. And we just don’t experience that.” He tossed the apple towards a group of children, and a girl in a ragged dress caught it. “Boredom I’ll grant you. I’ve definitely been bored.”

“So, we might enjoy things as humans do, but never desire them the same way,” Aziraphale mused, smoothing his hands down the front of his stolen jacket. “But is love the longing for a connection with another, or the pleasure of that connection?”

“Doesn’t really make a difference to us, does it?”

He waited for Aziraphale to respond, but the angel simply continued walking, hands folded behind his back, eyes more distant than usual.

“So?” Crowley prodded after nearly a block in silence. “What brought this on?” Aziraphale shrugged. “Let me guess. Reading novels again? Sappy poetry? Getting…ideas?” He stepped ahead of Aziraphale and walked backwards, to ensure the angel saw his suggestive eyebrow wiggle. No response. Crowley shrugged, falling back into step. “Look, f’you want to try falling in love with a human, s’your business. Let me know how it goes. Just do it back in London, I don’t need that…drama getting back to my bosses.”

“That’s not it,” Aziraphale snapped, wringing his hands. “It’s not — it doesn’t even work that way, Crowley. Humans don’t just decide to fall in love!”

“They don’t cross an ocean and charge through a revolution for a snack, either.”

“Oh, never mind. Clearly you’re the expert here.” Aziraphale froze, glaring at a shop just ahead, and threw his hands up in disgust. “And now they’ve closed my favorite creperie! Why do I even bother? Might as well return to England and feast upon whatever lumpy brown bread the first tavern I pass serves.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Crowley hissed, turning down a side street and gesturing for Aziraphale to follow. “If you get locked up again, I’m not rescuing you a second time.” The angel’s lips twisted sourly. “Look, gourmet crepes aren’t really in demand right now, but I know a place. Might still be open.”

“I suppose that will have to do.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and glared at the sky, thin grey clouds veiling the sun. He should probably just let Aziraphale stew in his own sullen displeasure. Might even give him an advantage — a distracted angel was easier to outsmart.

But Crowley hadn’t been in the business of thwarting Aziraphale for over a thousand years. Why oppose each other, when they could work…not together, but in tandem? Ensuring all their duties were fulfilled, their paperwork properly filed.

It was better this way. Less fuss all around, less inconvenience. Pleasanter conversation. More time for trips to the theater or quiet meals, either of which was a far better way to spend an evening than any sort of elaborate espionage.

He’d been looking forward to griping about his job over a mug of cider while Aziraphale worked his way through a plate of crepes, smiling and wiggling in his seat. Watching Aziraphale get excited over something was, in Crowley’s opinion, one of the best ways to pass the time.

Only the conversation had left Aziraphale annoyed, pouting and…Crowley studied him carefully, dark glasses imperfectly hiding his eyes. More than anything, Aziraphale looked hurt. A sight that always made Crowley’s stomach twist painfully.

He sighed, tossing back his head. “‘Love is an inborn suffering, proceeding from the sight and immoderate thought upon the beauty of another, for which cause above all other things one wishes to embrace the other and, by common assent, in this embrace to fulfil the commandments of love.’”[1]

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, I don’t know. You asked me—!” Crowley walked faster, face growing hot. “It’s from some old treatise, right? Love, he says, is seeing someone beautiful and wanting sex. Then, when you have your fill…” he waved his hand vaguely.

“I see.” Aziraphale adjusted his sleeves. “I suppose that…makes sense.” But he still looked grim.

Up ahead, not quite along their path, stood one of Paris’s parks, gates now open to the public. Apart from some rubbish cluttering the entrance, it seemed well-maintained. Crowley tipped his head, inviting.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he nodded, the first hint of a smile on his face. It always made Crowley feel light, that smile, however briefly it appeared.

They wandered in silence up the path, lined by trees here, flowerbeds there. Leaves had turned yellow and the grass was edged with brown, but the roses were still in bloom. Crowley paused to pluck a particularly well-formed bud.

As they crossed a bridge over a small watercourse, Aziraphale suddenly said, “Do you think it’s true, though? That — that treatise? Because it rather sounds like he didn’t see any difference between lust and love.”

“Mmh.” Crowley paused, gazing downstream, where a group of ducks swam contentedly. “As a demon? Yeah. Fits the party line. Humans don’t think of anything but their own pleasure, always wanting what they don’t have. Jealous, possessive, until something better comes along. Then it starts all over. If love and lust aren’t the same, well, they’re pretty close, right?”

“I see.” Aziraphale stepped beside him, holding out his red cap, now filled with grains of barley and cracked corn. They each took a handful and tossed it down. The ducks swam over eagerly, bobbing to catch the seeds before they drifted away.

“But as a being who’s been in the world nearly six thousand years?” Crowley threw another handful, then leaned against the railing, crossing his arms. “Not so sure. Humans do too much that can’t be explained by simple pleasure. Besides, I’ve seen what they do when overwhelmed by lust, and what they do when overwhelmed by love and…dunno. S’not the same.”

More handfuls of grains as a second group of ducks approached.

“What d’you think, Angel?” Crowley prodded. “Must be something in all those books you read.”

“Oh, quite a lot,” Aziraphale assured him. “Much of it contradictory. Many poets will only talk about their beloved’s face, or eyes, but if it were simply a matter of beauty, surely everyone would fall in love with the same beauties.”

“Sometimes they do.” Crowley rolled some seeds between his palms. “S’where the jealousy comes in. But yeah. Gotta be more to it than that.”

“I hope you’re not planning to make those poor ducks sink.”

“What? Nk — no. Course not.” He threw the grains down and the ducks quickly swarmed, turning bright shades of pink and blue and violet as they ate.

“Crowley.”

“Oh, it’s not hurting anyone.” He glanced sideways to see Aziraphale pressing his lips together, struggling not to smile. Grinning, Crowley tossed down more enchanted grains. “Go on then.”

“Hmm? Ah, yes. Well, the overall impression is that love is…transformative. Changes the way one thinks and feels at all times. They speak of, oh, the sun shining brighter, foods tasting sweeter, winter blossoming into summer. Metaphors. Others speak of — of attraction, quickened pulse, sudden heat and so on, but that’s a passing thing, part of a — a particular moment of closeness. Surely, no human could maintain such a state for an hour, never mind weeks or years!” Aziraphale offered Crowley the last handful of grain in his cap. “And once that moment passes…”

“Back to the metaphors.” The ducks below were now spotted, striped, every color of the rainbow. One bore pure white wings, beside another with midnight black. Aziraphale chuckled, very softly, which made Crowley feel immensely satisfied. Dusting off his hands, he circled the angel and continued walking.

“Yes,” Aziraphale hurried to catch up, cap twisting in his hands. “I get the sense that the feeling is so obvious, so…universal, they never think to describe it.”

“How inconsiderate.” Crowley thought it over. “So, flash of heat, racing heart, sun gets brighter, then ten pages about the color of their eyes? That about it?”

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale rubbed a finger across his lip. “Not always beauty, though. Some appear drawn by their partner’s clever mind, or acts of kindness. Some praise stories of bravery or great deeds, others fixate on meaningless symbols of wealth. But still, those only tell why one falls in love, not what it feels like.”

“Sounds like a sort of obsession.” Crowley furrowed his brow. “That treatise had a list of…sort of rules of love. Mostly about jealousy, really, don’t think the author thought much of women, but… ‘Every action of a lover ends in the thought of his beloved.’”

“I see…so that, together or apart, one cannot help but think always of the other. That certainly aligns with the evidence.” He started to replace his cap, then paused, looking inside. “Anything else of use?”

“‘Love can deny nothing to love.’” Beside him, Aziraphale turned pink and a brilliant smile broke across his face, like the sun after a storm. He pulled from the cap the bright red rosebud Crowley had hidden within.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale slid the flower into his buttonhole, drinking in the way the delighted shiver ran across his shoulders. Then the angel looked up, hitting Crowley with the full force of his smile.

Stunning. Blinding. It stole Crowley’s breath away, wiped every thought from his mind.

One day, that smile would destroy him, and he wouldn’t mind at all.

“So, this creperie — are we close?”

“Ngh. Smh. Unh. Nearly. Another block or two.” The park’s gate stood just ahead, half shut, the bustling street beyond. Crowley quickly stepped ahead, pulling it open for Aziraphale. “You, ah, find the answer you needed?”

“I…think so, yes.” He rested his fingers on the gate — so close to Crowley’s he could feel their warmth — then quickly pulled away, folding his hands behind his back. “I’ve been trying to work out…well…whether I’m in love with you, Crowley.”

“Oh.” What was he supposed to say to that? “Oh.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale’s eyes darted nervously and he began to pace. “I-I want you to know, I don’t desire you. I’ve never felt that sort of attraction. And I’m not jealous by any means. I’m not even certain who I’m meant to be jealous of. But…” He turned back, tugging his jacket. “I think of you. Constantly. Every action, every experience reminds me of you. I go to a concert, and I can’t concentrate on the music, only whether you would enjoy it. I hear a joke and I imagine how you would laugh, or roll your eyes, and I can’t know a moment’s peace until I’ve shared it with you. And last month…when I was reprimanded…for days afterward I could think of nothing but how I wished you were there. When I finally found the strength to venture out, it was only from my determination to come here.”

“For…crepes?” Crowley offered stupidly.

“No, you silly creature, for you.” He stepped forward, reaching up as if to straighten Crowley’s lapels, but once again his hands dropped. “I hear your voice and no matter how dark my situation — no matter how absurd you look in the current fashion — I just…feel happy again.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and lifted his eyes — hopeful, fearful, vulnerable — to meet Crowley’s.

“Oh.” Something more was probably needed. “Yeah.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

“Well.” Aziraphale’s eyes dropped and he turned, trying to hide his expression. “Yes. I thought you should know.” He ducked his head and hurried through the gate. “Where — where is this creperie? We should try to arrive—”

“Me too.”

Crowley hadn’t meant to say anything. His mind was still ten minutes behind, struggling to catch up, but the pain on Aziraphale’s face hurt him like a blow to the chest.

The two words stopped Aziraphale in his tracks.

“I…I think about you, too.” Crowley stepped halfway through the gate, gripping the bar so tight it began to bend. “When I wake up, or fall asleep and…and away from you, here, I just…I miss you…but you — you idiot, with your crepes and your — your execution and…and then you smile and I just…” Blast! How could Aziraphale be so eloquent? Crowley swallowed and started over. “Look, m’trying to say…don’t think I can deny you anything. And. If that’s love…yeah. Me too.”

All this time, Aziraphale stood perfectly still, his back to Crowley. But now he turned, blue eyes furiously blinking. “That’s…ah…thank you. I know y-you hate being thanked but…” Aziraphale took one step closer, then another, until only inches separated them. “Thank you.”

“Nh.” He could so easily reach across that last bit of distance. Crowley didn’t know what that would accomplish, what he’d even do, but he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything. “Now what?”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale’s gaze fell. “It…doesn’t change anything, does it? You’re still a demon, and I’m—”

“I don’t care,” Crowley hissed, shocked at the fervor in his own voice. “We don’t need to play by their rules. We could — run off, or—”

“We can’t. Crowley, both our sides would — they’d find us, they’d destroy you.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” He reached for Aziraphale’s hand.

“I’m not.” The angel jerked back, putting more distance between them, eyes wide. “Crowley that’s — that’s not a chance I’m willing to take. I’m sorry, but no.”

“Fine,” Crowley growled, pulling away. “What do you want?”

“I want…” Aziraphale shut his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. “I want a shop in London, where I can surround myself with books and foods and everything I enjoy. I want my superiors to trust me, let me bring good into the world my own way, without sending me all over Creation at a moment’s notice and — and punishing me for a few miracles to make my life easier. I want us to go to plays and gardens and balls together, not for clandestine meetings but because we enjoy them. To be openly in each other’s company, without fear of reprisal. And…I’d like you to visit my shop and bring me flowers or sweets. I’d serve my very best wine and…we’d talk all night about…everything and nothing. And laugh together.” His eyes fluttered open and for the first time Aziraphale looked sure of himself. “I want what we already have. Only I want more of it.”

This time he didn’t move as Crowley reached out. Long fingers carefully adjusted the rosebud, standing it straighter in its buttonhole. “Yeah. I…I’d like that, too.”

“And you don’t want anything…physical?”

Crowley snorted. “M’not a human.” But he wondered if Aziraphale’s cheek was as soft as the rosebud’s petals. “I’d like to touch you. Your hand, your face. Your wings. Hear your voice as I fall asleep. Feel your fingers in my hair. Is that…too much?”

“No.” Aziraphale smiled gently. “That sounds perfect.”

“Maybe…” Crowley fidgeted with his glasses, shuffled his feet, but refused to step away. “If we’re careful…”

“The Arrangement is already dangerous enough. You must understand…”

Crowley closed his eyes. “I do. Nothing changes.” Except there were words now, to the feeling he had when he thought of his angel. And that changed everything. When he looked again, Aziraphale nodded, as if he felt the same.

“Right then.” Crowley circled around Aziraphale, sauntering back to the main road. “Let’s see if these crepes are worth risking the guillotine.”

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale easily kept pace. “One bite of true Breton crepes will silence your doubts forever.”

“Breton, huh?”

“Oh, yes, far superior to any others.”

“If that’s so,” Crowley smirked, remembering Aziraphale in his cell, “s’a wonder you came to Paris. Particularly in such a…controversial outfit.”

“The city has…certain other attractions.”

Something warm and heavy wrapped across Crowley’s shoulders, invisible to his eyes, though he could feel the individual feathers tickle his neck. Aziraphale strolled beside him, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward, as if nothing were amiss.

Carefully, trying to look natural, Crowley scratched his shoulder, brushing his knuckles down a long flight feather, softer than any mortal bird’s.

Aziraphale smiled ever so slightly and flexed his wing, holding Crowley a little more tightly. An embrace that no one could see, no one could know about, except them.

“Dunno,” Crowley said. “Still seems pretty risky.”

“Yes. But I’m an incorrigible old fool. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

“Suppose I can understand,” Crowley said as he extended his own wing, wrapping it around Aziraphale’s waist. The angel’s composure broke as he wiggled, burying himself in invisible feathers. Crowley smiled, heat running through him, a warm spring day after a long cold winter. “After all, we’re not so different, you and I.”

[1] De Amore, Andreas Capellanus, c. 1190

So happy to finally share this!

[thevibraniumveterans]

“Love is…” …new to Sylvie.

Here’s a bit of something from https://www.marvel.com/articles/tv-shows/sophia-di-martino-sylvie-loki where Sophia di Martino shares some insight into Sylvie and Loki’s blossoming romance.

Though Sylvie is a person who’s very sure of herself, “very confident”, as Mobius describes her, she’s “this wild cat who’s just on a survival mission”, says di Martino of Sylvie, who hasn’t had time to fall in love or even experience love of any sort, given how her life had gone before Loki had quite literally stumbled into hers.

Somehow, within 12 hours of “formally” meeting each other by way of a scuffle in front of the golden elevators that lead to the Time Keepers, she warms up to Loki. Something about him gives her pause, and she’s not so sure why, nor does she quite know how to respond to this new feeling she’s got.

Within mere minutes of a planet obliterating the moon that Loki and Sylvie find themselves on in Ep4, they both share a small but short-lived moment that was so powerful Mobius and Hunter B-15 stepped in to haul the wayward pair back to the TVA. 

No matter how Loki and Sylvie’s moment may be interpreted, two things were clear: 1) they both knew, in that moment, that there might’ve been something new between the two of them; and 2) whatever they did caused a massive and nearly vertical spike on the timeline that was impossible to ignore. Whether both were related, or that one was a causation, or that both were correlations of each other, it didn’t matter. What had happened, happened, and now, Loki and Sylvie are left to figure out their feelings for each other.

According to Sophia di Martino, Sylvie and Loki are like

“…two teenagers who have never had these feelings before.”

Di Martino adds,

“Obviously, Tom’s a super charming, very easy to fall-in-love-with guy. With Sylvie, I was really aware that she's never had feelings like this about anybody. This is a hugely vulnerable position for her to be in. I really wanted it to be not too easy for her to just sort of go there. It’s that moment where it's so awkward. They just don't know how to put it into words. They don't know how to behave around each other. It's all a bit too intense and a bit much.

Sylvie still feels extremely uncomfortable showing that vulnerability and admitting that she likes someone in that way, or that she has feelings for someone in that way. It's something that she's just never been able to do. Never have the opportunity, never met anyone that she's ever liked, let alone cared about. She's got a wall built up. She's not going to just let that down for anybody, and even if she wants to, it's difficult to get rid of.

You know those people that are really awkward at hugging? I imagine it's almost like that [for Loki and Sylvie]. [The kind of] people that need a hug the most but kind of just don't know how to do it. It's a little bit like that. I just want to hug both of them and say, ‘It's all right, guys. It's all right. Let's have a group hug.’”

-

That entire mini scene where Loki and Sylvie talk about their feelings by not talking about their feelings was one of my favorite in the episode. It’s also hilarious how when we first see them start talking, they’re not even touching each other, but somehow by the end of the conversation, they’re shoulder to shoulder somehow, without even moving or scooting closer.😂

Sylvie: “Mobius isn’t so bad.”

Loki: “Or so good.” (Sylvie glances at him.) “I think that’s why we get along.”

Sylvie: “He cares about you.”

(Loki considers this for a second, then looks up at Sylvie. She looks back at him and smiles. He looks away, and for a brief moment, away from all the chaos that has been happening so far, Loki realizes that the breeze that permeates the air around them is particularly chilly. He wraps his arms around himself.) 

Loki: “It’s cold.”

Sylvie: “Mm-hmm.”

(Loki looks off into the distance, before looking back at Sylvie. A thought comes to mind, and he conjures a blanket out of thin air, and has it wrap around his shoulders. He glances up at Sylvie again, and smiles.)

Loki: “I could conjure one for you if you like.”

(With a small grin, Sylvie scrunches her nose and tugs on her collar.)

Sylvie, jokingly: “Tell you what, you could conjure me a new outfit. You have no idea how uncomfortable something like this is.” (Loki casts his eyes down at the ground before him, shakes his head, and chuckles. Sylvie inhales awkwardly.) “So… Mobius and his, um, “theory”…”

Loki, just as awkwardly: “Oh right, right. About my nexus event.”

(Sylvie strikes down the possibility that whatever’s going on between them has got anything to do with the spike, and looks at Loki.)

Sylvie: “Total rubbish right?”

Loki, agreeing: “Absolutely, of course! I mean…”

(Sylvie, awkward as she is in this conversation, brushes a nonexistent strand of hair from her face, and looks at Loki.)

Sylvie: “I don’t mean it wasn’t, y’know, a nice moment.”

(Loki glances back up at Sylvie.)

Loki: “No, it was great. It was really nice. It was, it was great.”

Sylvie, in denial: “It sounds just like another TVA lie.”

Loki, also in denial: “A hundred percent. Totally. Yeah.”

(He shakes his head awkwardly and looks away, before glancing back at Sylvie. He nudges her arm. She’s nervously still. She glances at Loki and looks away just as quickly.)

Sylvie: “… I don’t know how to do this.”

Loki, quietly: “I don’t even know what we’re doing.”

(Sylvie glances at him and smiles ruefully. She admits her loneliness.)

Sylvie: “I don’t have friends. I don’t have… anyone.” (To be with, she means.)

Loki: “Well, you know, there’s more important things, right?”

Sylvie: (She looks at Loki, half incredulous.) “Right? Yeah. Like, like… bringing down the TVA.”

Loki: “Well, saving the universe, when you think about it.”

Sylvie, agreeing: “Well, no need to be dramatic, but yeah, kind of.”

(The breeze picks up a little, and a faint clap of thunder sounds off in the distance. Sylvie shrugs her shoulders once, not wanting to admit that she’s feeling chilly as well. Seeing this, Loki uses a little magic to drape part of his blanket over Sylvie’s shoulders. She glances at him and tugs it closer gratefully. New as this emotion feels to him, and as awkwardly romantic as it looks, Loki is unable to prevent an embarrassed smile from forming on his face.)

Sylvie: “…It’s not very snuggly.”

(Loki is amused by her odd comment.)

Loki, laughing: “…Okay?”

Sylvie: “Is it a tablecloth?”

Loki: “No, it’s a blanket.”

(Sylvie pauses for a second to gather her thoughts, then…)

Sylvie, softly: “Thank you.”

(Loki bows his head slightly in her direction and looks at her.)

Loki: “My pleasure.”

(He smiles, then, quiet. The comfortable silence the pair find themselves in lasts a few seconds before…)

Sylvie: “How do I know that in the final moments you won’t betray me?”

(Loki knows exactly why she’s asking him this question. She had asked him not too long ago, “What makes a Loki a Loki?”, and he had answered her with qualities he knows himself to have. But that was then, and this is now. Perhaps recalling the ruckus at the bunker earlier and knowing all too well what it is what a Loki would do, he latches on to the word “betrayal”. Perhaps also recalling how he had, when he was first arrested by the TVA, declared how he would not let other people decide how his story ends, he makes Sylvie a promise, reassuring her that though betrayal runs deep in every Loki that has ever existed, not to mention himself, he has made the conscious choice to not let that rule his life like it did before. He turns to face her.)

Loki: “Listen, Sylvie, I…” (He exhales once, acknowledging the weight of Sylvie’s question. His blue eyes, having nothing but true sincerity behind them for what is possibly the first time in a very long while, meet hers.) “I betrayed everyone who’d ever loved me. I betrayed my father, my brother… my home. I know what I did, and I know why I did it. And that’s not who I am anymore. Okay? I won’t let you down.” 

(Sylvie searches Loki’s eyes for answers.)

Sylvie: “You sure?” (He nods.) “Because if we make it, and the TVA is gone, there might be a timeline for you to rule.”

(Loki recognizes the inside joke for what it is, as he knows ruling is also something that any given Loki would want to do. But for him now, here, ruling anyone or anything is a thing of the past.)

Loki: “Ah. And then, I’d finally be happy.” (They smile at each other, recognizing the statement as a light-hearted jab.) “What about you? What will you do when this is all over?”

(Loki looks down at the ground before him before glancing up at her. Again, Sylvie brushes another nonexistent strand of hair from her face, but lifts her head, her eyes meeting his.)

Sylvie: “I don’t know.”

(Loki looks away, considering his answer.)

Loki: “I don’t know either.” (He takes a breath before meeting her eyes again.) “Maybe… maybe we could figure it out… together.”

(Sylvie, feeling that she might like that idea, thinks about it for a second before answering.)

Sylvie: “Maybe.” 

-

[dwellordream]

“...Where the show had sensibly added yurts and merely forgot to have any way to move them, Martin has the Dothraki live in “palaces of woven grass” (AGoT, 83) which I assume the show did not replicate because the moment someone described doing that everyone realized what a bad idea it was and moved on to something more sensible like a yurt covered in leather. Grass and reeds, of course, can be woven. However, as anyone who has done so will tell you, the idea of trying to weave what is essentially a grass basket the size of a tent in a single day is not an enviable – or remotely possible – task.

Trying to move such a giant grass basket without it coming apart or developing tears and gaps is hardly better. And at the end, a woven-grass structure wouldn’t even really be particularly good at controlling temperature, which is its entire purpose! It is rather ironic, given that unlike the show’s Dothraki, Martin’s Dothraki do seem to use at least some carts, because Viserys is forced to ride in one (AGoT, 323) and so could bring yurts with them. They just don’t.

More to the point, it is very clear that Martin imagines the Dothraki subsistence system to consist almost entirely of horses. The Dothraki ride horses, they eat horses, they drink fermented mare’s milk. The Dothraki – as in the show – are presented as eating almost entirely horsemeat. They eat horsemeat at the wedding (AGoT, 84), and Daenerys’ attendants are surprised that she asks for any kind of meat other than horse (AGoT, 129), although Daenerys herself seems to have access to a more agrarian diet (AGoT, 198) and other characters observe that the Dothraki prefer horsemeat to anything else (AGoT, 272). There is no mention of herds of anything except people and horses moving with the khalasaar.

There is also no sense that the Dothraki are hunting big game like one would in the Great Plains; Drogo kills a hrakkar – a sort of lion, apparently – as a display of bravery (AGoT, 495) but there is nothing that would suggest the kind of bison-based subsistence system (at the very least, if that was the system, Daenerys would be well aware of it, because the camp would be awash in bison-products). I found no references to larger game and the Wiki only offers, “packs of wild dogs, herds of free-ranging horses, and rare hrakkar” which is, needless to say, not enough to make up for the absence of large herds of bison, especially for trying to feed Drogo’s camp of perhaps a hundred thousand people (or more!).

They clearly do not herd sheep. This becomes painfully obvious with the raid on the Lhazareen village. The Dothraki – Khal Ogo’s men – in raiding a sedentary pastoralist settlement, kill all of the sheep and leave them to rot. Dany sees them “thousands of them, black with flies, arrow shafts bristling from each carcass” and only knows that this isn’t Drogo’s work because he would have killed the shepherds first (AGoT, 555). And we are told that the people there “the Dothraki called them haesh rakhi, the Lamb Men….Khal Drogo said they belong south of the river bend. The grass of the Dothraki sea was not meant for sheep” (AGoT, 556).

We are told that the Dothraki have “vast herds” but this can only mean herds of horses, given that they apparently take offense at any other animal being grazed on the Dothraki and look down at shepherds in general (AGoT, 83). To be clear, for a nomadic people moving over vast grassland to spurn the opportunity to capture vast herds of sheep would be extraordinarily stupid. At the very least, thousands of sheep are valuable trade goods that can literally walk themselves to the point of sale (we’ll get to this idea that the Dothraki also don’t understand commerce a little later, but it is also intense rubbish; horse nomads in both the New World and the Old understood trade networks quite well and utilized them adroitly). But more broadly, as I hope we’ve laid out, sheep are extremely valuable for subsistence in Steppe terrain.

But Martin does not even do horse-string logistics right. While Daenerys eats cheese (AGoT, 198), we never hear of the Dothraki doing so. The Dothraki do have an equivalent to qumis, but no qulut, no yogurt. Even the frankly badass bit about drinking the horse’s blood as a source of nourishment does not appear. The horses themselves are also wrong. First, Daenerys and Drogo each have one horse they use, seemingly to the exclusion of all others. If you have been reading this long, you know that is nonsense: they ought to both (and Jorah too, if he intends to keep up) be shifting between multiple horses to avoid riding any of them into the ground. Moreover, Martin has imported a European custom about horses – that men ride stallions and women ride mares – into a context where it makes no sense. Drogo’s horse is clearly noted as a red stallion (AGoT, 88) while Daenerys’ horse is a silver filly (AGoT, 87). But of course the logistics of Steppe raiding revolves around mares; in trying to give Drogo the ultimate manly-man horse, he has actually given him the equivalent of a broken down beater – a horse only able to fulfill a slim parts of its role.

Finally, the group size here is wildly off. For comparison, Timothy May estimates that, in 1206, when Temujin he took the name Chinggis Khan and thus became the Great Khan, ruling the entire eastern half of the Eurasian Steppe, that the Mongol army “probably numbered less than a hundred thousand men” (May, The Mongols, (2019), 43), though by that point his army included not merely Mongols, but other ethnically distinct groups of steppe nomads, Merkits, Naimans, Keraites, Uyghurs and the Tatars (the last of which Chinggis had essentially exterminated – next time, we’ll get to the nonsense of the Dothraki being a single ethnic group).

That is, to be clear, compared to the armies of sedentary empires of similar size (which is to say, huge) a fairly small number! We’re going to come back to this next week, but the strength of Steppe nomads was never in numbers. Pastoralism is a low density subsistence strategy, so the steppe nomads were almost always outnumbered by their sedentary opponents (Chinggis himself overcomes this problem by folding sedentary armies into his own, giving him agrarian numbers, backed by the fearsome fighting skills of his steppe nomads).

Khal Drogo’s khalasaar, which moves as a single unit, supposedly has 40,000 riders (AGoT, 325-6); Drogo is perhaps the strongest Khal, but still only one of many. With 40,000 riders, we have to imagine an entire khalasaar of at least 120,000 Dothraki (plus all the slaves they seem to have – put a pin in that for later; also that number is a low-ball because violent mortality is clearly very high among the Dothraki, which would increase the proportion of women and children) and probably something like 300,000 horses. At least. Of course no grassland could support those numbers without herds of sheep or other cattle. As noted above, Isenberg’s figures suggest much lower density in the absence of herding – just under 70,000 nomadic Native Americans on the Great Plains in 1780 (and less than 40,000 in 1877), including women and children! But more to the point, no assemblage of animals and people that large could stay together for any length of time without depleting the grass stocks.

Even if we ignore that problem and even if we assume that the Dothraki have Mongol-style pastoral logistics to enable higher population density on the Dothraki Sea, my sense is that the numbers still don’t work. Even before Drogo dies, we meet quite a few other independent Khals with their on khalasaars – Moro, Jommo, Ogo, Zekko and Motho at least and it is implied that there are more. Drogo’s numbers suggests he should be roughly at the stage Chinggis Khan was in 1201 or so – with Chinggis controlling roughly half of the Mongolian Steppe, and his old friend and rival Jamukha the other half. But Khal Drogo has evidently at least a half-dozen rivals, probably more. It is hard to say with any certainty, but the numbers generally seem too high. Having that entire group concentrated, moving together for at least nine months (long enough for Daenerys to become pregnant and give birth) would be simply impossible inside of a grazing-based subsistence system, sheep or no sheep.

In short, no part of this subsistence system works, either from a North American or a Eurasian perspective. This isn’t actually much of a surprise. Martin has been pretty clear that he doesn’t like the kind of history we’re doing here. As he states: I am not looking for academic tomes about changing patterns of land use, but anecdotal history rich in details of battles, betrayals, love affairs, murders, and similar juicy stuff.

That’s an odd position for an author who critiques other authors for being insufficiently clear about their characters’ tax policy (what does he think they are taxing, other than agricultural land use?). Now, I won’t begrudge anyone their pleasure reading, whatever it may be. But what I hope the proceeding analysis has already made clear is that it simply isn’t possible to say any fictional culture is ‘an amalgam’ of a historical culture if you haven’t even bothered to understand how that culture functions. And it should also be very clear at this point that George R. R. Martin does not have a firm grasp on how any of these cultures function.”

- Bret Devereaux, “That Dothraki Horde, Part II: Subsistence on the Hoof.”

[algernoninwonderland]

So, Optigami! It wasn't a very eventful one, or rather, a lot happened but since it was inconsequential for the most part, not much of anything actually happened at all. It was a bit frustrating, to be honest. Not horrendous, not by any means, but I wish this episode had done more.

The Good:

Nathalie! We hadn't seen her in quite a while! Optigami is indeed a pretty smart idea. You go, Nathalie.

DJWifi is nice and cute, pew pew!

Shadow Moth goes to the bathroom, fully transformed. It's ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous! Shadow Moth in any setting is ridiculous, but this in particular was really funny. I don't know if it was on purpose and I don't care.

It makes sense for Audrey to become Style Queen again. This is one of the times in which that repeat akuma makes sense considering the situation.

Kagami proves herself to be the best, once again. For about three seconds but these are three great seconds.

That Adriennette lift scene! It was cute and fun for the most part. Adrien is slowly becoming the awkward one and I quite like it. He's protective of his friends, and this includes Marinette.

Max is a good egg. I like Max. He understands what heroism is. It's good. He's good.

What are Luka and Wayhem doing in the air vent? It's stupid. But funny. And therefore great.

They're doing all sorts of funky things with the Eiffel Tower this season and I'm here for it.

Sentimonster Nino is a smart idea. The execution is another matter entirely, but the idea is neat.

Nice Miraculous unification there.

Gabriel knows that Alya is a person of interest… Now that could be interesting!

The Bad:

We're back to “Marinette fawning over her celebrity crush Adrien Agreste” and it's not entertaining, it's stale. That's season 1-3 stuff, I had hoped we'd move beyond that and it looks like we haven't.

I can't buy that this whole magazine thing has so few guests and half of them are Adrien's schoolmates.

Almost nothing is done with any of them, I appreciate that we get to see more of them but nothing is going on with them at all. Outside of Nino and Alya, they're all here for three seconds, barely get any lines…

They can't spell “Magazine” right. And Magazine is also spelled with a 'z' in French. They just don't care.

That Lorem Ipsum text again. We can clearly read it. The shot lasts for like a good five seconds. We can clearly tell that it's gibberish. It just breaks the immersion. Yes, I know it's to avoid different takes for each country but c'mon, at least do it in French! Very minimal effort has been put into this.

Some really horrendous rendering, these piles of gold look very much like these 2000s bowling alley CGI videos, which, for a show made in the late 2010s and early 2020s, is concerning.

Very little of this episode feels tense and suspenseful which, for a “locked room” plot, is a bit of a shame. If you want to remake Die Hard so badly, you should pay attention to the mood and tension of the scenes and also you shouldn't forget all the copaganda.

Chloé is terrible and uses her sister as a human shield. But this moment has no weight at all. Wayhem and Luka, I understand, they're not particularly close and it's just funny that Wayhem is a coward. But Zoé and Chloé? Their relationship is more meaningful than that, surely it should be treated with more levity. Right? Think again.

Oh, come on, Nathalie, you're supposed to be smart, and yet you just… Stop because Marinette isn't in your database? That's just cheap writing and the writers being unable to follow through with their own ideas.

Some cheap identity reveal fakeouts. I'm entirely desensitised to them and so are many other people, I'm sure.

The whole Sentimonster Nino thing and Alya feeling bad afterwards… That latter part doesn't really work.

Gabriel knows he should look into Alya some more, but it's a last minute thing and you immediately get mood whiplash when the end credits' upbeat song kicks in.

The Ugly:

Nothing. There's nothing outstandingly rubbish about this episode. But there aren't many good things about it either, is the problem.

It's not a bad episode, but it's not good either, it's somewhere in the middle and I found myself wanting more, but not in a good way.

[malfoymanortings]

somebody else PT 2

SUMMARY: Mae has been in love with Draco Malfoy since her first year at Hogwarts. Draco Malfoy fell in love with Mae in their fourth year, and then promptly fell into Pansy’s bed instead. All the while, Mae clings to the hope that Draco will change. That is, until, Ron Weasley takes his chance.

PAIRINGS: toxic!Draco x OC, Ron x OC, Ginny x Luna

im not sure that I like how this turned out, but hopefully you all enjoy it! I was very surprised I got so much positive feedback on that little one shot i posted. thank you all for the love! 

also, let me know if you want to be on the taglist for the next part. 

Perhaps it was her conversation with Ginny the previous night, or perhaps it was because she felt so hollow inside, but Mae resolved herself on confronting Draco. Of course, he didn’t make things easy for her. He never did.

“Pansy and Draco are sitting awfully close, aren’t they?” Blaise said conversationally, taking a sip of his morning coffee. Full of cream, three sugars. As always.

Mae eyed Draco and Pansy warily, noting the way Pansy laughed into Draco, her hand seeming to move onto his leg although it was hidden from the table. “They’re just friends.”

“Rubbish,” scoffed Blaise harshly, stabbing an egg. “You’re much smarter than that, love.”

Pansy took that moment to brush Draco’s hair out of his face, and something broke inside Mae as Draco caught her hand in his own, bringing her knuckles to his lips and ghosting a kiss across them.

“It’s none of your business though, innit?” snapped Mae, slamming her glass of pumpkin juice down so harshly it brought the attention of the entire half of their table, including Draco and Pansy. “If Draco wants to fuck a slut, let him.”

Blaise choked on his eggs, slamming a fist into his chest as he attempted to swallow. Draco tilted his head, a sneer on his face, while Pansy began hurling insults at Mae. 

“Perhaps if you weren’t a filthy half-blood, Draco would be more interested. He wants a real woman.” Pansy declared wickedly, her lips lifted up in a snarl.

“A real woman with real STDs, hm?” retorted Mae, standing up from the table. “Everyone knows you fucked Theodore Nott last week, and he had to go to Madam Pomfrey from whatever you gave him!”

The part about Pansy fucking Theodore Nott was true, although the STD part was not. But Mae was so angry, so fed up with how the both of them were treating her, that she couldn’t contain it anymore. At this point, most of the Great Hall had caught sight of what was happening, although the teachers at least pretended to be oblivious. She caught sight of Ginny grinning at her encouragingly.

“I’m going to be honest with you, because no one else will,” Draco said the words slowly, casually, as though he were speaking of the weather. “Anyone who says they’re interested in you, beyond just fucking you, is a liar.”

Mae felt her cheeks burn, as the Slytherin table began laughing and oohing under their breath, and she rushed out of the Great Hall. She heard footsteps behind her, but she ignored them, until someone tugged harshly on her arm, the rings on his fingers alerting her to who it was.

“Why?” demanded Mae, turning around with unshed tears. An amused Draco stood in front of her, looming over her. “Why do you do this to me?”

Perhaps the question caught him off guard, because Draco replied with “I don’t know.”

Mae let out a strangled sob, wiping her hands harshly down her face. “I just want to be the one you love.”

“Oh darling,” Draco said the words softly, reaching out to caress her cheek. Mae closed her eyes for a moment, and she could pretend everything was fine. “I’ll never love you.”

With those words, Draco shoved her jaw harshly, causing a loud popping noise to sound as pain reverberated through the lower half of her face.

“I’m breaking up with you.” Mae said the words first, opening her eyes to see Draco actually looking.. Hurt, by her words.

“Took you long enough.” 

Mae looked to see Ginny heading her way, her hand intertwined with Luna’s, with the Golden trio, Pansy, and Blaise following close behind.

“We would have never made it anyways.” Draco responded quietly, and Mae felt a bit vindicated to see that he appeared to feel at least partially upset.

“That’s your fault.” her voice shook, but Mae said the words passionately.

“How?” he had the nerve to sound incredulous, and Mae balled up her fists as tears of anger came to her eyes.

“You always cheated on me with Pansy! You treated me like I was your pet, like you could keep fucking around without any care for my feelings!” the words she had been keeping in for so long burst out, and she felt a rush of vindication that she finally got to say them aloud.

Draco scoffed, and any hope of him apologizing or fighting for her went out the window. “You really think I give a shit about you? It’s your loss, Callisto.” he sneered her last name, looking over his shoulder to see the others approaching them.

Mae’s eyes hardened, hatred growing as Pansy ran pathetically over to Draco. “Your whore’s here.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Sorry you don’t know how to keep a man.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be Callisto,” Draco drawled out, slinging an arm over Pansy. “Nobody likes a slut that doesn’t understand when her time is up.”

“What did you just say?” Ron Weasley was the last person Mae expected to speak to Draco after he said those words.

Draco scoffed. “You heard me, Weas-”

Before Draco could get the full word out, Ron’s fist collided with Draco’s delicate features. Mae’s eyes widened as Ron wound his fist back once more, knocking Draco flat on his back. Pansy started screaming, and Blaise started laughing.

“Blaise, help him!” Pansy shrieked, slapping a hand to her mouth in horror.

Blaise sighed, rolling his eyes. He gave Mae a quick look, (perhaps in an apology?) before he gave Ron a swift kick to his stomach. Ron stumbled backwards, falling on his bottom, and Draco lay on the ground clutching his bruised and bloody face.

Pansy promptly threw herself down onto Draco, and Blaise stood there with his arms crossed as though he were just waiting for the show to be over. Mae, on the other hand, had nothing left to say to Draco, and turned her attention to Ron, who had just gotten off the floor with the help of Harry. 

“Thank you,” the words were quiet, but sincere. Ron nodded to her, his eyes not wavering from hers.

“He’s not worth it, yeah?” said Ron, shaking his bruised knuckles. “He never deserved you.’

Mae, suddenly flooded with emotion, just shook her head, and with tears burning in her eyes, she left the scene behind her.

--=--

The hardest thing was seeing Draco be so openly affectionate with Pansy. It broke her, each time she entered the common room to see her sitting on his lap. Getting a kiss on the cheek. A hug. A tender embrace. It burned like hell.

So, she began spending less time in the common room. She began joining Luna and Ginny on their outings, normally in the astronomy tower, and at some point, the Golden Trio started joining them. It became a routine, the six of them hanging out in either the tower or the library, if Hermione got her way. 

On the bright side, her grades had never been better. 

A month after the incident with Draco, Mae found herself feeling the wound particularly harshly. She paced outside the Gryffindor common room, hoping to find Ginny coming out of the portrait hole. Instead, she got Ron Weasley, who didn’t seem all too surprised to find her out there.

“You alright?” Ron asked awkwardly, halfway in the doorframe and halfway out.

Mae shook her head silently, her chest aching. “Not really.”

“How ‘bout we take a way, yeah?” suggested Ron, stepping out of the portrait hole. It swung shut loudly behind him.

Mae shrugged her shoulders, and together they walked in silence. They had no clear destination in mind, and Mae found she felt slightly better having his company around her. Ron, she had found, had a fairly dry sense of humor and it was ever so easy to laugh around him. Sometimes, the others didn’t quite understand the joke, but Mae always did. His humor was similar to hers, if she could just find it again.

“I always wondered,” Ron broke their silence, stopping to sit on a ledge overlooking the black lake. “If the squid really existed.”

“Oh, it does,” Mae assured Ron, hopping up on the opposite side of the stone ledge, wrapping her robe tightly around herself. “Sometimes in the common room, we get to see it swim by.”

Ron’s eyes flashed with admiration. “Wicked.”

“I suppose it might be a bit more exciting than overlooking the grounds,” Mae said the words pretentiously, sniffing as she hid a grin from Ron. “We get to see the inside of the black lake, while you boring Gryffindors just get landscape.”

“At least during winter we haven’t got to sleep under ten blankets just to get by,” protested Ron, bringing a hand up to brush his hair out of his face. “Then again, you might just have an iron deficiency.”

Mae’s eyes widened. “That’s a big word for Ronald Weasley.”

“Hermione mentioned it!” defended Ron, moving his hands as he spoke. “She’s the one who suggested you go to Madam Pomfrey for it! You’re always freezing!”

“It’s a perk of being damaged goods, I suppose.” Mae said the words without much thought, as she had gotten distracted by Ron’s rather large hands moving around.

Ron went still, and he gave Mae a confused look. “Damaged goods?”

Mae’s feelings of inadequacy came back, and she felt the stinging of tears hit her eyes. She tried to play it off, giving a weak laugh. “Well, yeah, what else would you call me?”

“Beautiful,” the word rolled off Ron’s tongue rather quickly, as though he hadn't had to think about it at all. 

Tears slipped out of her eyes as Mae processed his words. How could anyone think she was beautiful? Couldn’t he see how damaged she was? Draco had used her up and thrown her out, and no one else would ever want his seconds. He had told her that many times.

“Don’t,” the words came out wet and wobbly. “Don’t lie to me.”

Ron was rarely serious, but he completely focused on her as he reached out to grab her hand in his large one. “Mae, why would I lie about that?”

The tears came freely now, and she could feel a sob building up in her chest. “Ronald Weasley, don’t you dare sit there and lie to me! Don’t fucking sit there, and tell me I’m beautiful, because I’m not. I’m used up and I’m damaged, I will never be anything beyond that!”

Before she could protest, Ron had pulled her into a hug, engulfing her small frame in his large one. Mae had forgotten what it was like to be embraced like this, and she buried her head into Ron’s wide chest as she cried. In the back of her mind, she understood that was likely having a panic attack. 

“Calm down Mae,” Ron held her close, caressing her hair. “You’ll be alright.”

They sat like that, until Mae’s cries subsided and she took a shaky breath, pulling out of Ron’s embrace. She was suddenly embarrassed that she had overreacted as she did, and a blush stained her wet cheeks.

“‘M sorry about that,” mumbled Mae, wiping her cheeks roughly. “I didn’t mean to make you all soggy.”

Ron laughed at that. “Why would I complain, a beautiful girl cried on me today. Sounds like a win to me!”

Mae hit Ron on his arm for that, a small laugh coming out of her as well. If anything, Ron Weasley knew how to switch the mood. “Don’t be a prat, Weasley.”

Ron’s eyes crinkled in the corners as he tossed his head back in a loud bout of laughter, and Mae found herself staring at his full lips. Really, how had she not noticed how perfectly shaped Ron’s lips were before? And Merlin, how were his teeth so straight and white?

As quickly as she began admiring Ron Weasley, images of silver hair and grey eyes flashed through her mind, and she shut her eyes and swallowed hard. There would never be Draco and Mae, that much was clear. It did not do to dwell on things that would never change.

“Imagine leaving me for a Weasley.”

Mae’s stomach dropped as she saw Draco swaggering towards her and Ron, Blaise close behind him. She hated how she still got butterflies as he eyed her appraisingly, before sneering at Ron.

“Shut it, Malfoy.” snapped Ron, his ears growing pink as he dug in his robes for his wand.

“Oh,” whistled Draco, drawing out the vowel. “Weaselbee is going to show off how big of a man he is. Trust me, Weasel, been there, done that. I’m the best she’ll ever have had.”

“Tell me Malfoy, you ever been hexed so hard you had to fight for your life?” snarled Ron, standing before the silver haired boy and brandishing his wand.

Mae quickly got down from the stone ledge, standing in between Draco and Ron, placing a hand on both of their chests. “Both of you, stop it!”

Ron’s jaw clenched, and he didn’t lower his wand. Draco smirked at the sight of her hand on his chest, his eyes flicking down at it before backup to look her in the eyes. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Mae said the words firmly, glaring at Draco. “We aren’t together anymore. Stop acting like this.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t fight little Weaselbee.” drawled Draco, flexing his fingers on his wand. “I still had you first.”

“And I fucking left you!” shouted Mae, shoving Draco back from her and Ron. “Get that through your thick skull, and go back to Pansy. The bitch you always cheated on me with!”

“You said you loved me.” Draco said the words softly, bitterly, so quickly that Mae almost didn't catch it. 

For a moment, it felt as though it were just the two of them, Draco and Mae, just as it should have been.

Mae stepped back, away from Draco, away from Ron. Her mouth twitched, her eyes grew wet, and she was at a loss for words. She turned then, and hurried out of the courtyard.

How dare he do this to her. 

taglist: @xoxohollands @phantomsmalfoystyles @lidiyabest @justmimithings

Part one

Part three

[beatles-slash-fiction]

Before they walk into the offices of the record label, Brian gives them all a stern look and tells them to be on their best behaviour.

“I mean it, boys,” he pleads with them. “No messing about. I don’t want to give them any excuse to do anything that might be damaging for you.”

It’s the same speech he gives them every time they come here for a meeting, and they dutifully tell him they’ll behave themselves.

Sometimes it’s just so hard though.

John finds it particularly difficult to hold his tongue and act like the perfect little obedient artist while Ludgate and half a dozen other executives eye him and the boys up like they’re meat, and it always just makes him so angry every time they’re in this building. It only serves to remind him of how cruel this industry is and the hopeless situation they’re trapped in.

John’s frustration gets the better of him today, because he ends up rolling his eyes and sighing one too many times while Ludgate is talking them through the terms of their next promotional tour.

“Am I boring you, Lennon?” Ludgate asks, his voice cold. “Or have you something to say?”

Brian shoots John a pleading look from the other end of the conference room.

John would never want to deliberately embarrass Brian, but there are some battles worth fighting.

John clears his throat. “Well, I was just wondering if we’re to have any time off during this tour.”

The executives look at John as if he’s just suggested he wants a first class ticket to the moon, but he can see Paul, George and Ringo giving him an encouraging look. They clearly feel the same as him.

“Time off?” Ludgate parrots. “You can rest when you return. Each day you’re away you cost us money. You’ll work every hour we tell you to.”

John is hoping Brian might intervene, but Brian simply sits there silently, still begging John with his eyes not to make trouble.

“Hang on a minute,” John says, trying not to sound too defiant. “This tour is scheduled to last nearly four months. On every single day we have either a performance or travel. That’s not taking into account rehearsals, sound checks, and all the bloody press conferences you want us to do.”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” Ludgate says, his voice dangerous.

“If you want us playing our best, we need time to rest,” John continues firmly. “We’ll be exhausted after just a few weeks.”

“We’re paying you, so you’ll do as you’re told. Epstein, you’d better sort out your whores before they go on this tour or-“

“Oh, fuck you!” John spits, and the room goes deadly silent.

Paul, George and Ringo stare at him wide-eyed, as if they can’t believe what he’s just done. The executives look at him with shock and disgust, clearly not used to being spoken to like that by an artist.

And Brian looks conflicted, clearly trying to work out how he can both support John while at the same time not make this worse.

“John, that was uncalled for,” Brian says in his most authoritative voice. “Apologise.”

John knows Brian is only playing his part here; he’s trying to diffuse the situation.

“I’m sorry,” John sighs. “But you must see my point. Brian, tell them-“

“Enough,” Ludgate interrupts firmly. “Epstein, have you no shame? You are these boys’ manager, are you not? Because it would seem they don’t respect your authority at all. It’s almost as if you don’t discipline them.”

John feels annoyed on Brian’s behalf. Brian doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like this.

“I assure you I will deal with this when I speak to them later,” Brian says, but it’s clear the executives in the room have little confidence in him.

“No,” Ludgate says. “I will deal with this now. Your boy was rude to me and so I have the right to punish him.”

John can feel his face go pale. None of them have ever actually been punished by any of the record executives, but theoretically they’ve known it was always possible. Insolent behaviour towards an executive doesn’t require a manager’s consent for punishment.

“I can punish him,” Brian says quickly. “I can punish him right now. Please-“

“I will punish him,” Ludgate says. “Or else I will assign these boys a new manager, as it’s clear that you’re not doing your job, Epstein.”

Brian sinks back into his chair.

Getting a new manager would be a far worse alternative.

John decides he can deal with this. He’s had punishments from Brian and he knows Ludgate can’t fuck him while he’s assigned to Brian, so that rules out the worst of it.

“Mr Epstein is a good manager,” John says softly. “I...didn’t mean to make trouble for him. I’m sorry. I’ll take the punishment.”

It’s probably the first bit of humility he’s ever shown in these offices. John knows which battles to fight, and he’s not willing to lose Brian as a manager. This is just something he will have to endure.

He braces himself to be told to take off his clothes or prepare for a spanking or some equally humiliating alternative, but Ludgate just fixes him with a cool gaze.

“Very well, Lennon. We’ll keep it simple then, as I can see this is a minor discourtesy and I don’t want to waste much time on you.” Ludgate gestures towards Paul, George and Ringo. “Rank them from most to least beautiful.”

John blinks, not quite sure he’s heard correctly. “Beg your pardon?”

Ludgate sighs, as if explaining something very simple to a child. “I want you to rank your bandmates in terms of attractiveness. For you personally. Start with the most beautiful and end with the least beautiful. Simple. You need only say three words and the punishment is complete.”

John feels sick. He can’t do this. He’d rather just be bent over this table and spanked than this. He looks over at the boys, whose faces are difficult to read. They look more concerned for John than anything else.

“Strawberry,” John says, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

The executives all look at him with confusion.

“What the hell does that mean?” Ludgate demands.

“It’s his safe word,” Brian says quietly.

And that’s when Ludgate starts to laugh.

John can feel himself turning red as all the executives follow, laughing at him for using a safe word for a punishment like this.

“Safe word?” Ludgate chuckles. “My my. You really do spoil and pamper your boys, don’t you, Epstein? Safe word. How ridiculous. How are you supposed to maintain your authority with something like that.”

“It maintains my trust with them,” Brian replies, clearly agitated.

“Well it’s nonsense, and no wonder they act the way they do. Lennon, don’t be ridiculous. There will be no safe words. It’s an easy enough task and will take you a few seconds. Now come along or I really will start to think about assigning you a new manager.”

John’s gaze shifts to the others. He silently begs them to forgive him. Somehow he doesn’t think that saying they’re all equally beautiful to me is going to cut it.

He needs to think about this tactically. He needs to give an order that Ludgate will think he hasn’t just made up and is actually believable, while thinking about how he can preserve his boyfriends’ feelings. This is going to be a fucking nightmare.

“I haven’t got all day. The most beautiful?” Ludgate prompts.

John stares at a spot on the wall so he won’t have to look at anyone.

“Paul.”

“Good. And the next?”

John hesitates a moment. “George.”

“And the least?”

John hates himself. He hates himself so much.

“Can’t you work it out?” John says, his frustration from earlier returning.

“Yes, but I want you to say his name. That’s part of the punishment. Say it right now, here in front of him. Say his name and confirm you think he’s the least beautiful of your lovers. Or I’ll burn your contract with Epstein right now.”

John squeezes his eyes shut to stop the tears from falling. “Ringo.”

It’s a lie. It’s not true. But John knows that nothing else would be an acceptable answer.

He opens his eyes to look at Ringo, silently trying to tell him that he’s just as beautiful as Paul and George; John loves them all the same and he’s just doing this for the stupid punishment.

The worst thing is that Ringo looks so understanding. His eyes are wet with sadness and his cheeks are red with humiliation, but he’s giving John a small, reassuring smile to let him know he understands.

That’s not how I feel, John wants to say. I made it up for the punishment.

“There,” Ludgate says. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it? And we didn’t have to bother with that safe word rubbish. Now, let’s get back to business.”

John doesn’t say another word throughout the entire meeting. He doesn’t ever want to speak up again if this is what will happen.

He desperately wishes he were sitting next to Ringo so that he could hold his hand or do something.

But instead John just sits there for forty-five minutes thinking about how he’s probably just ruined the best relationship he’s ever been in.

[writingsbychlo]

let me down slow (03)

word count; 6723

summary; mitch comes over to see you, and while teh day may not go as planned, it leads to some pretty important revelations on your behalf.

notes; this is a little softer, but its a good transitional part.

warnings; none, really. just period cramps, and all that sucky stuff.

Since that night, your phone had never been silent for too long. Apparently, you and Mitch had a lot to talk about, and a lot to debate. You may have had your similarities, but you had your differences too. Like that fact that despite both him and Stiles being on lacrosse teams, you still thought football was more entertaining, but weren’t actually a huge fan of either. 

You had spent more nights up late in the dark, fingers moving over the keyboards as you talked to him, more than you had spoken to someone new in a long time, and yet it was only ever relaxed and calm. You never had that anxiety you got when staying up late into the night to talk to a boy on the phone, you were just talking to your friend, and getting to know him in a way that you never thought you would. You had each other’s numbers but had quickly swapped snapchat names too, and you almost regretted it when he began to send a lot of long video messages as he told you what was going on at every point of the day, before realising you actually liked knowing what he was up to, even if it was just three minutes of watching him walk through the supermarket to find milk and complaining about queues. 

Those videos had quickly become late nights calls, the two of you video chatting or sitting on a call for hours, until the night was late and you went back to texting, before falling asleep. On more nights than you could count in the last three weeks, you had woken up with your phone in your hand or on the pillow beside you, and had to plug it in to charge in the middle of the night before falling asleep again.

The sex had been ongoing too, the two of you taking every chance you had to sneak around, and every time had been completely and utterly earth-shattering.

Sometimes that included you showing up at the Stilinski household at times you knew Stiles was going out, claiming to forget and say you’d just head home, waving him off like the dutiful best friend on the doorstep before letting Mitch drag you into the house and have your clothes off before you reached the bedroom. Or, it involved that mysterious and fittingly sexy SUV he owned pulling up outside of your house just after your parents had left for work in the mornings, so that he could press you into the kitchen counter and fuck you over your dining room table, before the two of you crashed on the couch to take a break. 

Mitch knew exactly what he was doing, and the two of you had indulged in a fair amount of experimenting. You’d let him blindfold you with one of the smart ties from the back of his closet door that was saved for special occasions, and he’d shown up smirking and pressing a pair of handcuffs into your hands that he’d taken from his father’s office.

Your world had gotten a whole lot bigger since Mitch Stilinski had stepped into it, and it was a whole lot brighter too. It was like the sun had been brought closer just by his presence, he felt like summer; warm and bright and full of promises.

Which is exactly why you felt so awful when you swung your door open, looking at him standing on the other side optimistically, a bright smile on his face as he held up a bag of Chinese food in one hand, wiggling his eyebrows at you suggestively. 

“I brought dinner. I was feeling gentlemanly tonight, figured I’d feed you before fucking your brains out.” You let out a gentle laugh at his words, but didn’t step out of the doorway, your hands clenching around the wood a little.

“I can’t. Not tonight.”

His face fell a little, and you shifted yourself, your face screwing up a little at the pain that spread along your body, starting at your lower back, letting out a low sigh as the worst of it passed, and he raised his brows a little. “Is it because I didn’t call first? I just figured it would be alright because you said you were spending the day inside today, and I didn’t want you to be lonely, and I kinda’ figured that was a hint, which I guess it wasn’t, but s-”

“It’s not you, Mitch, I promise.” His jaw snapped shut, and he looked adorably confused for only a moment, before his eyes moved down your body, settling on your stomach before flicking back up, gaze fixing on yours in silent question, and you nodded your confirmation, rubbing at your lower stomach and letting out a pained whimper as a particularly rough round of cramps set in.

You figured he’d just leave, and so you fixed him with the best smile you could, despite the pain, but instead, he was taking a half step closer to you, the smell of food reaching your nose as the bag rustled, and he held it out a little closer to you, offering it out for the taking. “How about I let you have the extra spring rolls, and I’ll rub your stomach for you. We can watch some movies if you want.”

“I.. um, you know there will be no sex, right?” He let out a laugh at your words, shaking his head and rolling his eyes in a way that made you smile too.

“I know. Periods seem like they suck, and I was looking forward to seeing you anyway, so it doesn’t really matter what we do. We can even watch a romantic movie like ‘The Notebook’ or something, whatever you want.” 

“We can watch an action movie.” Taking the bag from him, you opened the door up a little wider to let him through, not missing his mumbled ‘thank god’, at not having to watch something sappy, simply stepping out of the way as he moved into the house, and taking the familiar path he had learned well towards your kitchen as you followed. 

“Want me to get plates and cutlery, and you can go sit back down?”

“That would be awesome.” You sighed, not even bothering to see his reply before you were making your way back to the stairs and up to your bedroom, the heating pad you’d left discarded on your bed was waiting for you, calling you back to it as you crawled back under your covers, grumbling to yourself as it made your body ache from the change in positions, before you were settling in the pillows and lifting the heated bundle back up to press to your abdomen, a happy sigh leaving you.

“Really bad, huh?” Mitch nudged the door shut behind him with his foot, carrying plates and cutlery in one hand, with two glasses in the other and a large bottle of chilled water under his arm. “I didn’t know if you had a drink but I figured you’d want one.”

“Do you know that you’re an angel? Like a blessing. A saint.”

He grinned, placing the plates before you and taking the bag from where it was left discarded beside you, kicking his shoes off as he came to sit next to you on the bed. Opening up all of the containers and balancing them in the bedding carefully so they didn’t tip over, he listed off each thing he got, your eyes fixed on him as he did, until he was screwing up the bag and looking up at you expectantly as he held an empty plate that would be yours once it was filled. 

“You got all the things I like.”

“Not entirely true, the noodles have peas in, because that’s how I like them.” He held the container up for you, showing you the little green veggies sitting inside, but you took it from him and a fork, dishing some up onto your own plate as you ignored his failed deferral of the claim you’d made that he’d actually put a considerable amount of thought into the meal.

He followed suit, the two of you dividing up the meal and discussing all of the elements until the wrappers and boxes were all tucked back into the bag and kicked from the bed, left to sit on the floor as the two of you settled down to eat, his body beside yours in the pillows, and the remote in his hand. He scrolled through the movie choices, offering you different ones he thought would be good, until you settled on something between an action and a comedy, wanting the light-hearted energy to surround you while you were feeling down.

Once you’d finished eating, he’d cleared all of the plates away for you both, taking them downstairs and discarding of the rubbish too, rewarming the pad that had begun to lose its heat. As promised, when he returned, he had positioned himself behind you instead, pressing your back to his front and replacing the head pad on your stomach, rubbing your stomach soothingly every time you got cramps.

Each time you let out a sound in pain he would press a kiss to your head, or your temple, and mumble sweet things in your ear to make you feel better, and each time you shifted and apologised he told you that it was okay, moving himself to make sure you were comfortable, no matter what position you moved yourself into. When the pain in your lower back became worse than that on your front, the pair of you shifted with his guidance until you were laying down, your cheek pressed to his chest as you lay atop him, his hands tucked under your shirt and fingertips pressing into the muscle to soothe you, chuckling each time you let out a sigh of satisfaction when he pressed to the right spots.

It was in those moments that you decided you could absolutely get used to this. You could get used to affection, and love, and being cared for when you weren’t well. It was in those moments that you decided you wanted to have someone you could lay with like this when you weren’t on your period, when you were just feeling a little emotional, or tired. You wanted to be able to shower someone else with love and appreciation too, you wanted to have someone who woke you up in the mornings with breakfasts in bed, and someone who kept you up late at night to watch stupid movies and share funny posts on Instagram, and or the first time in longer than you could remember, that image didn’t revolve around Stiles.

It was no longer his face that plagued your mind and his name that weighed down your heart. It hurt to know that he didn’t love you, but it didn’t hurt as much as it did. For the first time you could recall, you could swap his face out with someone else’s and believe it.

Squeezing the man underneath you a little tighter, his hands went flat on your back, simply rubbing soothingly instead of pressing into the muscles, and you nuzzled down into his chest a little more, the soft cotton against your skin making you feel comfy and warm, the steady movements of his hands lulling you into comfort and clearing your mind. 

“You sure you’re going to be okay to go in tomorrow?”

You let out a groan, his voice deep and rumbling underneath you, and it had slipped your mind that it was Sunday, and that you still had an assignment to do, your face pressing into his shoulder to muffle your growl of irritation before you were pushing yourself up above him, whining a little when you body flared up with pain again, but he simply watched you, setting his hands on your hips as you sat back on his thighs, rubbing at your eyes and glancing around the room.

“What’s up?”

“I have an essay due, tomorrow. Extra credit boost before graduation, just to bump up my GPA and all that.” You waved your hand a little, sighing out a groan before getting to your feet, padding across the room to find your laptop, and you heard the mattress creak as he propped himself up in the pillows. You considered not completing it, and just explaining to your teacher tomorrow that you didn’t need the extra credit, but the truth was, you did. You knew you wanted this, and once your period passed you’d hate yourself for not doing it just because you didn’t feel great at the time. 

Scooping up the device and taking it off of its charger, you made your way back to the nest of pillows and blankets you had created together. He was holding his arms out for you, the covers moved out of the way, so that you could get beneath them, and you could cry at the welcoming image he painted as you collapsed back into his touch. 

Snuggling back into him, his hands found your stomach again after he had tucked the blankets around you, and you positioned the laptop across your lap, turning it on at the power switch and waiting for it to load up. His chin was sitting on your shoulder, cheek pressed to yours as your head fell back onto his shoulder, and your legs tangled together under the covers. Shifting one hand to his, you squeezed at them in a silent thank you for him being there for you, and looking after you. 

You knew you’d be fine alone, but that didn’t make it any less enjoyable to actually have someone else with you, looking after you and making you feel better.

The device loaded up, the bright screen making you wince as you typed your password in, your home screen coming up and you immediately turned down the brightness, rubbing at your eyes now that it was darkened in a hope that it would soothe the pounding inside of your skull. “Can you even see that screen now?”

He meant it as a joke, and you knew he did, but it didn’t stop the sigh that slipped past your lips as you pulled up an empty document to start typing into. “I have a headache, and the brightness was not helping.”

“If you have a headache, are you sure you don’t want to just take a nap?”

“I wish I could, but I want to get all the boosts I can before I graduate.” He hummed into your ear, moving to press a kiss to your shoulder through your top, before his hands came up to close over yours on the keyboard as you typed in your name and the title of your essay, stilling as his hands stopped the movement. 

“Why don’t you let me type, then? You can shut your eyes so you don’t have to look at the screen, tell me what you want to put.”

“Are you serious?” You pulled away to look at him again, and he nodded, before you closed your eyes, feeling like you may break down at the offer, and tapping your forehead against his chin as you leaned in to bump against him in gratitude. “You’re amazing.”

“It’s literally just typing. I don’t even have to think of the words.” You pulled your hands away, curling on your side into his body instead as he moved the device to balance across both of your laps, wrapping his arms a little tighter around you and turning up the brightness so he could see the screen, getting himself ready and giving you a little hum in prompt to begin once he was set.

You listed off the words to him, speaking effortlessly as you moved through the introduction, and he typed what you wanted without complaint. It was when you began the actual study basis that he spoke, offering his own points and challenging your knowledge at times, asking you why you thought something as relevant to include, or what it was adding to the essay. 

The two of you worked in perfect harmony to create the piece of work, and you knew that with his added knowledge and the benefit of having another person contribute to it, that it would be one of the best pieces of work you had ever turned in. You had also never felt more relaxed while working, the sound of his voice as he spoke to you, reading back each paragraph for editing and ensuring it was correct, the rumble of it in his chest beneath your cheek. 

It took longer than you thought, but was more enjoyable than any other piece of homework you’d ever completed, and you made the decision then and there that you wouldn’t care if you were drowning in work for the rest of your life if Mitch, or anyone else, would hold you like this and make it feel more like a hobby than a chore.

Upon finishing it, he went to the effort of printing it off for you, leaving the bed after fluffing the pillows for you and handing you one to curl up with, before he was making his way over to collect the pages from your printer, digging through your desk drawers to find a plastic cover to slide them into, and tucking the essay into your bag, ready for tomorrow. 

You were watching him move carefully, your leg propped up on one of the pillows to ease your cramps, and he peeled his jumper up and over his head, throwing it away to sit over the seat at your vanity. The action had pulled up the light cotton tee he wore underneath, exposing the toned muscles and dark happy trail to you, the path of hairs that dipped down under the skinny jeans he wore. 

You were nibbling on your lip, trailing your eyes over him carefully, moving from his abs to his biceps when he pulled the material back down, and he was smirking by the time you eventually managed to drag your lingering gazes up to his eyes. 

“As much as I truly love the fact that you were just eye-fucking me - big ego-booster by the way, so thank you for that - we’re going to have to save that for another day.” 

You let out a huff, but knew he was right, and instead he came back over to you, picking up the pillow you’d tucked between your legs and laying himself down on the bed beside you instead, getting under the covers with you and letting you shuffle up beside his body. Swinging a leg up and over his waist, you rested your head on his shoulder, his arms wrapping around your body to hold you to himself protectively. 

“Do you want to sleep? We can take a nap, if that’s what you want.”

“It is, but we can talk for a while first.” You felt around for your head pad, resting it against your lower back, and his hand came down to hold it in place for you without even having to ask. 

“Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

It took you a minute to think, before your lips were flicking up at the corners, and your hand was tightening in the material of his t-shirt a little, before you rubbed your hand over the spot. Pressing your face into his neck, you pressed a kiss to his skin, and then another, just simple pecks to the space that you could reach, but he held you a little tighter instinctively each time. “Tell me about college. What it’s like, to live alone and be independent, I want to hear it all.”

“It’s pretty fucking awesome. I didn’t get to experience much alone, a lot of it revolves around Katrina. We tried real hard to make it work, at first, so a lot of my experiences are different, because of that.”

“You don’t have to talk about her, if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s okay. I don’t mind.” He let out a sigh, running a hand over his face before returning it to your body, tucking it under the edge of your shirt to sit on the bare skin of your waist, rubbing circles with his fingers carefully. “She was a big part of who I was back then, I feel like I’m someone else now. I like who I am now. I dated her for more than half of my high school experience, and the first two years of college. She never forced me in a certain path, but I naturally wanted to follow her.”

“I didn’t date Stiles, I don’t think I ever will, but loving him changed me a lot too.”

“Love has a tendency to do that to you.” He paused, pressing a kiss to your hairline, before taking a deep breath. “College was scary at first. It’s so far away, it takes days to drive down, with all the pauses you take and the sleep time, so, I didn’t get to come home very often. It was odd, not listening to Stiles fall over things, or hearing my dad complain about work. I didn’t get to visit my mom on her birthday because I had exams, and that was the first time I didn’t take her flowers.”

“I miss your mom.”

“Yeah, me too.” He twisted you both a little when you began to squirm at the position, moving you so that you were on your side and he could press up to your back, your hand taking his as you dragged it over your body to sit across yourself. “Better?”

“Yeah, much.”

“So, I think on the first time I really felt like myself at college was actually the weekend I realised things with Kat were going downhill. It had been a whole month since we’d last seen each other, or even video chatted. Of course, we called and texted, but not as often and when I told her I loved her, it certainly didn’t make me feel as warm and fuzzy as it used to. I didn’t plan my weekends around seeing her and having virtual dates, but I started planning on keeping them open, and going to the college pep rallies, and going to the clubs and restaurants with my roommates. I had free time, and I liked that. It hurt when we officially called it off, and I realised I was going to need new friends, but if I’m being really honest here, a large part of the reason I came home again was to reconnect with myself, as well as move on, because I never knew myself and college as one.”

“You’re deeper than I thought.”

“What, did you think I was a kiddie pool of emotions?” He nudged his foot into the back of your leg, cackling a little when you grumbled at the jab. “I will have you know that I possess a deep ability to get hurt, and to do hurt, and that whole feelings shit. Blah, blah, blah, whatever you want to call it, I can do that.”

You laughed, muffling yourself by bringing his hand up to your mouth, kissing the back of his knuckles, and he flexed his hand, before gripping your chin and tipping your head back, pressing his lips to your cheek in a wet kiss in return. “I know you can. You cheered me up after Stiles left me on movie night, twice, and you’ve spent the whole of today caring for me. You’re deep as the Mariana Trench.”

“That’s some pretty high compliments, kitten.”

“You deserve them. So, tell me about having roommates.”

The conversation followed along much the same lines, and he let you shift every time you needed to, your position changing constantly as you tried to get and stay comfortable, but he told you everything you needed to know, without ever growing impatient. In return, you told him about everything he missed, you told him all the antics and stories that coach had endured since he left, and you told him about the funniest crimes his dad had been shutting down too. 

You talked for what felt like hours, before the conversations had fizzled into a serene quiet, which in turn had eventually become the sleep you had promised, the two of you drifting off into a comfortable quiet that made darkness overtake your senses. 

You had never slept as well on your period as you had with Mitch holding you. 

Your sleep was normally filled with tosses and turns, unable to settle for too long as different parts of your body ached and flared with pains, but this time you were happy, and you snoozed, and when you had woken up hours later, it was with darkness filling the room at the window instead of the sunrays you’d fallen asleep to, but you were still in the same position you'd drifted off in, and you realised you hadn't had a fitful night with constant wake-ups, but instead, you’d slept right through for hours.

The man underneath you was still asleep, snoring lightly was each breath, and you ran the tip of your finger over his nose, watching him twitch in his sleep and twist away from the source of your tickling. You’d never seen him asleep before, but you had seen Stiles, and even unconscious the two were opposites.

You were used to Stiles falling asleep around you, he kept himself up so late doing unnecessary research and keeping his mind busy until he crashed that he often fell asleep at other times too, slumped against the nearest surface, which often meant you. He drooled from the awkward ankles, and snored loudly, and twitched in his sleep before jerking awake. Mitch was calm, and clingy, and a deep sleeper. Even the slightest movement would wake his brother, and yet with all the subtle shifts you’d made, he was just adapting to you. Though, you assumed that might be down to his high activity lifestyle, all that sports must take a toll on him, even if he wasn’t keeping it up right now.

Pressing kisses along his jaw, he made a soft noise in his sleep that made your heart clench as you silently cooed over him, before he was shifting, letting out a little groan and pushing on your shoulder to roll you over, his body following until he could press you into the mattress and cover his face with your neck. 

“G’ back t’ sleep. Bit longer.”

“I would let you stay, but you dad will wonder where you are, and I have school in the morning, and I’m not sure how you’d like to explain to my parents what you’re doing here.” He huffed out at that, pushing himself to sit up, before shaking his head to clear the sleep away a little bit as he cracked his eyes open. “Hi there.”

“I haven’t taken a nap in fuckin’ ages.”

“It was a good nap.” You confirmed, standing up yourself and taking the blessed few moments of pain-free movement to stretch out a little bit. He leaned over, brushing his lips to your forehead, and you walked across to the window. “It’s later than I thought, both of my parents are already home from work.”

“I should get going.” You nodded, never looking away from the window as he remade the bed with the blankets you both had messed up, before coming over to find you. “You gonna’ be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, I just need to have a shower and get myself ready for tomorrow so I can sleep in. I have a period every month, I’m well used to dealing with it, even if it does suck.”

He rolled his eyes, taking your hand in his and pulling you away from looking outside, but not before you had closed the curtains and locked out the streetlamps bright rays. “Why don’t you walk me out instead of being sassy, huh?”

“I thought you liked me when I was sassy?”

“That’s when you’re fucking me. I like you most when you’re being cute.” You rolled your eyes, but took his hand in your own and headed towards the front door, as he sat on the bed to pull on his shoes that he had discarded by the door so long ago. 

“I’m going to go and unlock the door, and make sure my parents are in bed.”

“It’s been a while since I had to sneak out of a pretty girl’s house, I kinda’ missed the thrill.” He smirked, nodding to you as you went, and you were sure to hide the blush crawling at your cheeks. 

The darkness that had grown to replace the light in the room was thick and heavy, only making you more tired as you rubbed gently at your eyes, trying to wake yourself up a little from your nap so that you could have a shower and get yourself ready for a day at school, before eventually going back to bed again. The downstairs of your house was vacant, your parents clearly having come in and gone about their night without disturbing you, before going straight to bed themselves. 

You could hear Mitch padding down the stairs softly as not to wake your parents, and so you opened the door quietly, turning it in towards you and letting the cool night air sweep into the house. There was a note left for you by your parents, and you picked up the piece of card, flipping it over to read what it said, smiling at the handwriting scrawled onto it.

‘Figured you were getting an early night, didn’t want to wake you last night. Have a good day at school.’

There was a heart drawn at the bottom, and you assumed they didn't think you'd see it until you woke up and headed out in the morning, and you were grateful they hadn't come into the room, because you weren’t too sure how you would explain being curled up in bed and clinging to your best friends older brother as you slept side by side. Probably not the best way to introduce a guy to your parents.

Placing it back where it was, you could thank them for it tomorrow, and Mitch was standing beside the door patiently, watching you carefully as you finally turned back to him. 

“I’m sorry today didn’t go how you were planning, but thank you for sticking around anyway.”

He lifted a hand, brushing stray hair away behind your ear and settling the palm over your cheek, pulling you forwards gently until you were standing so close to him that you could pick out the lighter flecks of colour in his eyes, despite the darkness of the night surrounding you both. “My plan today was to come over and see you and have food. Sex is just what we usually do, but I wasn’t disappointed any less.”

You weren’t sure what to say, so you didn’t bother saying anything at all, instead choosing to reach out and lace your fingers with his other hand, to which he eagerly accepted, spreading the digits for you to slip your own between before he was squeezing your hand tightly. 

“I want to kiss you again. Is that okay?”

You lifted your face back up, your sights moving from your connected hands to instead find his own eyes, before you were leaning in a little closer, a smile pulling on your cheeks. “Another goodnight kiss?”

“Yes.”

“You can consider this blanket permission to kiss me whenever you want, sex or no sex.” You promised, and you barely caught sight of his smile before he was leaning in to press his lips to your own in a tender connection. It was slow, and sweet, your mouths creating a rhythm of their own as you fell in closer to him, wrapping your free hand around his neck as your fingers played together from where they were connected at the hand and pressed between you both, squeezing tightly as you clung to one another. 

“I have to warn you, I may abuse that privilege.”

His words were exhaled breathily into your mouth, and you only chuckled in response, nodding from where his forehead was pressed to your own, before indulging yourself in a few further quick pecks to his lips, which he was happy to reciprocate. “You planning to kiss me a lot, Mitch?”

“Maybe I am.” He leaned back in, smiling against your mouth as the whispered confession faded out into silence, and you let him, leaning over him as he stepped back over the threshold and down the step onto the garden, his head tipped up to face yours, the hand from your cheek slipping down to your hip in order to stabilise you. When you pulled back from him, his lips chased your own for a second, pouted and needy before he finally rocked back onto his feet, fishing into his pocket for his keys, but never taking his hand from yours.

“I’ll see you soon, I’m due college application letters back some point next week, and Stiles and I have always said we’d open them together.”

“I look forward to it, kitten.” He gave your hand a final squeeze, before finally releasing it and stepping away backwards in the direction of his car, the lights flashing as it lit up on the street. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You nodded, watching as he turned away and climbed into his car, never leaving the doorway until he'd driven past, winking at you as he went, the lights fading as he moved further down the street until he had rounded the corner and was out of sight. Closing the door once again, you pressed your forehead to it, feeling embarrassed about the size of the grin on your face, before locking up and flicking out the lights, making your way back upstairs.

When you made it back into your bedroom, your eyes immediately closed in on the jumper that was left on your bed, the same one he’d shrugged off before the two of you had fallen asleep, but it was now folded neatly and placed on the straightened bed sheets, a purposeful offering that made warmth bloom in your chest and ebb out across every part of your body.

Grabbing your phone from where it was sitting, you snapped a picture of the garment, sending it to him and knowing he would reply when he got home.

you left me your jumper.

With that, you dropped the device, peeling off the clothes you’d spent the day in and dropping them into the laundry basket, before heading towards the bathroom. Switching on the shower, you lined up the towels on your counter before stepping under the warm water and letting out a happy sigh as the heat flooded over your body. 

Periods always made you feel icky. They made you feel dirty, and tired, and unattractive.

Today, though, you had felt nothing but peace and tranquillity, being in the arms of someone who cared about you. It was odd, the feeling of moving on. You could sense the shift in your own soul, the way you felt a little detached from yourself, floating aimlessly like you had nothing anchoring you down anymore. You no longer felt like you were bound by the ties you felt to Stiles, the same guilty jealousy that had once possessed you anytime you thought about Lydia - or anyone else - being the one who stole Stiles’ heart instead of you was no longer. The idea of being with someone other than Stiles was no longer met with disdain, but rather your attempt at optimism. You didn’t want to let it go, you didn’t want to move on, and your heart still held a place for him that you weren’t sure would ever go away. 

Stiles was the first boy you had ever loved, but now, it didn’t seem so impossible to say he wouldn’t be the only one you loved. There was space for more, there was room for trial and error and heartbreak because, finally, you were allowing yourself the opportunity for the childish infatuation to be released so that you could move on to something more.

Something mature and meaningful. Something that revolved around more than just the chance of affections but something that was built on dedication and understanding and deep-rooted love. 

Washing out the suds from your hair, you wiped at the soap on your face, washing off every thought and emotion that had passed over you in the day, and letting your worries and heartbreak slip away down the drain with the soap, feeling completely and utterly refreshed. When you stepped out, steam billowing into the room around you, your first call was to find some new and comfortable clothes to cuddle up into. Once you had done, you spent a little longer rubbing your moisturiser into your face, and drying your hair off before you could get into bed, your eyes closing as you listened to the hum of the machine, the simple but steady note letting you relax yourself as you matched your heartrate to the subtle and steady clicks each time the blades turned over.

Finally, feeling clean and comfy and satiated, you picked up the jumper that had been left for you and pulled it over your head, the longer sleeves swamping over your hands as you balled them up and lifted the neckline to your nose with the tips of your fingers that peeked out, taking a deep inhale of the scent that clung to it.

You felt wrapped up in it, the smell of his cologne that was on your pillow and your blanket, the dip on the bed from where he’d been sitting. No matter what happened when he came over for more physical activities, you were never left with the smell of him clinging to your sheets. After that, your room would smell of sweat and sex, but the smell of his aftershave and his shampoo pressed into the fabric came from a day of cuddling and sleeping, a day of doing nothing but holding on another close, until he was leaving a ghost of himself behind even when he had left. 

Lifting up your phone, your latest notification was from the man who was swamping your thoughts, only a few minutes old, and you swiped it open, rolling onto your side and propping a hand under your head. 

[Mitch 🔥] saw my syracuse one was over the back of ur chair, u said it smelled good. thought I’d leave u another one.

Taking a quick picture of yourself, your face partially covered by the hand over a jumper you had up and over your nose, you sent it to him, typing out a thank you underneath, and expressing just how much you loved the gesture. 

[Mitch 🔥] u look fucking adorable. I like u in my jumpers.

Heat crawled up your cheeks, and you nibbled on your lower lip, flicking out the light and preparing yourself to settle back down to sleep. 

maybe next time you come over, i’ll be wearing only the jumper. 

Hitting send, it went through the ‘read’ immediately, and the grey bubble at the bottom of the screen was popping up only a second later but he took him a moment to reply, the bubble disappearing and reappearing a couple of times, before a text finally came through, and for a moment, you worried you’d crossed a line of some kind.

[Mitch 🔥] ur a tease, can’t believe i'm this worked up at midnight.

You rolled your eyes, thumbs moving quickly over the illuminated screen, before hitting send, and quieting your own giggle of amusement by burying your face in the pillow. 

i’ll make it up to you when i next see you.

The next text came only a second or so later, a yawn taking you over as you prepared yourself for sleep, and it didn’t require a response.

[Mitch 🔥] can’t fuckin wait.

[cordeliaflyte]

Would love to know your thoughts on the rutger bregman book when you finish it!!!

dearest merle! it took me months to answer this ask - something i'm ashamed of - but i finally got around to finishing the book today.

the below is a condensed version of the ten pages of notes i took while reading it, which are rather chaotic and repetitive at points - but in my defence, bregman repeated his own arguments too.

one of the main arguments that bregman makes is that "evil" or "immorality" - which we'll define as causing unnecessary harm - are rarely caused by the individual, but rather the society they live in. i agree - nothing exists in a vacuum. however, society, as a nebulous concept, isn't imposed on us by some imperceptible power - it is crafted by people. people in society have different levels of power, and the harm they can cause to others is directly proportional to said power - but be it on a micro or macro scale, our actions have an impact on others and while they are influenced by the society we live in, we must nonetheless strive to minimise the harm we cause - and few of us do.

bregman illustrates many of his arguments with heartwarming stories about people coming together in times of crisis - take, for example, natural disasters - and overcoming adversity, selflessly looking out for their neighbours. but crisis very often leads to the creation of divisions, an us vs them mentality, and a complete disregard for the safety of others. the current pandemic is a prime example - see the widening of class differences, the rise in racist hate crimes, and people refusing to take safety precautions because they are inconvenient to them.

another argument repeated quite often throughout the book is the fact that media cherry-picks the most sensationalistic and senseless acts of death and despair, because human suffering is simply more interesting that the mundane - people talking to friends, creating art, laughing and learning. again, i agree with him - many of the more tabloid-adjacent news outlets would have you believe that the everyday norm is dismembered heiresses being found on riverbeds and charming, precocious children being held for ransom in tiny basements. the news doesn't often focus on the mundane - but the mundane isn't just love and work and friendship and boredom and chores, it is also, for billions of people around the world, sexual violence, familial abuse, workplace and housing discrimination, etc. these things aren't sensationalistic either - they're frightfully common, frightfully boring, and thus, they're rarely reported on.

throughout his book, bregman mentions that when he told people what he was working on, they approached the idea that humans are good with a large dose of cynicism, simply because we are raised to believe humans are selfish (which isn't the case worldwide, not all cultures are individualistic). they pick the easier choice - accepting the image of the world and their fellow humans that they are presented with at face value. i'd argue that it is the tendency of humans to pick the easier choice, to obey, to avoid challenging their worldview that leads to - for a lack of better term - immorality (see definition in point 1).

often, when bregman presents his feel good stories about people cooperating in adversity, he also mentions troubling details that, again, show undue harm being done. one of the examples he used were six boys from tonga, aged 13 to 16, who were shipwrecked on an island, and instead of descending into a "lord of the flies" style madness, they built their small community on the basis of communication and cooperation, never resorting to violence, and acting mature beyond their years. after a year spent on the island, they were rescued - and promptly arrested, an event which was probably racially motivated. and the reason they were shipwrecked in the first place was attempting to flee their school, where, according to their reports, they were neglected.

bregman contrasted the example of the boys forming a peaceful society on a small island with the chaos that always ensues when adults in reality shows are put in similar situations. the contestants are pitted against each other by the show runners, who seek to frustrate them and make them lose control for the amusement of the audience. whenever contestants try to cooperate, form a mutually beneficial society for a short while - a radical idea - they are punished. "goodness" - i.e. harm reduction - and radical thought being punished just don't seem like particularly helpful examples for the "humans are inherently good" thesis

bregman seems to be a big fan of primitivism, constantly citing civilisation as a source of harm - a position i'm always sceptical about, because personally i love vaccines and dental care, but i know this is a knee-jerk reaction and bregman isn't plotting a return to a land without dentists. but what i do take ire at is the idea that humans are somehow "corrupt" versions of their natural selves and that our lives have grown too complicated, and only a return to "primitive" society can return us to the aforementioned natural selves.

tied to the previous point - his arguments remind me of the "noble savage"'... archetype? he seems to paint a picture of "primitive" indigenous people as role models for those "corrupted" by civilisation, who in turn must be saved by a return to their "purer" selves, instead of individuals with flaws and agency.

speaking on indigenous populations - bregman also invokes the inhabitants of the easter islands. for a long time, the world at large believed that a hundred years or so before colonization, the islanders effectively perpetrated a genocide, killing off a large proportion of their population - a claim which was later disproven. yay! humans can live in peaceful societies without committing genocide, and thus, are not inherently evil! disregarding the fact that european colonists later massacred a large part of the islands population, and sold most of the survivors into slavery?

i was very excited for one of the chapters, entitled "after auchschwitz". i was interested how bregman would reconcile his argument with the tragedies of the twentieth century - the holocaust, but also genocide, and to a lesser extent war in general.

(this chapter, i might add, was preceded by a quote by anne frank - you know the one, about the inherent goodness of people. i was hoping that bregman would comment on the fact that anne wrote the quote before she and her family were sent to a concentration camp)

so you can imagine my surprise when the chapter was not, in fact, about concentration camps or genocide. but rather about. unethical 70s sociological experiments.

no really! a chapter titled "after auchschwitz" was, in fact, primarily about the stanford prison experiment. an experiment that was, granted, inspired by concentration camps, but still. it's misleading to invoke "real", large scale violence, and focus instead on "simulated", small scale violence.

we all know that the stanford prison experiment was, as far as experiments go, rubbish to legendary degrees. it doesn't prove anything - but it does, perhaps, show that people under large psychological duress are capable of evil, even when they themselves are not "evil".

it is, i'd argue, the human tendency to obey authority and especially to conform to societies standards that poses the largest danger. disobedience is man's original virtue and whatnot.

and when he does briefly refer to concentration camps, bregman treats them like a very 1940s phenomenon, disregarding the fact that they have been around for much longer and still exist today.

in cases like that one experiment with electric shocks. you know the one. do not, perhaps, show an innate tendency to violence, but rather people succumbing to pressure. but history is full of unprovoked instances of violence, of pogroms and lynchings. there is usually an instigator, yes, but judging from reports, people in the right mindset don't need much persuading to butcher other people.

also re: electric shock experiment - those who thought they gave the assistant lethal shocks showed extreme guilt and some even cried but like... so what? what use is a conscience if it doesn't stop you from, to your knowledge, killing someone? are your feelings really more important than your actions?

he doesn't say this, but a lot of the arguments he presents do seem to boil down to "people aren't evil, they're just stupid!" which doesn't sound more encouraging, i'm afraid.

an alternative takeaway would be "people are good, unless they have power" - which isn't exactly a radical, revolutionary idea. most people have heard the maxim "power corrupts". but the thing is that almost everyone holds some amount power over others - the oppressed factory worker in a poor nation who works 12 hours a day for pittance might still execute power over his wife, who relies on him for money, and she in turn might hold power over her children, and so forth. and that power is often used to cause undue harm and exercise control.

he criticises machiavellianism, saying it doesn't reflect how society works, and one of his proofs is that his philosophies were espoused by bismarck, churchill, and stalin - hardly admirable figures in terms of (you guessed it!) causing harm. but i don't see how that discredits machiavelli? like all of the above were very succesful

and he keeps repeating the primitivism argument throughout the book which gets tiring. like i'm truly sorry you were born in the last 5% of human existence thus far when, in your opinion, humanity started going to the shits, but it's getting a bit tiring

he cites money and nations as concepts as harbingers of the current (negative) state of humanity, saying they're very recent concepts and have no basis in reality. they're artificial concepts, sure, but their effect is very much real, and while achieving a nation-less, money-less society is possible on a small scale, i think that at this point they are such large aspects of life that reigning them in seems impossible.

and invokes the noble savage again and again, showing himself in favour of tribal societies, depicting them as egalitarian - i'm sure many of them are, but many also have a strict hierarchy or like. practice fgm. once more he seems to treat tribal people as a monolith of goodness as opposed to... people.

he also cites prehistoric people, their egalitarianism and low rates of violence but. forgive me for my ignorance because i did not research this. how do people know. doesn't the definition of prehistory include a lack of records??

he also mentions that in small, tribal societies, conformism can be a good thing, as it makes people act for the communal good. this is another knee-jerk reaction of mine but i think of conformism as society's most significant vice, so this strikes very much against my beliefs

later on, he also says reproduction is another proof of humanities goodness. perhaps it's a controversial opinion, but i disagree. i find it hard to find reasons for reproduction that aren't egoistic. it's survival instinct, sure, but it's not an "inherently noble pursuit".

later yet, he brings up schools which grant large degrees of freedom to students and shows how they're good for developing their minds. this might be a me thing but i know from experience that when i'm granted freedom without structure, i do nothing - though perhaps that speaks ill of me, and not humanity.

there have, in fact, been many studies on schools like this being helpful to student development and i certainly won't argue with them - but let me nit-pick. bregman says that fewer students have adhd in these schools, as it is a condition caused by being locked inside a room all day which is not only offensive, but also just plain wrong

and also while showing how granting children freedom lets them develop (which i naturally agree with) he brings up that "dangerous playground" study. you know the one. this isn't a coherent argument, this is just my bias speaking , but as a child, i promise i had no desire to play with rusty nails in abandoned warehouses. i liked my boring playgrounds with wooden swings.

then there is a chapter on communism and how it could be a remedy to societies ailments. but bregman and i seem to operate on very different definitions of communism. he naturally starts with saying maoist china and stalinist russia and cambodia under pol pot weren't really communist which... sure, if you want to argue semantics, i'm all for it, but it's an old and essentially useless argument. if "real communism" has never been tried (as the author claims) - why?

and then we pass to perhaps the most bizarre fragment of the book. paraphrasing only slightly: "but why are we now so opposed to the word communism? when we pass each other salt at the dinner table, is that not communism? when we selflessly hold a door open for someone, is that not communism?" i.... no?? no it's not. that's not what communism is girl stop

he then also says facebook is actually communist in many ways since a lot of its value comes from photos people willingly share for free. i could not make this up if i tried.

i think that in most terms i agree with bregman on policy - direct democracy, school and prison systems, changes to the criminal justice system - and our reasoning is partially similar, but i don't think the information we both have access to proves that humans are inherently good.

and then come perhaps my least favourite arguments because i for one am a spiteful bitch but yes. it is time for christian ethics 101 and turning the other cheek.

he cites ghandi and mlk as examples of turning the other cheek working. i think ghandi went too far with his policy, what with saying "jews ought to have marched silently to their deaths or committed mass suicide to make nazis feel ashamed" and like. we do remember they killed mlk, right?

as an example of turning the other cheek, he cites humane prisons in norway, where prisoners are granted much larger freedoms than usual and are on equal footing with the guards, who aren't armed and act more as councillors. i don't really see how this is an example of turning the other cheek, though - the guards are not the victims of the inmates (it was a prison for violent offenders - many of them murderers). i agree with him that prisons, if they must exist, should treat inmates humanely and with respect, but i don't see how this relates to the turning of the cheek. statistically, many of these men probably murdered their mates in a drunken dispute, or killed their wives - and i don't think turning the other cheek would have helped their victims.

he also cites south africa in the sixties as an example of turning the other cheek, when anti-apartheid activists would meet up with pro-apartheid activists and talk - this included nelson mandela who had frequent talks with the leader of a white supremacist paramilitary organisation of afrikaners staunchly opposed to black south africans getting the vote. and it worked - the man, whose aim was starting a civil war, relented. but racism isn't a simple matter that can simply be solved by talking. and it is often a pragmatic policy which i don't disparage, but turning the other cheek and having to treat someone who refuses to acknowledge your humanity with an exorbitantly disproportionate amount of respect is inherently degrading.

skipping ahead, in the epilogue bregman lists ten rules he tries to live by, and one of them is, i shit you not, "don't punch nazis". and punching nazis doesn't stop them from being nazis, but turning the other cheek gets people killed

the rise of fascism is perhaps one the largest threats we are dealing with and fascists are not just isolated and misinformed (and in this day and age, ignorance is a choice). they are dangerous.

this is by no means an essay or an exhaustive list, just a slightly chaotic and much overdue collection of opinions which i don't know how to put under a read more. take care <3

[liamhaydn-blog]

Joshua & Fury: reading of the resumes.

You can’t read any discussion about Anthony Joshua for long without seeing reference to his resume. The resume is usually brought up as the first line of defence to any criticism slung his way, and is perhaps the only line of attack that is still being used by AJ fans as to why their man still deserves more credit and praise than Tyson Fury. 

The resume line is used by noone more than Eddie Hearn, who mentions it before every fight, after every fight, win or lose. The names by now reel off his tongue, and near everyone from what I have seen is in complete agreement that AJ has put together one hell of a record. 

This has always somewhat baffled me, and I will explore why here. First of all since April 2016, every fight he’s had has been a World title fight. His last 8 fights have been for 3 organisation’s belts. When you are the champion of those 3 organisations, you will have to fight decent fighters, to justify you holding onto so many belts. Also these organisations want you to face their mandatory challenger now and then, the chances are someone ranked #1 will be a pretty good fighter. Does a unified World Heavyweight champion really deserve so much credit for fighting fairly solid opponents?

Comparison is often made to Wilder’s defences for example, and for sure it does seem that Wilder is a bit of a flat track bully, who didn’t seem to particularly mind some easy knockouts over less than stellar opposition. Though it still remains hard to fairly compare his level of opponents to Joshua’s. Joshua gets bigger crowds than anyone in world boxing, he’s for years now sold out big stadiums in a matter of hours, he’s simply one of the biggest stars in boxing with huge PPV numbers. This to say, they can afford to pay opponents big money. The big money that is required for a credible opponent. I don’t think that has always been the case for Wilder, who himself was not getting anything like big money until having been World Champion for a while, let alone his opponent. 

This is not to completely excuse Wilder, the fact an agreement was never reached to fight Dillian Whyte in all the time he was mandatory challenger, its quite bizarre to me why Wilder seemingly did not ever fancy that fight. And I do think that unlike Wilder, AJ has and always will be willing to face anyone, be it Wilder, Fury, I don’t think him a coward or someone who would doubt himself enough to not fancy them fights. 

The reason for the AJ-Wilder fight never materialising whilst both were champion, I don’t believe was down to AJ himself, though I believe its possible his team and promoter wanted to keep him away from Wilder for a little longer, to further build up his experience. But for Wilder’s part, I never got the impression he was particularly falling over himself to get the fight either.

I digress, but the point is that though I believe AJ has been more up for a challenge and a real fight than Wilder has, it’s not quite as simple as just looking at who their opponents have been for defences and not including the context.    

The most common comparison presumably in the whole of boxing is AJ’s resume against Tyson Fury’s. As stated earlier, this is often something used by AJ fans, and Fury’s resume is the one main critique levelled against him by virtually everyone who wishes to put him down. 

Again, it often seems a little without context. A man who has defended or attempted to defend his world title 9 times is always likely to have fought more decent fighters than someone who has never defended before, that seems obvious. Fury is mocked for never having attempted a World title defence, (aside from the fact its not really his fault from a boxing standpoint that he was unable to defend his belt for 2 years due to being side-lined from the ring for medical issues, nor was it his fault he was robbed by judges in Los Angeles in his first fight with Wilder, therefore delaying his ability to make a first defence) and yet also mocked for a supposedly weak resume, when the two things kind of go together as one rather explains the other. Your resume is unlikely to be great without a world title defence.

Looking at Fury’s resume, his best opponent prior to fighting for the World title was Chisora. Now the fact is, this was already not a great time for Heavyweight boxing, swathes of very average Heavyweights were getting the chance to lose to the Klitschko’s, so it shouldn’t be too surprising Fury didn’t have to fight off many stern challenges to become the top contender. One challenge could have been former Cruiserweight and Heavyweight World Champion David Haye, again not really Fury’s fault Haye pulled out of the fight twice. One man he did face though was Chisora, who in their first fight was 14-0 and 27 years old. The 22-year old Fury went into the fight as the underdog. They fought again 3 years later, inbetween these bouts Chisora became one of only 4 men to lose to Vitali Klitschko without being stopped. 

Chisora is regarded as a journeyman for the 11 losses on his record, but the fact is nobody has ever had an easy night with him, barring Fury in their rematch. Chisora arguably won a very close first fight with Whyte, and was having another very close fight with him in the rematch before Whyte found a great knockout in the 11th, Usyk did not shine against him in the same way he did against Bellew and Joshua, and he was very unlucky to not win a decision against former World Champion Joseph Parker. Not bad for a journeyman. But Fury certainly made him look like a journeyman in their second fight, showing exactly how a big man should fight against a little man, he didn’t let Chisora lay a glove on him and beat him up all night until Chisora’s trainer finally took mercy on him and pulled him out after 10 brutally one-sided rounds. 

The next ‘name’ on Tyson’s resume is Wladimir Klitschko, who was on a run of 19 successful wins in World title fights, and hadn’t lost for 11 years. On the Champions adopted home patch of Germany, Fury won a unanimous decision infront of 50,000 Klitschko supporters, to give the Ukrainian his only defeat by decision in 69 fights. Not a bad win I suppose. 

Often used to mock Fury’s resume is the name ‘Sefer Seferi’ and yes the fight was a joke and a bit of a waste of time, but it was Fury’s first fight for 2 and a half years, yes he could have fought someone a bit better ofcourse, but I don’t think it would have been wise to fight anyone fans would consider a decent fighter on his very first step on the comeback trail. 2 months later was Pianeta, again I don’t think it’s that surprising that when you’re fighting for the second time in 3 months after a long absence, and your plan is to fight for the World title less than 4 months later, that the level of opponent you’re facing is not that high, that seems to be fairly logical. I think facing Deontay Wilder for the WBC title just 6 months into the comeback made up for it in fairness. 

Going into their first fight, Wilder had faced 40 men and knocked them all out. It’s fashionable now after the beating Fury gave him in the rematch to dismiss Wilder as a bum, a never-was. But it’s simply not true. He’s 6 foot 7, incredibly heavy-handed with one of the most concussive punches in Heavyweight history. Fury fought him in his prime after the best win of Wilder’s career, an 8 round stoppage of Luis Ortiz, who at the time was for sure a worthy contender. Fury himself was 6 months back after a 2 and a half year absence, mostly spent trying to damage his body to the same extent his mind was damaged. After outboxing him for 9 rounds, Fury picked himself off the canvas to box his head off some more, until in the 12th round Wilder landed one of the hardest and best 2-punch combos he’s ever thrown. One of the only true knockout punches ever landed to somehow not result in a knockout. Fury won the fight but as we know was robbed and given a draw.

Between this fight and the rematch, Fury is again mocked for the two names he fought inbetween. Tom Schwarz and Otto Wallin. First of all it was kinda strange why these 2 fights were even necessary and they didn’t just do an immediate rematch, or even 1 fight inbetween, 2 seemed excessive. But financially it worked out great for both men, Wilder who was able to cash in for 2 more fights as Champion, and for Fury he could get into a run of real activity which helped him immensely for the rematch with Wilder. Schwarz was rolled over as expected, but Wallin inflicted 2 huge cuts on Tyson which left him fighting nearly the whole fight with only 1 eye, still winning nearly every round. Which is surely quite impressive, given Wallin is now deemed by Hearn a highly credible opponent for Whyte, one of the division’s top fighters. 

In the Wilder rematch, Fury produced what was I think the best performance by a Heavyweight this century. He did what noone thought he could do, which was bully the bully, beating him with power not just cunning. As I said, now Fury has done it so easily, people will talk about how Wilder was rubbish all along, never beat anyone etc. but if anyone thinks AJ or Whyte or anyone else would just as easily stand up to Wilder’s power, speed and explosiveness, I think they are very mistaken. Whether Wilder will be the same fighter with his air of invincibility shattered after defeat remains to be seen, but it would be great to see him in the ring against Britain’s other top fighters. My prediction is, it would see Fury’s win and performance elevated even further. 

Fury now faces Wilder for a third time, and whilst I like most consider it a shame Fury wasn’t able to move onto new challenges, if he wins, it’s another excellent win. I don’t consider it any easier than a fight against AJ would be. It’s true that AJ is a better boxer than Wilder, but still vastly inferior to Tyson, so I don’t see how he provides much greater threat from a boxing standpoint, he’s not going to outbox Fury in a million years. So the only threat to Tyson posed is power, Wilder has a higher KO % than AJ despite fighting nearly 20 more times, lets his hands go more, hits harder, is more dangerous with a single shot than AJ, so therefore I feel the most dangerous fighter to Fury, as he himself has said many times, remains *to this day* Deontay Wilder. 

Now to really the point of the article, Joshua’s resume. After amassing 14 knockouts in 14 fights, all coming in the 3rd round or sooner, the Olympic Gold Medallist had become Britain’s most talked about and hyped prospect ever. His 15th opponent was Dillian Whyte, a 16-0 fighter with 13KO’s. Whyte has since gone on to garner a deserved reputation as one of the division’s toughest and respectable fighters, but that’s now. Going into when AJ actually fought him, he had faced absolutely nobody. He had 6 amateur bouts including a win over AJ, moved to kickboxing, came back to boxing and had 9 pro fights before being banned for drugs. Whyte was out the ring for 2 years, had 5 fights back then fought Joshua. 

So at the time of the fight there is no doubt that whilst AJ was seen as a future World Champion, Whyte was not seen as anything of the sort, just an ‘opponent’ there for AJ to get another fast and emphatic knockout. The emphatic knockout came but not before experiencing adversity for the first time, as in fight number 15 of his career AJ faced someone who could take his leather and land some of his own, before succumbing in the 7th. Despite the rawness of Whyte, he still had enough heart and talent to provide Anthony with his first career test. 

Next fight, AJ fought for the World title, facing what most regard as a terrible World Champion, Charles Martin. He may have walked this earth like a God, but he fought in the ring like a Big Bum Dosser, against AJ anyway, who took him apart in 2 rounds. Martin appeared for all the world like a man woefully out of his depth, dutifully accepting his beating for a good payday. A win over Gerald Washington has since seen an attempt at the rehabilitation of Martin’s image from Eddie Hearn no less, who now lists the conquest of this man as proof of AJ’s greatness, who next Gary Cornish? 

AJ made his first World title defence of his IBF crown against Dominic Breazeale, who was at the time ranked #13 with the organisation. Joshua won in the 7th round. His second defence was against Eric Molina, who AJ dispached in 3 rounds. Another 2 men recently listed by Hearn to demonstrate AJ’s strong resume. In the same interview, he criticised Wilder for having beat noone..except he’s also knocked out both Breazeale (in 43 seconds) & Molina. A decision win over Breazeale was also enough to show Hearn that Wallin was a worthy PPV  opponent for Whyte, so are they good wins or not? I’m not sure, I guess it depends on who we’re talking about, AJ or Wilder. 

Next up saw AJ transition into a UK stadium fighter when he met Wladimir Klitschko at Wembley Stadium to attempt to add more belts to his collection that had recently been vacated by Fury. Having been soundly beaten by The Gypsy King, Klitschko had gone from 39 to 41. The feeling for a lot in the UK at the time was, it’s a good time to beat a good name to earn some credibility against an old, past it champion. That looked to be the case when AJ dropped Wlad in the 5th but there was still some life in the old dog yet when the very next round AJ hit the canvas for the first time in his career. Wlad took control of the fight with AJ struggling for a second wind having used up a lot of energy, with stamina issues affecting the 250-pounder. There was a few rounds where AJ was too tired, not throwing, concentrating everything on trying to recuperate, that you’d think Klitschko could have stepped it up and gone for the finish.  Whether age stopped Klitschko from pushing on the gas or he felt confident he could see out a decision, he didn’t do it and AJ found the best punch and single moment of his career in the 11th with a huge uppercut which signalled the end of Wlad’s chances. It was a great fight which AJ did very well to win, but it had been by the skin of his teeth. 

After Pulev pulled out of their proposed fight, Carlos Takam stepped in as a late replacement. Given the lack of time, this wasn’t a terrible replacement, he is tough and comes to fight, ensuring the fans will atleast get to see a few rounds. But he has lost to every name fighter he’s faced, including Journeyman Chisora. So Chisora isn’t a good name on Fury’s record, because he loses to every good fighter he faces, but Takam is a solid name on AJ’s record, despite the fact he was knocked out by Chisora. It’s all very confusing. 

To hold 4 belts, AJ then faced Joseph Parker, the holder of the WBO title, winning the vacant belt with a home decision against some chubby kid, Andy Ruiz. At the time, Parker had a very good reputation, but the fight was a stinker, with AJ disappointing his legion of fans as he was taken the distance for the first time. Parker has since lost to Whyte and in my opinion deserved a draw at best with Chisora having been dropped in the first round, and now will have to fight a rematch for a more emphatic win. Since the AJ fight, he’s looked a fairly average heavyweight, seemingly quite lucky to have ever held the World title, having not done anything since to make anyone believe he could ever hold it again. 

The next defence came against the small and light for a heavyweight 39-year old Alex Povetkin. Looking at him, not much of a threat would perhaps be expected to a man of AJ’s size and stature but for 6 rounds he gave Joshua a very competitive fight until the fight was ended by the Champion’s power in the 7th. Povetkin had gone the distance with Wladimir Klitschko despite being dropped four times, and probably deserved a second shot at the world title sooner than 5 years after that. The 39-year old was still a credible challenger but with his best years behind him. 

Then on June 1 2019, came the infamous AJ US debut. After a fight with Big Baby Miller collapsed due to his drug use, in stepped Andy Ruiz, who had a similarly large belly but 4 inches less in height than Miller. It was obvious what would happen next, AJ would announce himself to US audiences with a quick knockout. Ruiz hit the canvas for the first time in his career in round 3. AJ, one of the best finishers in the sport, jumped on him. What happens next usually, is roared on by tens of thousands of Brits, AJ punches and punches until his opponent goes down and stays there. This time infront of an audience of stunned Americans, Ruiz comes off the floor to land a shot to AJ’s temple which changes the course of the fight and both men’s destinies. Ruiz puts AJ down and the champion never recovers, unable to regain authority or control in the fight, he is victim to Ruiz’s barrages and decides not to fight on in the 7th, recognising after being dropped yet again, that it’s not going to be his night. 

After losing the Brawl In Montreal, Sugar Ray Leonard knew he had to get his conqueror Roberto Duran back in the ring as quickly as possible, whilst he was out partying, piling on the pounds and not training. AJ applied the same thinking, and like Leonard in the ‘No Mas’ fight took on a completely new approach for the rematch. Andy Ruiz has very fast hands, its not wise to trade with him up close. He does not however, have fast feet or particularly long arms. AJ maintained his discipline in the rematch to comfortably outbox Ruiz for 12 rounds, boxing from distance, never tempted to go for the knockout. Ruiz weighed in at an enormous 284 pounds, 16 pounds heavier than before. 

Performance and result wise, the Ruiz rematch in Saudi Arabia is perhaps the most impressive of AJ’s career to date. The 32-year old Ruiz still has to prove however, if he is truly a top class fighter, or whether he just produced the performance of a lifetime and got AJ on the right night. If AJ had beaten Ruiz first time round it would not have been seen as a particularly significant triumph, but due to the credibility he only gained as a result of beating AJ, this conversely amplified the achievement of Joshua gaining revenge in the rematch. 

Joshua’s first defence of his second reign came against Kubrat Pulev after just over a year out the ring. Like Povetkin, Pulev was approaching 40, had fought for the world title whilst a younger man and lost to Wlad Klitschko (Pulev being stopped in 5), he was also quite a short and light man in comparison to the giant figure of Joshua. With only 14KO wins in 29 fights, Pulev looked the ideal opponent for AJ. He was durable and well conditioned, and came to win but he stood right infront of AJ, with no head movement, so AJ moved his head for him with brutal uppercuts. If you stand infront of Joshua and don’t have much of a punch or speed to threaten him with, he looks brilliant and he did at times on this night, despite even against this opponent being reluctant to fully commit to power combo’s, the memory of Ruiz at MSG clearly not yet banished, but the win came in the 9th round, AJ’s first stoppage win for over 2 years. 

AJ’s second reign as champion was alot shorter than his first, defeat coming in his second defence against former Cruiserweight king Oleksandr Usyk. Usyk had come under vast criticism it shouldn’t be forgotten for his first 2 performances at Heavyweight. Many people, though I personally don’t agree, thought that his fight with Chisora was very close, he certainly wasn’t sending fear into the hearts of the division. But Usyk has only failed to win 15 fights out of over 360 amateur and pro for a reason, and he thoroughly outclassed Joshua. The fight would have been hard enough, and not a guaranteed win even if Joshua hadn’t got his tactics so completely wrong, but he atleast would have been in with a chance. Usyk, thought to be too small for a heavyweight, didn’t look small in with one of the divisions giants, because he didn’t fight like a small man, he didn’t allow Joshua to feel physically superior, and showed no fear or respect for his power. 

I won’t be suprised atall if Joshua rights his wrongs in the second fight, by doing what he obviously should have done in the first fight. Being rough and nasty, throwing as the saying goes, with bad intentions. But why it takes a 2-time World Champion with his experience a second fight to realise this I have no idea. Having a “chess match” fight with Usyk is maybe something you do in sparring to learn some useful things, you don’t do it infront of 70 thousand with your belts actually on the line..It was one of the most incredibly naive things I have seen from an experienced champion. It struck of a man in a bit of an identity crisis, who can’t decide what type of fighter he is inside the ring, nor what his boxing persona is outside it, in the lead-up to fights.

As another mistake AJ seemed to repeat from the first Ruiz fight was he seemed all pally with Usyk and too relaxed in the build-up. It could just be a coincedence but he was nice and pissed off with Pulev before getting in the ring with him, and he produced the right performance. I know Usyk is a difficult guy to dislike, but he’s gonna have to try. 

Strangely, Hearn also listed Usyk on AJ’s resume. I don’t see much good of having good names on your resume if you lose to them, otherwise we may aswell declare Kevin Johnson a great, as he’s fought everyone (and lost to everyone, but I guess that doesn’t matter). If AJ wins the rematch, he deserves credit for it, as it would for me be the best win of his career, given the age of Klitschko and Joshua’s personal circumstances of 2 defeats in his last 4. But I don’t really get this thing of “give AJ credit for taking the fight”. Its the mandatory challenger for one of his belts, he has to fight him, or else give up that belt. Why would you become world champion just to give a belt up because you have to face someone good? talk about giving credit for the bare minimum.

This questioning of AJ’s resume, is not to criticise him personally. I have no doubt before he retires he would if up to him fight Wilder, Fury, whoever else who is up there at the time, and if he does so he will lose plenty more times, because his chin and tactics are not of the standard of some of the other guys, but he will lose and come back and keep trying, and I respect that. But in conclusion I think up to this point, with no Fury or Wilder under his W column, he is getting a lot of credit for wins against guys who when listed as a collective are fairly solid names, but when taken individually, are not so great. Whilst Fury’s list has less solid names, there are names who can be taken individually and are great standalone wins. 

The way I would describe it is would you rather take a couple of 10′s to bed, but not many 6,7 or 8′s? or would you rather take a few 6,7 or 8′s but never a 10. I know which I would prefer. 

[every-aj-needs-an-angel]

So last week was a particularly tough one for me, one of the rubbish things about getting older is that everyone I used to rely on now has their own lives. I’m no longer the practice baby because they all have their own so when life hits like a ton of bricks, I’m usually just left to crawl through it alone but this time I had help here. I could log in and there’d be a beautiful piece of artwork, a mind blowing gif, some incredible writing or a fun ask game going on and long story short it all just helped so much that I wanted to give something back, even if it pales in comparison its the thought that counts right? Anyway this little sort of AU idea has been floating around my head for a while so I decided to try to write it out as an ode to all the lovely blogs, just for being their wonderful selves. @yusufnicolo @ssungods @marwankenzari @nicolodigenovas @noenoaholi @aliceblakeart @ahkaraii @fereldenturnip @hachinana87 @luminarai @mannadraws @tiups @monicashipsnickyjoe @nico-di-genova @nilefreemans @quyhns @fantasticbeastsandheretofindthem @leanconnoli @pirateladyoftherbbc @spearmintthief @starsisbig @stuart-littles-gay-attorney Thank you so much and sorry in advance.

I’ve Been Dreaming Of You My Whole Life.

A Joe/Nicky tale.

When Yusuf was finally born there was no wailing, no snuffling, no hiccuping sobs, just silence. His mother wasn’t surprised, it had been a long and arduous labour and she was too numb to be sad or disappointed yet. No one tried to save little Yusuf, he was born in a different time, no one yet knew how or that it was even possible. Although a short time later when baby Yusuf not only started to breathe, but scream as healthily as any other baby, all on his own, they were all delighted by their miracle. No one questioned it, just grateful for their beautiful bundle of joy, especially when their first born turned out to be their only child.

Little Nicolò was a surprise, born as the third child to parents thought too old to have another, his elder siblings taking care of him when he would become too fussy and restless. Ten year old, Lucia would take her baby brother on long walks to entertain him, fashioning a sling to carry him on her back when his little legs grew tired of walking. Thirteen year old, Ermo on his way back from town, caught up to his younger siblings on the road leading back to their home. Nico was tiring of being carried, kicking and whining, but the sun was starting to set and not wanting to stop so close to home, Ermo agreed to hold Nicolò steady while he was released from his sling. Disaster struck, however, when the teen was distracted by their neighbours daughter waving enthusiastically and shouting his name, Ermo turned his back on his siblings to return her attentions and Nicolò fell from the sling hitting the ground with a dull thud. An impassioned argument started between the two siblings until they realised with horror that for the first time in his life Nicolò was completely silent and frighteningly still. Ermo sprinted home to fetch their parents but by the time the family arrived back to where the accident had happened, Nicolò was up and wandering around, babbling to his sobbing sister. Their father checked Nicolò over and they went home, not thinking too much of it, just happy that the littlest member was unharmed but the two older siblings learned to be much more careful with their baby brother.

Yusuf had always dreamed of three people, always the same three people, until one day he started to dream of a little boy as well. Unfortunately for Yusuf he didn’t have any real friends, other children were always mean to him even though he was always kind, he didn’t understand why but he didn’t mind much. Instead he kept the people from his dreams close to him, taking them into his heart, they became his friends, hoping one day the weapon wielding ladies and their battle ready companion would come and rescue him from his ordinary and lonely life. The dreams of the boy with the sky coloured eyes and the wild mop of hair started just as life became simultaneously better and worse for Yusuf, better for his new friend, worse in the way he was treated, although the other children’s scorn at a growing boy having imaginary friends did have one advantage in that, in his attempt to explain how he saw the world, Yusuf became a highly adept artist.

The dreams were interpreted differently by Nicolò, when he saw a tiny baby or a little boy with a head full of tiny ringlets, kind eyes and a dazzling smile mixed with images of three adults, always together, smiling even in battle; Nicolò thought them a calling. Visions of a numinous little boy mistaken for the Messiah and, depending on how old Nicolò was, either disciples or those known as the Three Wise Men. His family encouraged this hypothesis when he told them of the dreams, especially after a few years of the same recurring characters, even if the dreams themselves sometimes differed, no one questioned the theory that there were bigger plans for their Nico. The dreams fuelled his belief, strengthening it all throughout his life, thinking he’d been chosen for a purpose, especially as his morals wavered over a choice between leaving the priesthood or joining Ermo in going to battle. Nicolò wasn’t sure he was as brave as the three friends he saw every night but by his late teens he was sure his visions were guiding him in the right direction so he set off with his big brother.

Once word of invaders reached Yusuf’s people he suddenly became less enamoured with the idea of people who fought so easily. Images of the blue eyed boy, slowly becoming a man, were always fewer than those of the three unlikely best friends but he now woke in a cold sweat whenever he saw them. Their laughter once joyful, now seemed taunting rather than comforting. Yusuf began to wonder whether he’d known of the invasion all his life and had never heeded the warning. He offered to take night watch, learning how to fight in the day, readying himself to defend his home until bone deep exhaustion took over and he didn’t dream, just slept. He repeated this behaviour until the battle came, although he almost missed it, running into the fray in time to see sky blue eyes, that he knew better than he knew his own, staring back in disbelief.

Nicolò’s shock was quickly taken over by anger, deep rooted fear that maybe what he’d been seeing for as long as he could remember wasn’t what he thought after all, that he’d blindly walked into this life. The trust he’d put into his assumed visions shattering as he stared back into the face of the young man he should hate but knew all too well, leaving deep betrayal and visions of the horrors he’d seen since he started his journey bubbling in his mind's eye, fuelling his rage like a lightning storm, death, destruction and his big brother’s broken body and lifeless eyes causing a red mist. Nicolò was unseeing with it, could barely breathe and trembling with the need to do something.

Yusuf couldn’t quite believe his eyes, rubbing at them trying to clear what he presumed was a sleep deprived haze, those distinctive features, the azure eyes staring back, it just seemed impossible, especially when they mirrored such recognition. Surely such a kind and brilliant person couldn’t be a part of this, couldn’t be a part of the death and destruction of the reputation that preceded the invaders, eyes so beautifully blue that crinkled just so when he smiled, couldn’t hate so deeply that he would join such an unjust cause. It had to be a hallucination or maybe he was still asleep and dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dreamed of battles, only those dreams were usually filled with laughter whereas now all he could hear was the clangs of metal and the rage of men.

Nicolò charged forward not really sure what he was doing, what he really wanted to do was run away, far away, all the way back home. He didn’t know why he was running into the mess that surrounded him, he certainly didn’t realise he was holding his sword until it was sticking in the boy he’d been dreaming of for as long as he could remember, who seemed equally shocked to have instinctively reached for his own weapon slicing blindly but precisely. The choking and lack of breath wasn’t as scary as Nico had assumed it would be. The rage he’d felt not moments ago draining from him in an instant was replaced by a deep disappointment that he’d never get to find out what the dreams meant or who the boy now in front of him was. It was a little late to ask even if they had the capacity to do so and as he sunk to the ground watching the light fade from the familiar brown eyes and from around his vision he wondered if they’d meet again, wherever it was they were going now.

Waking alone in a field full of bodies but the one you died with felt bizarre to Yusuf, he still wasn’t sure he wasn’t dreaming but he was quite sure his imagination wasn’t good enough to conjure the sights and smells that surrounded him, his only comfort being that there seemed to be more dead invaders than those of his people. He realised that he now had a choice, he could go home and wait for the next battle or he could leave in the hopes of catching up to the blue eyed boy, in the hopes of getting some answers. Maybe he knew that they dreamed of each other, maybe he dreamed of the three friends too and maybe he knew why they dreamed of each other. Although right now a more pressing question seemed to be why did you just stab me? but somehow Yusuf instinctively knew that he’d not really meant it, or maybe that was wishful thinking. As he checked himself for the wound he realised it was missing, he wondered again if he was just dreaming but decided either way he was going after his friend. Yusuf chuckled to himself as he realised that he still classed his murderer as his friend, maybe there was something wrong with him like the others had always said after all.

It was three days after the battle and Nicolò had never felt so alone, his brother and his battalion dead, the person he dreamed of was too. He wondered if this was his punishment for questioning his purpose, being left to roam the world alone, maybe he’d get home and find his mother and sister gone too. Nicolò just wanted to sleep but he couldn’t, images taking over his mind, the resonating metal, the taste of blood, tiny matted ringlets on a lifeless body that usually exuded vivacity, he was almost certain he’d only stopped being ill because his body had nothing left to give. At this point he really didn’t care, he would either finally get some rest or his body would give up altogether but the footsteps coming towards him had him instinctively on his feet, weapon in hand and he was reminded that he came from a long line of warriors, it’d take more than a little brooding to change who he was, who he came from, they were all a part of him whether he liked it or not.

Yusuf shuffled to a stop, three days he’d walked and now here he was with a blade sticking out of his chest, he supposed by now he shouldn’t be surprised but surprise was one of the emotions reflected back at him in the sleep deprived, manic blue eyes of the one person he was determined to find, though Yusuf’s slowly staling brain wondered if this one was real, maybe the other three were too. Consciousness flickered as he fell to his knees, concern, confusion and, going by the little crinkle in his dark eyebrows, annoyance pouring out of the blue, washing over Yusuf along with the warmth of the campfire that had led him in the right direction, the yellow light causing some of the flecks to appear green adding an ethereal aura to the one person he simultaneously knew and didn’t, who he fervently he hoped he’d wake again to see.

Present Day

“I thought you said you’d killed each other many times” Nile asked

“Oh, we did! Not always on purpose, of course,” Joe laughed

“We didn’t speak the same language, communication was difficult to start with,” Nicky elaborated, turning back to the stove.

“It sounds like there’s a story behind that!” Nile exclaimed, excitedly banging her hands on the kitchen table.

“Oh there is,” Andy sniggered, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Please, no,” Nicky whined, refusing to look at the group.

“Tell Nile what the first thing you learned to say was,” Andy tittered, Nile turning her full attention to Nicky’s back. Joe reached out to hold Nicky’s hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth as Nicky mumbles inaudibly.

“What was that?” Nile asked giddily.

“I’ve been dreaming of you my whole life,” Joe and Nicky repeat in unison, Nicky turned to look at Joe, a soft smile crinkling his eyes.

Neither man notices Nile’s revering gaze or Andy silently gaining her attention and them both sneaking out the kitchen leaving the lovers to their reminiscing.