#richard sprang

[warrenhmuck]

This is gold.

[deathlessathanasia]

Some references to divine blood/ichor that might give a clue on what colour(s) it is supposed to be. I'm simply collecting the English translations of a few excerpts and I have yet to check the Greek text for any of these:

"The immortal blood flowed from the divinity [Aphrodite]--ichor, which alone flows in the blessed gods. For they do not eat grain nor drink shining wine; and for this reason they are bloodless and are called immortals. … And Iris, with feet like the wind, taking her up, led her out of the throng weighed down with pain, her beautiful skin blood-dark" - Homer, Iliad, trans. Caroline Alexander;

"It sprang up new-formed when the flesh-tearing eagle caused bloody ichor from the suffering Prometheus to drip to the ground on the Caucasian crags. Its flower rises on twin stalks a cubit high; in colour it resembles the Korykian crocus, and the root in the earth is like newly-cut flesh. Like the dark moisture from an oak on the mountains, she had gathered its sap in a Caspian shell to work her magic …" - Apollonios Rhodios, Argonautica, Trans. Richard Hunter;

"As he was heaving up great boulders to prevent the Argonauts from reaching anchorage, he knocked his ankle on the sharp point of a rock, and from it flowed ichor like melting lead." - Apollonios Rhodios, Argonautica;

[whencyclopedia]

Desert Rats

The Desert Rats was the nickname of the 7th Armoured Division of the British Eighth Army, which first fought in North Africa during the Second World War (1939-45). Fighting in the Western Desert Campaigns and the North Africa Campaign, the Desert Rats, so called because of their jerboa shoulder flash, participated in such famous victories as the battles of El Alamein.

Origins & Name

The 7th Armoured Division sprang from the Mobile Division (Egypt), formed in 1938. The division was given excellent training by its commander Major-General Percy Hobart (1885-1957). Hobart had fought in Mesopotamia in the First World War (1914-18), gaining an impressive row of medals for bravery. In the inter-war years, he gained long experience as a tank commander. Hobart also served as a Director of Military Training. A quirky individual who struggled to get on with his peers, Hobart certainly knew what was required for the desert, and it is thanks to his vision that Britain had at least one fighting force that could match the elite of the Axis powers. Hobart's eccentricity and reputation as a flawed genius is revealed by his demise after falling out with the powers that be when the war started, his time spent in the military wilderness as a mere lance corporal in the Home Guard, and then his dramatic rise back to the forefront of generalship when he was given command of whole divisions again, including one of specialised vehicles he himself had developed, used with great success to clear the beaches in the D-Day Normandy landings of 1944.

In a still relatively new concept of mixed arms, Hobart ensured the Mobile Division combined infantry, artillery, and tanks, and it did what its name suggested, emphasising the necessity of movement in modern mechanised warfare. One of Britain's best commanders, Major-General Richard O'Connor (1889-1981), noted in 1939 that the Mobile Division was "the best-trained division I have ever seen" (Liddell Hart, 93).

The Mobile Division earned its 'Desert Rats' nickname from the badge (shoulder flash) its members wore, which showed a jerboa, a small rodent with a long tail, native to the North African desert. Due to the fact that all British and British Empire troops were fighting the same enemy in the same way in the same environment, the name 'Desert Rats' is often applied to any British/British Empire soldier involved in the Desert War in WWII. The extension of the term 'rats' is also evidenced in the nickname 'the Rats of Tobruk' for those Allied soldiers who held out during the siege of Tobruk from April to December 1941.

Desert Rats Shoulder Flash

Unknown Artist (Public Domain)

Continue reading...

[notbecauseofvictories]

I realize this is a weird question for a Sunday morning, but does anybody have particularly incisive articles about the tension between architectural preservation and the need (because I do think it's a need!) for new buildings, new spaces, and revising the landscape of a city?

I'm watching a piece on Richard Nickel, who is almost single-handedly responsible for photographing the work of Louis Sullivan and other architects of the Chicago Prairie School, prior to their demolition in the 60s. It's a great piece, and I love Nickel's photographs, but as someone who knows only the Chicago that sprang up in the wake of Nickel's, I can't help but wonder if there's more than simple aesthetics at play here.

[arkhamabyssfiles]

Arkham Abyss Files: Nightwing_Memory_02 Loading FILE... RICHARD GRAYSON: AGE, 20 JASON TODD: AGE, 16 HELENA WAYNE: AGE, 15 BRUCE WAYEN: AGE, 37

Considering all, things had gone better than he’d expected. It had been just a couple of barbs thrown each other’s way and then some cold stare-down –which he had lost, but who could win those against Batman? Dick shook his head, and as he pushed open the bookcase door into the library the first sound to meet his ears was amusing if not somewhat perturbing. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re touching?”

“Oh~ Don’t be shy,” He recognized Helena’s teasing tone, and he worried about what he was listening to.

“Who’s sh—? Hey! Hands off, Princess.”

Dick finished opening the door to find the boy who had taken—being given without permission– Robin’s mantle, with his hand against Helena’s face while she had half crawled over his legs and was grabbing at his shoulders, while both a struggling tangle on the couch. So this is how they met. It could’ve been less awkward.

Dick cleared his throat and both teenagers turned to him, one gaze filled with surprise then embarrassment, and the other happy and challenging.

“Hey Richard,” So it was still Richard, huh? “Care to give me a hand here?”

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to give a hand to…” Dick trailed off.

“To you’re darling little sister of course,” Helena said batting her eyelashes. 

“No sister of mine would call me Richard,” He shot back. Dick wasn’t insulted, not at all.

“Don’t be a baby, Richard. I told you I’d call you that for a year if you left—plus two months for every month you don’t come to visit,” She said biting. She was angry all right at him yet. Even if it was superficial and he knew in no time she’d be hugging and joking with him.

Jason, meanwhile, had tried to use Helena’s distraction to try and escape from her grip. Dick pitied him, he didn’t know her well enough yet to know once she got her clutches on her prey she didn’t let go in any circumstances.

“Where are you going, Jason?” She turned her scary smile to the blushing and completely awkward teenager. “I still have to pull those metal splinters from your neck.”

“Alfred can do it,” Jason said trying and failing to get her hands off him. Dick was sure that Jason could easily shove her away if he used his full strength, but he didn’t want to hurt her. He was a softy—at least for her. And he could see and understand his discomfort at having a girl like Helena all over him and touching his neck.

“Alfred is busy making dinner, and I have better eyesight than him. Or would you rather have Dad do it?” Helena shot back.

And Dick just couldn’t resist it, “Well, well. Isn’t it nice to be young and in love…”

“It’s not–! We’re not—!” Jason was the first to burst while Helena coughed and smiled, but Dick had a sharp eye and he saw the faintest of raise of color in her face… Oh, poor kid, he had no chance against her.

Dick laughed, he’d thought he’d have to make an effort not to dislike Jason, but so far he was having the opposite reaction. He was a good kid, wasn’t he? Maybe he should’ve come sooner and met him instead of letting the anger towards Bruce’s unilateral decision make him stay away for months…

“Well, are you helping or not?” Helena asked raising an eyebrow at him.

Dick raised his hands and saw Jason’s pleading look, then at Helena. An idea formed in his mind—it was not payback for calling him Richard, not at all.

“All right, I’ll hold him,” He said, walking towards them. He saw Helena’s triumphant look and Jason’s resigned one. Dick sent Jason a look once he was behind Helena’s field of vision and winked. Immediately the teenager’s expression changed from resigned misery and awkwardness to relief and gratefulness.

Dick quickly put his arms around Helena’s middle and yanked her off of him. She gasped and while she exclaimed, “Treason!” Dick said between laughs, “Run! Run Forest!”

And Jason didn’t have to be told twice, he sprang up over the couch and ran through the west door of the library and towards the kitchen, the only safe haven in this house guarded and maintained by Alfred. The old butled would have the splinters out in no time. 

Helena meanwhile kept flailing and trying to have his hold removed, then exhausted herself after a few expletives and minutes later. He hung her then over his shoulder and threatened, “Now call me ‘dear big brother’.”

“Go kiss some pig's ass, Richard,” She growled from his shoulder.

Dick laughed and started spinning, she screamed. He’d found early on she wasn’t good with spinning since that incident with the spinning teacups ride at Metropolis Amusement Park. He stopped, “How about now?”

“Richard. Richard. RICHARD!”

Dick just started spinning again. By far, this wasn’t the first time they’d been in this situation, so he knew just the right amount to not have her throwing up all over the carpet. “You know, I’d forgotten how stubborn you are when angry at someone.”

A sick groan answered him, then her weak reply, “I’ll die on this hill.”

Then the door of the Batcave opened and out stepped Bruce. He stared at them blankly and there was a moment of silence.

“Dad…Help…” Helena croaked.

“Don’t be late for dinner,” He said and walked away.

Dick grinned widely, “Welp, it’s just me and you, now Lena.”

“Treason…I hate you all… Richard…” Those were her last words. He started spinning again. He'd be sure to put them on her tombstone.

END OF MEMORY... For more FILES check previous entries...

[voraciousvore]

Giganterra (Chapter 58)

Prologue/TOC | Previous (57) | Next (59)

Content Warning: NSFW/ 18+! Non-con sexual touching, abortion, vulgar language, implied nonfatal vore, implied violence

Word Count: 2.1k

------ Chapter 58: Resolve ------

Bianca ascended from Hunter’s gloomy subterranean lair in tears. She felt awful, like a crucial piece of her was permanently lost in that dark, dank pit. The experience had been far worse than she’d imagined. Not only did the greedy soul-sucking stone slurp out the life force of her fetus, but her womb physically expelled the dead tissue in a graphic, bloody mess. Bianca believed the gaping emptiness inside her would never heal. 

She was not ready for the inevitable emotional blow that followed when she returned to her boudoir. Her chest clenched when she walked in only to see an empty nightstand: no dollhouse, no human men, no sign of any life. Fearing the worst, she called in her maid. “Where are my humans?” 

The maid turned ashen. “Oh, Princess… it was horrible! King Richard… what he did to those little creatures…” 

Bianca’s legs failed and she sat shakily on her bed. “No…” Her heart stopped. She felt like vomiting as spasms erupted through her body. Her brain recoiled as her imagination conjured the most phantasmagorical images of her innocent men broken and bloodied from ghastly cruelty. 

“He killed them. Violently. All the screams… and the gore…” The maid covered her mouth with her hand. “Truly terrible!” 

Bianca collapsed on her bed. “Leave me.” The maid obeyed, thoughtfully closing the door behind her. Bianca stared at the ceiling in shock as the full magnitude of horror and grief sank in. Cesar, Graham, Gio: They were gone. Dead. They lost their lives in an unthinkable display of gruesome carnage, all because of her irresponsible actions. Because of her father’s savagery. 

Deep down, she knew that she was to blame. She hadn’t killed them herself, but their blood stained her hands. In her selfishness, she had requested the men be harvested from their homes in Minimaterra, taken from their lives to be enslaved to her whims. She took advantage of them in the worst ways, eating them and pleasuring herself with them. She sowed the seeds for their destruction. Her flimsy attempts to improve herself paled in comparison to all the hideous wrongs she had committed. She reaped the disaster and damage of her own design, and they were the ones to pay the price, with their own blood. 

Tears flowed down her face in a cascade of sadness and guilt. She felt so alone, even more than when she believed that everyone hated her. The new life within her had been sapped away, and the people she had grown attached to were butchered. The idyllic fantasy she had clung to, of a perfect future with a loving family, was extinguished in an instant. Fiery anger flared up in her heart. They didn’t deserve such a tragic fate. 

She sprang out of bed and stormed out of her bedroom. She couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Her only chance at happiness had gone up in flames. Her life was a prison, all because of her beast of a father, killing the people she loved: her diminutive companions, her eldest brother, her romantic partners, her possible children. She couldn’t let him continue to hurt people and lay a path of destruction. Even if she couldn’t have a happy ending, she had to do something to stop him. 

Whatever action she needed to take, she couldn’t do it alone. Ignoring the waterfalls running down her face, she stomped out to the courtyard and located Ronny, still conversing with Joey. She marched up to him like a tempest. 

“Ronny! I need you!” she shouted. Without waiting for a reply, she grabbed his sleeve, hoisted him off the bench, and pulled him away. 

“Hey! What the heck?” Ronny protested, but she didn’t answer her brother as she dragged him across the courtyard. “Bianca?” He noted how upset she was and went quiet, allowing her to take him. The state she was in didn’t reflect one of her usual tantrums: Something was very wrong. 

Joey and Eren stared after the royal siblings, baffled. “I wonder what that was about?” Eren questioned. “Bianca has been so strange lately. I just don’t get her.” 

The giant squire, however, wasn’t concerned with Bianca or Ronny. With the prince gone, he could help Eren escape, just like Martin did with Candy. “Now’s our chance, Eren!” he whispered with urgency. “I can get you out of here!” 

Energized, he stood up in a hurry, causing Eren to lose her balance in his palm. “Hey! Hang on a second!” she cried out as she fell on her hands and knees. 

“Oh. Sorry. I got too excited,” Joey admitted sheepishly. 

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Eren clarified, settling on her knees. “I’m not ready to leave. My work here isn’t done yet.” 

“What?! Aren’t you sick of this place? I need to help you before it’s too late!” Joey argued. He held her closer to his face. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. If you got hurt, I don’t know what I’d do…” 

Joey looked so sad, with those big, soulful, chocolate eyes of his glistening behind his glasses, that Eren almost relented just to placate him. However, she was firm in her mission. “I admit, it really is awful here. I hate getting eaten all the time, I hate Bucky, and I hate the king. But Joey—I’m so close. If I could just find a way to get past Chester, I could poison or kill the king. If I killed one giant, I can kill another. I’m not ready to give up yet.” 

Joey curled his other hand around Eren, as if to shield her from danger. “Are you sure about this?” 

“Absolutely,” she confirmed, shining with intensity. 

Joey sighed. She was too stubborn for him to sway her to a safer path. “What can I do to help you? Do you have any ideas? Do you want another weapon?” 

Eren frowned. “I… I don’t know yet. I don’t think that stratagem will work. But… maybe we can brainstorm some ideas, and meet up again another day, with the prince’s help?” 

“Well… I guess…” Joey acquiesced reluctantly. He wasn’t happy with the whole situation, but he did appreciate that he would have another opportunity to see Eren and maybe help her escape if she changed her mind. “Alright. Just, please... don’t put yourself in danger...” He gingerly stroked her hair with his finger. Eren flushed pink again. She’d never had a man touch her like that, with such ardor. His concern for her tamed her fierce spirit within. She was sorely tempted to snuggle up in his hands, rest and forget all her worries, let him hold her and tell her everything would be alright. She was filled with longing for a beautiful fantasy that she could make real, within the comfort of Joey’s loving embrace. 

However, she couldn’t let herself give in. Not yet, anyway. “Take me back to the kitchen,” she insisted. 

Joey sighed again in a great gust. “Alright.” 

Meanwhile, Bianca showed Ronny to her room. “They’re gone,” she blubbered, gesturing to her nightstand. 

Ronny stared blankly. “Who?” 

Bianca was crying already, but Ronny’s inquiry really opened the floodgates. “My humans!” she sobbed, rivers gushing down her cheeks. “That motherfucker slaughtered them!” 

In an instant, a black cloud of dread descended over Ronny. Bianca had no need to elaborate whom she was referring to when she uttered “that motherfucker.” He knew. And he abruptly sensed that he needed to check on Tanya. She might be in danger. 

“I’m gonna kill him!” Bianca yelled, slamming down her fists on the nightstand. “This is the last straw! I hate him! I fucking hate him!” 

“I’ll be right back,” Ronny stammered. He backed out of the room and hurried to his quarters to find Tanya. He just needed to reassure himself that she was okay. She was fine, right? She’d be there, clueless as to why he was so sweaty and flustered. She’d give him a little smirk and tease him for being a baby, but she’d be flattered that he was so worried about her. He’d cup her in his hands and give her a kiss and everything would be right with the world. 

“Tanya?” he called as he entered his bedroom. His nerves tingled with apprehension at the silence that greeted him. He rushed over to the house and opened the lid. “Tanya?” He didn’t see her. His anxiety spiked. He rummaged through the furniture, even though he knew in his gut the harrowing truth: She wasn’t there. She wouldn’t hide from him. She was gone. 

“Tanya!” Ronny cried in alarm. He dashed out without a second to spare, racing around corners so fast that he nearly tripped over his own feet in clumsy haste, particularly as he ascended the spiraling stairs to his father’s wing of the castle. He shouldered his way through the door past Ajax and burst into the king’s private inner sanctum. 

The sight that greeted him made him want to claw his eyes out. King Richard was propped up in bed, shirtless, clasping Tanya to his naked hairy flesh. He’d stripped her dress off and was fondling her bare breasts and thighs, investigating her body with filthy lust. Ronny belted out a feral yowl and surged towards him, but Ajax seized his arms and held him back. 

“Ronny! Help m-” Tanya squeaked before Hardon clamped his finger over her mouth to muffle her cries. 

“Let go of her, you monster!” Ronny roared. He bit Ajax’s knuckles hard, but the guard didn’t budge. The blood was bitter, tainting his entire mouth with the rotten taste of death. 

“Ah, Ronny! How nice of you to join us,” King Richard jeered. His lips curved into a wicked grin as he petted Tanya on the head like she was nothing more than a pet hamster. Ronny fought against Ajax’s grip with the ferocity of a wild animal. Tanya trembled; she didn’t make a sound even after the king removed his fingertip from her face. 

“You did such a good job training her. She’s very docile and obedient. I think she’ll make a fine pet for me,” Hardon drawled on with a nasty sneer. 

“She doesn’t belong to you!” Ronny snapped. “Don’t you dare touch her!”  

The king chuckled, humming to himself as he raised Tanya to his lips. “Look at that lovely figure. Nice fertile hips, buxom breasts, toned waist, cute little bottom... mmmmm...” He curled his finger around her waist lasciviously. His tongue slid out from his lips and sensually licked her thigh, up her side all the way to her ear. Tanya whined and tried to pull away, to no avail. 

“STOP IT!!” Ronny bellowed, straining against Ajax’s bulging muscles. The guard grunted and jerked him back. 

“Take him away so we can have some privacy,” Hardon ordered with a dismissive wave. His lips parted, closing over Tanya’s head and shoulders. Ronny could just make out a muted scream from within the giant’s maw. 

“NOOOO!” he howled. Ajax dragged the prince out of the king’s suite and threw him into the stairwell like a vagabond, slamming the door and locking him out. Ronny cursed and screamed and banged on the door with frantic energy, but failed to gain reentry. From within, he could hear the squelching gulp of that repulsive beast of a man swallowing his beloved. Ronny hurled himself against the door until he gradually slid down in defeat, sobbing. There was nothing he could do. Tanya was in the hands of the worst giant imaginable, and Ronny was helpless to save her. 

After a while, Ronny heaved himself to his feet. He wiped his eyes and trudged down the stairs, then though the halls to his sister’s room. He found her lying in bed with dull, bloodshot eyes. She looked up at him, searching his face. Despite her listlessness and despair, there was rage boiling inside her, threatening to explode. 

The qualms that Ronny had earlier, regarding the assassination of his father, had washed away. His resolve was firm as steel, hardened in the forge of his passion. A flame ignited in his belly as he met the gaze of his sister, and an understanding passed between them. “I’m ready,” he stated, jaw rigid. “Let’s kill him.” 

Chapter 59

Tag List: @tinycoded360 @yummynomms @maybeiamdownbad

[wordsoftheheartandsoul]

Time and healing will change the way you see yourself and tell your story because you will not only take into account the truths of your experience but also the lessons that sprang forth from them.

Morgan Richard Olivier - One Still Whisper

[mariacallous]

If you were asked to guess which prestigious film-making duo had spent their career scratching around desperately for cash, trying to wriggle out of paying their cast and crew, ping-ponging between lovers, and having such blood-curdling bust-ups that their neighbours called the police, it might be some time before “Merchant Ivory” sprang to mind. But a new warts-and-all documentary about the Indian producer Ismail Merchant and the US director James Ivory makes it clear that the simmering passions in their films, such as the EM Forster trilogy of A Room With a View, Maurice and Howards End, were nothing compared to the scalding, volatile ones behind the camera.

From their initial meeting in New York in 1961 to Merchant’s death during surgery in 2005, the pair were as inseparable as their brand name, with its absence of any hyphen or ampersand, might suggest. Their output was always more eclectic than they got credit for. They began with a clutch of insightful Indian-set dramas including Shakespeare-Wallah, their 1965 study of a troupe of travelling actors, featuring a young, pixieish Felicity Kendal. From there, they moved on to Savages, a satire on civilisation and primitivism, and The Wild Party, a skewering of 1920s Hollywood excess that pipped Damien Chazelle’s Babylon to the post by nearly half a century.

It was in the 1980s and early 1990s, though, that Merchant Ivory became box-office titans, cornering the market in plush dramas about repressed Brits in period dress. Those literary adaptations launched the careers of Hugh Grant, Helena Bonham Carter, Rupert Graves and Julian Sands, and helped make stars of Emma Thompson and Daniel Day-Lewis. Most were scripted by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala, who had been with them, on and off, since their 1963 debut The Householder; she even lived in the same apartment building in midtown New York. Many were scored by Richard Robbins, who was romantically involved with Merchant while also holding a candle for Bonham Carter. These films restored the costume drama to the position it had occupied during David Lean’s heyday. The roaring trade in Jane Austen adaptations might never have happened without them. You could even blame Merchant Ivory for Bridgerton.

Though the pictures were uniformly pretty, making them was often ugly. Money was always scarce. Asked where he would find the cash for the next movie, Merchant replied: “Wherever it is now.” After Jenny Beavan and John Bright won an Academy Award for the costumes in A Room With a View, he said:“I got you your Oscar. Why do I need to pay you?” As Ivory was painstakingly composing each shot, Merchant’s familiar, booming battle cry would ring out: “Shoot, Jim, shoot!”

Heat and Dust, starring Julie Christie, was especially fraught. Only 30 or 40% of the budget was in place by the time the cameras started rolling in India in 1982; Merchant would rise at dawn to steal the telegrams from the actors’ hotels so they didn’t know their agents were urging them to down tools. Interviewees in the documentary concede that the producer was a “conman” with a “bazaar mentality”. But he was also an incorrigible charmer who dispensed flattery by the bucketload, threw lavish picnics, and wangled entrées to magnificent temples and palaces. “You never went to bed without dreaming of ways to kill him,” says one friend, the journalist Anna Kythreotis. “But you couldn’t not love him.”

Stephen Soucy, who directed the documentary, doesn’t soft-pedal how wretched those sets could be. “Every film was a struggle,” he tells me. “People were not having a good time. Thompson had a huge fight with Ismail on Howards End because she’d been working for 13 days in a row, and he tried to cancel her weekend off. Gwyneth Paltrow hated every minute of making Jefferson in Paris. Hated it! Laura Linney was miserable on The City of Your Final Destination because the whole thing was a shitshow. But you watch the films and you see no sense of that.”

Soucy’s movie features archive TV clips of the duo bickering even in the midst of promoting a film. “Oh, they were authentic all right,” he says. “They clashed a lot.”The authenticity extended to their sexuality. The subject was not discussed publicly until after Ivory won an Oscar for writing Call Me By Your Name: “You have to remember that Ismail was an Indian citizen living in Bombay, with a deeply conservative Muslim family,” Ivory told me in 2018. But the pair were open to those who knew them. “I never had a sense of guilt,” Ivory says, pointing out that the crew on The Householder referred to him and Merchant as “Jack and Jill”.

Soucy had already begun filming his documentary when Ivory published a frank, fragmentary memoir, Solid Ivory, which dwells in phallocentric detail on his lovers before and during his relationship with Merchant, including the novelist Bruce Chatwin. It was that book which emboldened Soucy to ask questions on screen – including about “the crazy, complicated triangle of Jim, Ismail and Dick [Robbins]” – that he might not otherwise have broached.

The documentary is most valuable, though, in making a case for Ivory as an underrated advocate for gay representation. The Remains of the Day, adapted from Kazuo Ishiguro’s Booker-winning novel about a repressed butler, may be the duo’s masterpiece, but it was their gay love story Maurice that was their riskiest undertaking. Set in the early 20th century, its release in 1987 could scarcely have been timelier: it was the height of the Aids crisis, and only a few months before the Conservative government’s homophobic Section 28 became law.

“Ismail wasn’t as driven as Jim to make Maurice,” explains Soucy. “And Ruth was too busy to write it. But Jim’s dogged determination won the day. They’d had this global blockbuster with A Room With a View, and he knew it could be now or never. People would pull aside Paul Bradley, the associate producer, and say: ‘Why are they doing Maurice when they could be making anything?’ I give Jim so much credit for having the vision and tenacity to make sure the film got made.”

Merchant Ivory don’t usually figure in surveys of queer cinema, though they are part of its ecosystem, and not only because of Maurice. Ron Peck, who made the gay classic Nighthawks, was a crew member on The Bostonians. Andrew Haigh, director of All of Us Strangers, landed his first industry job as a poorly paid assistant in Merchant’s Soho office in the late 1990s; in Haigh’s 2011 breakthrough film Weekend, one character admits to freeze-framing the naked swimming scene in A Room With a View to enjoy “Rupert Graves’s juddering cock”. Merchant even offered a role in Savages to Holly Woodlawn, the transgender star of Andy Warhol’s Trash, only for her to decline because the fee was so low.

The position of Merchant Ivory at the pinnacle of British cinema couldn’t last for ever. Following the success of The Remains of the Day, which was nominated for eight Oscars, the brand faltered and fizzled. Their films had already been dismissed by the director Alan Parker as representing “the Laura Ashley school” of cinema. Gary Sinyor spoofed their oeuvre in the splendid pastiche Stiff Upper Lips (originally titled Period!), while Eric Idle was plotting his own send-up called The Remains of the Piano. The culture had moved on.

There was still an appetite for upper-middle-class British repression, but only if it was funny: Richard Curtis drew on some of Merchant Ivory’s repertory company of actors (Grant, Thompson, Simon Callow) for a run of hits beginning with Four Weddings and a Funeral, which took the poshos out of period dress and plonked them into romcoms.

The team itself was splintering. Merchant had begun directing his own projects. When he and Ivory did collaborate, the results were often unwieldy, lacking the stabilising literary foundation of their best work. “Films like Jefferson in Paris and Surviving Picasso didn’t come from these character-driven novels like Forster, James or Ishiguro,” notes Soucy. “Jefferson and Picasso were not figures that audiences warmed to.” Four years after Merchant’s death, Ivory’s solo project The City of Your Final Destination became mired in lawsuits, including one from Anthony Hopkins for unpaid earnings.

Soucy’s film, though, is a reminder of their glory days. It may also stoke interest in the movies among young queer audiences whose only connection to Ivory, now 95, is through Call Me By Your Name. “People walk up to Jim in the street to shake his hand and thank him for Maurice,” says Soucy. “But I also wanted to include the more dysfunctional side of how they were made. Hopefully it will be inspiring to young film-makers to see that great work can come out of chaos.”

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Photograph of Cather’s grave by Richard Schlecht.

* * * *

“The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me. Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.”

—Willa Cather in “My Ántonia."

The truth and beauty of this vignette never left the soul from which it sprang. Cather requested that her grave site, which she shared with her partner, bear the inscription: “…that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.”

Another beautiful sharing from The Marginalian

[Follies Of God]

[mercurygray]

hiiiiii you know i have to ask about the bitb/rowing idea!! dick taking up rowing is something i never knew i needed until now haha

She never thought she'd see another regatta.

College felt impossibly far away from where Joan was sitting in the grandstands of the Potomac Rowing Club - the sweaters, the flags, the weight of Ben's fraternity pin on her jacket. The world had looked different, in 1939 - and while she remembered that she liked a great many things about Bennett Hilliard, she also remembered being quite sure that becoming Mrs. Hilliard while he want to law school wasn't in her cards. Still, he'd come from the right sort of family and danced well and she'd liked the way she felt in his arms. Everyone at Poughkeepsie had been talking about Helsinki, and how it was a shame no one would be able to follow up the miraculous success of the UW team at Berlin.

The river in front of her today, however, was not the Hudson, and ten years was a long time in between races - a lot of water under many, many oars. Bennett Hilliard had gone on to marry some other Goucher graduate and she had gone to war.

Someone cleared his throat - a well-dressed man in glasses and a Syracuse scarf. "Captain Warren, it's so good of you to come out today. Your husband said we'd be seeing you. Usually we have to save Go Army for the football season. I like Dickie's chances - he's got to be one of the most natural rowers I've ever seen. It's Mort Greenstan," he said, holding out a hand for her to shake.

Joan finally placed the name, and abbreviated the smile that sprang to her lips hearing him called Dickie, a name he never owned to if he could help it. "The club chairman, yes, Dick mentioned you might stop by."

"Do you mind if I join you? I brought binoculars, in case you forgot."

"Thanks, I have my own," Joan said, patting the well-worn pair that had seen her through most of Europe.(She'd noticed the woman down the row a little had a lovely pair of pearl-handles on hers, but now wasn't the time for getting self-conscious. Joan Warren didn't follow things like fashion and if she wanted to bring her army binoculars to a regatta, she was damn well going to bring her army binoculars.)

"My, those have really been through the war, haven't they?" Mort said, trying to make a joke as he made himself comfortable on the seat next to her. Joan nodded serenely.

"Three campaigns in Europe and two combat jumps," she said, and smiled even wider when Mort went silent.

Down at the dock, the competitors were just getting into their sculls, each man wearing the colors of his own home club. A few colleges, here and there, Georgetown and Harvard and even Greenstan's Syracuse colors, and the other out of towners, Hudson and Annapolis and Newport. And there was Dick in his racing singlet and shorts, arms and legs all whipcord and muscle, and she allowed herself a good long look at the man she married. He caught sight of her in the stands and smiled, waving. She touched her hand to her lips, a small personal symbol of a kiss, and watched his smile widen.

The announcer was blazing through the names of the competitors, and she caught, almost missing it as it blew by, "-Colonel Richard Winters, rowing today for Potomac in the single men's sculls."

She had been just as surprised as anyone else when she'd came home from an assignment and realized there were muscles under his suitcoat that she'd hardly noticed when she left. "I joined the rowing club," he'd explained. "They were talking about it at lunch and Ken's a member, so I started going on Saturdays. It's a lot like running - the way you can lose your mind in it."

She'd nodded and agreed and made a joke about other things he could lose his mind in that required stroking, and that had been the last they'd talked about it for several hours, at least. But he'd kept at it until it was silly calling it a hobby, and now they were here, at a regatta, in the starting heats of a crowded and talented field.

The sculls were at the starting line, the rowers crouching into position at their oars, eyes ready for the flag. Joan tightened her grip on her binoculars and waited for the starter, her feet yearning for starting blocks and racing spikes, and a sudden surge of energy filled her as the flag dropped down and the race was on, and she was right there with him in his boat, shouting for the pace.

[twistedtummies2]

Year of the Bat - Number 15

Welcome to Year of the Bat! In honor of Kevin Conroy, Arleen Sorkin, and Richard Moll, I’m counting down my Top 31 Favorite Episodes of “Batman: The Animated Series” throughout this January. We’ve officially entered the Top 15! TODAY’S EPISODE QUOTE: “Kids these days. No respect.” Number 15 is…Legends of the Dark Knight.

One of the great things about many famous comic book characters is their adaptability. Some of these characters were created nearly a century ago; Batman, for example, first appeared in the late 1930s. (He actually turns 85 Years Old this very year!) Some characters that old who were popular then have, for one reason or another, not stood the test of time. Batman has, and part of this is because his creators found him easy to adapt and reconfigure as times changed. Bruce Wayne and his universe have been portrayed more seriously or more goofily over the decades, and have been made to appeal to adults and children alike time and time again. “Batman: The Animated Series” is widely considered the most definitive take on the Caped Crusader and his world specifically because the writers who worked on this show understood this, and had a deep love for ALL sides of Batman’s world. The show, therefore, hits a near-perfect balance, overall, between silly superhero shenanigans, and dark, complex, sometimes downright brutal storytelling.

“Legends of the Dark Knight” is an episode that exemplifies not only the skillful balance of tone the Animated Series managed for the majority of its run, but acts as a tribute to the long and storied history of Batman, and the adaptability of the character. The plot focuses on a group of random children, living in Gotham, all of whom are gossiping about the mysterious Dark Knight. Through their banter, they start to share stories and theories about what Batman is really like, all of which pay homage to different past incarnations of Batman. Some of these references are relatively brief; for example, a passing friend of theirs named “Joel,” and his bizarre, strangely effeminate fixations on Batman, are meant to be a joking reference to Joel Schumacher’s much maligned film versions of the character. Another case is one young man who makes insinuations of Batman being some monstrous vampire, a reference to the Elseworlds “Batman & Dracula Trilogy” written by Doug Moench.

The most notable of these homages, however, are two long sequences of the show, acting essentially as stories within a story. The first is a tribute the late Golden Age and the Silver Age of comics, as well as to the Adam West 1960s TV series. It features an original adventure, with Batman and Robin battling the Joker, when the Clown Prince of Crime tries to steal the original score of the opera “Pagliacci.” The second sequence is taken directly from the pages of Frank Miller’s somewhat controversial (but highly influential) masterwork, “The Dark Knight Returns.” This one adapts and combines two scenes from the graphic novel, where Batman faces the despicable Mutant Leader. I love both these sequences; it’s neat to see the way the animation style changes for each to match the decade and story style (I especially love how the first sequence so accurately captures the look of Dick Sprang’s famous aesthetics). Interestingly, they also bring in new voice actors to play the characters in each one; instead of Mark Hamill, for example, Michael McKean plays the 60s-era Joker. Meanwhile, Michael Ironside – who would later play the devilish Darkseid for the DCAU – voices Frank Miller’s Batman. Both are perfect casting.

The episode ends with the kids bearing witness to the real Batman – Conroy’s vocals and all – duking it out with the villainous Firefly. I used to love this episode a lot more, but upon revisiting it, I felt I had lost some love for it, and I think part of it is this final sequence. While I love the idea of the kids encountering the real Batman after all that, and I suppose such a thing was inevitable with a plot like this…something about it feels underwhelming after the spectacular sequences we saw earlier in the episode. It’s hard for me to say what the issue is, but I don’t think that was the intention, based on the way things are set up and described in-story. Still, it’s not necessarily a bad ending, for various and probably obvious reasons. It’s a great episode that showcases a different perspective (several different perspectives, in fact) on Batman and the City as a whole, and if you’re as much of a fan of the history of this character – and the duality of the Animated Series itself – as I am, you owe it to yourself to give this one a quick peek. That is, of course, presuming you haven’t already.

Tomorrow we move on to Number 14! Hint: “This used to be a beautiful street. Good people lived here once.”

[smooth-boob]

2023 Fic Year in Review

Thanks @penny-loaf and @hydriotaphia for tagging me!

List of Fics Completed this Year

Excluding the WIPs and stuff started in 2022:

To Tell the Truth - https://archiveofourown.org/works/46747165

The Bustle in a House - https://archiveofourown.org/works/47126467

From the blood of the wound, a flower sprang - https://archiveofourown.org/works/48305152

Overcome - https://archiveofourown.org/works/46083325

Doing The Voices - https://archiveofourown.org/works/47976274

The Morning After Death - https://archiveofourown.org/works/50856436

Running Toward Running Away - https://archiveofourown.org/works/47131885

Number of Words Written

47,530 (only those that are posted; my WIP word count is a very different number lol)

Your Most Popular Fic

To Tell The Truth. That one was a real rising star.

Your Personal Fave

The Bustle in a House, but tbh whatever I've most recently finished is most likely to be my favorite because I'm riding that high of having said what I wanted to say.

You Fav Scene

Don't make me choose!!! Right now I've been thinking about the garden scene and its aftermath from Chapter 3 of The Bustle in a House. I find it difficult to read, and I think that says something about its emotional impact!

A Fic or Scene that Challenged You

Chapter 3 of To Tell the Truth sent me into a creative spiral because I was working to figure out how to make the scene feel as honest and raw as the first two chapters and go really deep and emotionally soft and also get my Barbie dolls to just kiss already! 1000% worth it. That's my other favorite scene.

A Line of Writing You’re Proud Of

From The Morning After Death:

He spends the morning with his youngest siblings (his brother’s children), sharing stories and allowing the memories to crest and break over them in waves. In this family there are so many of them, siblings and stories, that they sometimes tell the same ones, some remembered differently, at different ages, or they confuse each other’s memories for their own and retell those stories, as if all the ways they remember him are true. In a sense, they are true. After all, memory is the only thing they have left.

A Comment that Touched You

Anybody who said my work felt honest, real, and/or special to them, and special shout-out to @andthebubbles for commenting along their journey reading Bustle because it let me know somebody else was out there wanting to read exactly what I wanted to read and to write!

Something that Inspired Your Writing

A fear of grief, Emily Dickinson, watching The Crown, these lines from Richard II that live rent-free in my mind...

For you have but mistook me all this while. / I live with bread like you, feel want, / Taste grief, need friends—subjected thus, / How can you say to me, I am a king?

Your proudest accomplishment (that one scene; finally finishing that one fic; posting your first fic; etc):

It felt really amazing to get properly back into writing in general, and to push the boundaries of emotion I can convey. 2023 was something of a breakthrough year.

Do You Have Any Writing Goals for Next Year?

To actually work on my novel...haha.

As far as fanfiction goes, I really want to finish my Kathony fic that's basically season three for them, which I'd love to put out there before season three comes out. We'll see about that. I'd also like to finish my Bridgerton Phantom of the Opera AU.

In terms of skill development, while I love the precision and brevity of my work, I am trying to slow down more and know when to give scenes space to breathe.

Tagging @andthebubbles, @hyperesthesias, and anyone else who would like to do this!

[whump-card]

Whumptember Day Twenty-Eight

“I never should have let it come this far”

Failed hero | Hospital stay | Begging for help

Chronologically: 6

~1990 words

Masterlist

CW: discussion of past noncon, injury reveal, negative self-talk

~~~

“I’m looking for Sir Driemal, is he here?”

Ren stuck out like a sore thumb in the lobby of the fine inn. He was covered in dust and dirt, his shoes were caked in mud, and his hair was matted. All the result of walking for days and sleeping in ditches or barns. The inn’s attendant unsubtly wrinkled her nose at him.

“No, no Sir Driemal here.”

“Well, well what about…” Ren floundered in desperation, “Sir Cassius? Lady Richard? Any knights at all, are any staying here?”

“No,” the attendant said flatly, “I think you’d best be on your way.”

“But they said they’d be here, It’s only Saturday, they’re supposed to be here…” Ren couldn’t help the tears that sprang to his eyes. “Are there any knights here?”

“Try the poorhouse,” the attendant snapped.

“Ren!”

Ren spun around to see Sir Driemal in the doorway to the dining hall. The knight wasted no time striding forward, and almost seemed like he might hug Ren, before he caught himself.

“Ren, I’m so glad you came. I was so worried you wouldn’t be able to leave her.”

“I almost didn’t,” the words flowed out of Ren so easily when he spoke to Driemal.

“Good job, man!” Sir Driemal clapped a hand onto Ren’s shoulder, sending a jolt of electric excitement through Ren’s body and bringing a smile to his face. The knight turned to the attendant, who looked like she wished she could melt into the floor.

“Prepare a room for Ren here, if you will?” Sir Driemal requested.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we’re full tonight,” she said, and this time it sounded like she was telling the truth.

“No matter!” Driemal squeezed Ren’s shoulder reassuringly, causing another buzz of delight, “He can stay in my room! Take his horse to the stables and have his luggage sent up to mine.”

“Oh, sir, I…” Ren’s smile melted; he wasn’t sure whether to be confused, embarrassed, or scared. “I don’t… I don’t have a horse. Or luggage.”

Sir Driemal blinked at him.

“You… You walked here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With nothing?”

“Well - yes, sir.”

Sir Driemal dropped his hand from Ren’s shoulder and looked him up and down, as if noticing his ragged state for the first time. His face darkened with concern.

“We… I had no idea, that you… I would have thought you had a horse, I… I’m so sorry, Ren, we should have left money for you.”

Ren shook his head, horrified at the idea.

“No, no! I made it, that's all that matters.”

Driemal managed a guilty smile.

“You did. You did.” He turned back to the attendant, who quickly pretended she hadn’t been listening. “Set up a hot bath in my room, please.”

She chirped an agreement and Sir Driemal led Ren by the arm into the dining hall, where he let Ren collapse into a chair before bringing him mountains of fine food. Ren ate like a half-starved animal, because he was - for days now he’d been eating garbage and charity. Now he threw back meat pies and cheeses and ale with gusto. Driemal watched him with that same guilty smile. Ren flushed when he caught the knight staring.

“I’m sorry, sir. You must think me very ill-mannered.”

“No, I…” Sir Driemal shook his head, “I only wonder when you last ate.”

Ren didn’t answer.

Once he’d had his fill, Sir Driemal showed Ren to his room. Inn employees were just leaving, and a massive wooden tub of steaming water awaited inside, along with washcloths and towels on a side table. Sir Driemal went to his trunk and rooted around in it.

“The only spare sleeping-clothes I have is my summer set, I hope that’s alright.” He offered a bundle of white linen to Ren.

“That’s alright, sir,” Ren accepted them, then looked around. There was only one bed in the room, a massive four-poster. “Where will I sleep?”

“Do you mind sharing the bed? I won’t have you sleeping on the floor,” Sir Driemal said casually, “Besides, look at the size of that thing! We won’t bother each other.”

Too overwhelmed to decline, Ren nodded.

“I’m going back downstairs to iron out our plans with the others,” Sir Driemal said, “Take your time. Don’t wait up for me, I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

Ren was very suddenly alone. He set the clothes down on the side table, and brushed his fingers across the soft, clean fabric. Sir Driemal had no idea how kind he was.

Ren set to work, stripping down. Not wanting to immediately dirty the beautiful tub, he wetted a washcloth and scrubbed himself down twice before getting in to soak. The hot water was immensely soothing to his many bruises and aches. He could hardly believe that such a luxury was his to enjoy.

He stayed in the bath until it was tepid. Once he was clean and dry and able to comb his fingers through his damp hair without them catching, he picked up the sleeping-clothes and shook them out.

His heart sank.

They were indeed summer sleepwear. The top was sleeveless, and the bottoms would only reach his mid-thigh. They would leave countless bruises exposed, as well as his welt-covered shoulders. His hands clenched into fists around the fabric as his breath shook.

He’d just have to wake up before Sir Driemal did, and get dressed quickly. No problem.

He pulled on the clothes and went over to the bed. The far side was slightly mussed, so Ren approached the nearer and climbed under the covers. The bedding was incredibly soft, softer than Lady Twice’s, and smelled fresh and clean.

It also smelled a bit like Sir Driemal - saddlesoap and rosewater - which Ren didn’t mind. He tucked the blankets securely around his shoulders to hide his battered body. He intended to stay awake, to rehearse what he would say to Sir Driemal the next morning, to figure out how precisely to ask to be the knight’s manservant - but sleep seized him instantly.

~~~

When Sir Driemal awoke to delicate snores the next morning, he was confused for a brief moment; then he recalled the events of the previous night. Ren had made it. His journey had clearly been difficult - more difficult than it should have been - but he’d made it. Driemal thanked his lucky stars for the dozenth time, and rolled over to look at the man in question.

His breath caught in his throat.

The night before, Ren had been fully bundled under the covers and Driemal had thought nothing of it. Now, the blankets had slipped down, revealing Ren’s bare shoulder and the back of his neck where he lay on his side, facing away from Driemal. Angry dark red bruises, just starting to go green at the edges, spelled out the unmistakable pattern of belt marks on his shoulderblade. Sinister in a different way, brighter fingerprints were splayed across the back of Ren’s neck.

“Ren!” The name left Driemal’s lips before he could think, and as soon as it did he regretted it. He clearly hadn’t been supposed to see this, wasn’t supposed to know, and now Ren would feel forced to explain whatever had happened before he’d even had breakfast. He cursed himself internally as Ren drew in a breath and raised a hand to rub at his eyes for a moment before freezing with awareness; he could feel Driemal looking at him.

“Ren, I, I’m so sorry,” Driemal stammered, “I didn’t mean to see…”

Ren jerked the covers up over his shoulders and rolled to look at Driemal with bright, frightened eyes.

“It was Lady Twice, wasn’t it?” Again, in his barely-awake state, Driemal couldn’t stop himself from talking. “She beat you for us leaving - my god, Ren, this is all my fault!” he sat up in bed, “I should have done more to convince you to come with us. This never should have happened, I never should have let it come this far, Ren, I’m so sorry. I failed you.”

“Don’t say that,” Ren whispered.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Driemal said miserably, “You were hurt because of our actions. My actions. Is that why you came here with nothing, too? You fled?”

“That - I - I haven’t been entirely honest with you.” Ren looked away, fervently mumbling, “I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t be sharing your bed, it’s disgusting, I… Look away.”

Driemal obediently shifted his back towards Ren.

“What are you talking about?”

He heard the blankets rustle and Ren’s bare feet pad across the floor.

“Sir… Where are my clothes?”

“Oh, um, I sent them to be laundered. I’m sorry, I was just -” Ren sobbed, and Driemal’s heart clenched. “Ren?”

“You can look,” Ren’s voice was muffled, “It doesn't matter anymore.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Driemal turned to look at Ren. He stood side-on to Driemal, his hands pressed to his face. The knight stifled a gasp when he registered Ren’s legs. His knees were scraped to hell, and red handprints marred his thighs. It was obvious evidence of a brutal and sustained assault.

“Ren, what…?”

“There were bandits on the road,” Ren rushed out his words, thick with tears, “And I thought they would let me keep my things if I serviced them, but they tricked me, and I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t have slept in your bed after that, that was a horrible thing to do to you, sir, I just need my clothes back and then I can leave!”

Silence stretched out as Driemal processed this.

“Ren,” he said softly, and Ren’s shoulder’s tensed, “Ren, I don’t want you to leave.”

Ren shook his head, his hands still glued to his face.

“Ren,” Driemal started to get out of bed, “Please-”

Ren shrank away a step in reaction to Driemal’s movement. “Please don’t hit me!” he gasped into his palms.

Driemal stared, open-mouthed, his words trapped under his tongue. He was spared having to come up with an immediate response by a knock on the door.

“Laundry!” called a voice from beyond.

Driemal stood and moved slowly to the entry, his eyes trained on Ren. Ren stood completely frozen, still hiding his face. Driemal opened the door, blocking the employee’s view of Ren with his body, and received the bag of laundry with a quick thanks before quietly clicking the door closed. He dumped the contents of the bag onto the bed, and sorted out Ren’s things from his. Scooping them into a bundle, he approached the paralyzed manservant.

“Ren. Look at me, please?” he gently requested. Ren complied, lowering shaky hands and raising his gaze to meet Driemal’s. Ren’s face was red with suppressed tears, and his eyes were wide and his lips pursed with fear. Driemal took a breath.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, willing his rough voice to be soothing, “I’ll go get dressed in Sir Cassius’ room while you get dressed here. Then we’ll all go to breakfast, together. Then you and I will go to a tailor and order you a new wardrobe. We’ll all stay here, in Faville, until it is ready, which will give you some time to recover. Then we’ll ride on, together, to… wherever Lady Richard decides we’re needed. Oh yes, and I’ll be buying you a horse.”

Ren gazed up at him for a long moment, and Driemal was struck with the urge to touch him, to rest a hand on his chest or his cheek, to offer some small comfort. He shifted the clothes in his arms and one hand twitched upward, but it was stalled by Ren nodding.

“Yes, sir,” the manservant whispered, carefully taking the bundle of clothes from the knight and casting his eyes respectfully downwards, “Thank you, sir.”

Driemal wanted Ren to feel safe with him. He wanted Ren to feel comfortable. But, he suddenly realized, that would take a while. He nodded brusquely, busied his overeager hands with gathering his own clothes, and made his exit.

He could wait.

[thesporkidentity]

I have had my feet on some good carpets in my time; I know what carpets are; but never did I stand upon a softer one than that. It reminded me, somehow, even then, of the turf in Richmond Park,—it caressed my instep, and sprang beneath my tread. To my poor, travel-worn feet, it was luxury after the puddly, uneven road. Should I, now I had ascertained that the room was, at least, partially furnished, beat a retreat? Or should I push my researches further? It would have been rapture to have thrown off my clothes, and to have sunk down, on the carpet, then and there, to sleep.

that's a...weirdly sexual description of a carpet like. not judging you there, robert, you've definitely been having A Time Of It, and i would probably also be on the verge of tears feeling something nice after such a long while. like, it's not that i can't see what he's doing here with the contrast. he, uh, doesn't seem to be a particularly subtle writer so far. but at the same time. richard marsh, my dude, that's a little intense, do you have something you would like to share about feet...or carpets?

[nullsleepy]

Villainess Short

Villainess Marinette!Au

“-how do you plead, Marinette Von Eden?” A voice awoke her from her trance, stirring her awake.

“..what?” Marinette whispered, looking up with her groggy eyes.

“Lady Eden! Were you even listening?!”

“Uh, who what now?” Marinette looked around, flustered. What is happening?

“What an idiot. Tt. Should have let me take care of her earlier.” Another, deep voice sprang out among the crowd that had formed itself around her.

“I’m sorry guys, but you must have gotten the wrong person! My name is Marinette Dupain-Cheng. You get it? Dupain-Cheng not Eden!” Marinette cried out, her voice almost breaking while sweat dripped down her face. WHAT WAS HAPPENING?!?!

“What do you think you’re doing, Eden? You think claiming to be a different person will save you? We all know who you are!” A lighter, but still deep and gruff voice shouted, presumably from behind her. Speaking of which, there was something holding her arms behind her, aND THEIR GRIP KEEPS GETTING TIGHTER! IT HURTS!

“..owww.” Marinette bit her lips, looking in front of her with tear filled eyes. The pain was too real to be a dream, so where the heck was she?

“Stop complaining dimwit! Lillian had to suffer much worse because of you!” The man in front of her called out, holding onto someone. Wait… if she looked a little closer, didn’t that look a lot like-

“-Lila?” Marinette gasped out, eyes wide open.

“Ah!” The girl cried out, flinching away from Marinette’s stare. “Richard, I’m scared!”

“It’s alright, my little Lily. I’ll take care of this.” The man whispered to her. The men all around now glaring harshly at Marinette. “Look what you’ve done now, Eden! How dare you harm my Lila with your evil stare!”

“Uh-uh-Ehem.” Marinette panicked, squeezing shut her eyes. Ah, shoot. What should she do?

“Disgusting.” The man behind her tightened his grip even tighter, causing Marinette to react.

“NOPE!” Marinette kicked the man behind her in a- uh, very special spot, causing him to cry out. With her arms now released, Marinette made a quick plan. One that couldn’t fail. “See ya suckers!”

Marinette booked it out of the huge room, slamming into a door, before eventually finding a window to use to escape.

“Oi! Kaalki! I know you’re there, so come out and explain what the heck is happening!”

“Ehehehe, so…”

———————

Author Notes: Made this bc bored and trying to get motivation to write again. Am going to be doing a new fic soon(won’t affect the others I’m doing I swear, just need to get more ideas for them!) which I can’t wait to do with my friend! See you all soon, hopefully! Just trying to get the idea generator in the back of my head to start flowing again! Love y’all!

[askthechronoverse]

So I heard that archive of our own is down. I offer all of you looking for a fic to read this one shot. Originaly written as an anniversary fic for my first year with this AU, I hope this tides you over until you can read your regular stuff.

It was dark by the time Rex got to the castle. He held his breath and looked for a way to enter. No time to be afraid. Nothing to it but to do it. After jogging around the castle's shadow, he found a broken window. With all the stealth he could muster, he sprang through the opening and walked around in the darkness of the unlit castle. It did sting to think that the others weren't as willing as he was to clear out the castle, reclaim the gems, and look for Richard. It made him think that maybe he was wrong about them again. He shook those thoughts out of his head. They were just scared. He would have to be the brave one, that much is obvious. Otherwise, they all would be cowering in the cabin.

It was far too quiet as he headed for the throne room. By now, surely someone would be there. As he passed a nondescript door in a forgettable hallway, he could hear soft sobbing coming from beyond it. He leaned against the door and the sobbing was louder. Rex tried the handle. It was locked and the sobbing quickly turned to a dead silence. Whoever was behind the door was a prisoner. There couldn't be any other explanation. He could hear the sobbing get more intense now. This emboldened Rex further.

"I'll build ya another door later, Princess." He whispered, looking around. He raised his fist, but stopped when the voice on the other side of the door whispered back, just above the sound of Rex's breathing.

"Please, try not to alert the Doom Lords of your presence." The voice quivered. "They appear more organized and focused than last I saw them. We can't risk your capture."

The voice had a point. As Rex thought about what to do, a lone paperclip slid from under the door.

"I would have used this myself, but the door locks from the outside. I'll walk you through using it as a lockpick." The paperclip gave away that this was Richard, which caused Rex to release some nervousness with his breath. He picked up the paperclip and began to follow the brick's uncharacteristically and breathtakingly expert instructions on the improvised lockpicking process. Someday, it was clear that he was going to need to ask how Richard knew how to pick locks like that. The door eventually was open and Richard's large eyes were half closed, but still visible.

"Thank you, RJ. I… I was worried I was going to never see you again." He tried to float to Rex, but faltered. Rex picked him up, which caused him to blush. "Do the others know you're here?"

"Nah. I had to do something. I can't just sit still and let these guys do… this." Rex pointed to the heartbreaking amount of graffiti on the walls like a game show co-host showing off an unwanted prize with a frantically freed hand.

"RJ…" The tone held was a muddy mix of disappointment and something a lot softer, something Rex didn't expect from the monotone brick. Richard closed his eyes, looking more tired than he would have wanted to admit to.

"You good, ba…bro?" Rex wasn't sure why he almost said what he did, but he turned red as he caught himself. The brick nodded slowly, brow furrowed with general anxiety. "Ya sure? Ya looked unsteady."

"I'm just exhausted. I haven't had anything substantial to eat in a while. You don't have anything by any chance?" Richard nestled himself into his rescuer's arm and kept his eyes firmly closed.

"I have…" Rex dug through his vest and pants pockets. "Some bubblegum and half a granola bar. We ain't too far from the kitchen. I could-"

"It's bad enough you came here to-"

"Punch that Lord Business wannabe in the face." Rex affirmed this, unintentionally cutting Richard off in the process.

"... Right… I assume you came without backup and with no one knowing you came. I am not letting you do anything to further compromise your position. Give me the granola bar, please." Rex offered the granola bar and it floated shakily in the air. Richard finished the bar unceremoniously and placed the wrapper in Rex's pocket. "I'm staying with you. Much as I don't feel safe, you're going to get yourself killed like this. I can't allow that."

"Oh? And why not?"

"I just cannot allow it. The princess likes you. I have a duty to her to keep her happy." Richard said, but the brick spoke in a tone that made Rex lift an eyebrow.

“Fine. But if ya feel scared, ya need to go. Trust your judgment. I ain’t gonna see ya get hurt.” Rex pressed his back against the shadow cloaked wall and looked around. “Wait. Why were you trapped in the closet? Can’tcha go through walls?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He spoke quickly, wishing he could become invisible. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Ya got it. Let’s get Doom and save the day before the others know we’re gone.” Rex looked down at his rectangular companion and began to inch his way toward the throne room. The way Rex looked down at him made Richard’s heart flutter a little. What was this? Why does he feel like his heart was a butterfly hatchery and all the cocoons finally hatched? No. He couldn’t think like this. He needed to focus on his surroundings, because Rex sure wasn’t going to. The flutter made it so hard to do that. It made him want to remain in Rex’s arms forevermore. He looked down for a moment to ground himself, then snapped his focus back to the area around them.

They somehow managed to get to the throne room undetected.There appeared to be no one around, but it was hard to see in the absent light. Rex held Richard close and the brick questioned why that felt so right. No, no. This man was reckless and bold. He couldn't see himself… being held softly in his big strong arms and being told everything would be just fine and he wasn't going to leave him. By the time Richard regained focus, Rex had placed him on the throne and was trying to pick the lock on a chest.

"What are you doing?" The words came out of Richard slowly and unsurely.

"I'm looking for the gems. Locked chest? Important room? Good place to start." Why did Rex always sound so sure of himself? Why was he so confident? It was almost infuriating… but also endearing. The confidence made him feel confident too, even if the situation they found themselves in was grim. He couldn't believe someone could be like that.

"I suppose. Do I assume you want me to be a lookout?"

"Yeah, Richie. I gotta focus on this. If someone comes, distract 'em." His back was turned to Richard, but the brick couldn't help but imagine the human's tongue was sticking out as he concentrated on picking the lock.

For Rex's sake, Richard kept up some silence. While he did this, he let his mind wander again. He had overheard that this man used to be the hero of TAKOS Tuesday known as The Special, a far more cautious man who still managed to save the day. How? The Special was a public figure at this point. Everyone knew him and he was nothing like Rex. They appeared to be total opposites. Richard knew very little about the specifics and this wasn't the time to ask for more info.

"Ya good, bro? You're super quiet." Rex's concern cut Rick's concentration.

"Oh. Yes, I'm just thinking." The brick bobbed, letting himself take some altitude.

"I like that aboutchu. Ya're always thinkin'. What were ya thinkin' about?" Rex finally finished picking the lock and dug through the chest.

"Nothing. It's none of your concern." Richard looked away for a moment. Why did he want to tell him everything, to talk for hours until dawn? No. He couldn't do that. They were in enemy territory and… oh no. He had been concentrating so hard on his own train of thought, that he hadn't scanned thel area for enemies in a while. He looked around and gasped. He saw a dark shadow on the opposite side of the room. Rex was oblivious to this. He squinted. The yellow face was unmistakable. Master Frown. He cleared his throat to get Rex's attention. Rex couldn't hear him. Richard cleared his throat louder. This made both Rex and Frown pause. The cloaked teen shrugged as he inched closer to Rex, who could see a green twinkle from the corner of his eye.

"They let kids have the gems? Sad. Your boss is makin' things too easy for me." Rex did not turn around.

"OK, I know this is gonna seem like a weird ask from the guy about to kick your butt, but could you sign my cloak? You're kind of a big deal around here and I need something to show that I met you." Frown, despite his name, had a bright grin on his face and a sharpie in his hand, which he spun.

"You know the reason I'm a big deal, right?" Richard was surprised: Rex spoke with such patience in the face of danger.

"Yeah! You're the Master Breaker! The destroyer of worlds! Doom has been wanting us to do that for as long as any of us can remember and you just did it all by yourself! You may have said no to the big boss, but you're a rockstar around here!" The twinkle in Frown's eyes was disturbing to Richard. His mind and gaze went to Rex, who's left eye twitched.

"I am trying to not be that guy anymore. I would have thought sayin' no to your boss would have signaled that. I wish ya said that you were just a fan of my podcast or somethin'." The man got to his feet and shook his head. "No. I ain't signin' anythin' for ya if the reason ya want it is because of that."

"Come on, man! Don't be such a buzzkill! I'm a fan!" The snotty voice made Rex's eye continue to twitch. The frown on Rex's face was sharp and made Richard's heart freeze.

"Yeah. A fan of my work during a time I want to put behind me right now. I'm not signing anything for you." Rex walked toward the teenage Doom Lord. "Give me the gem, kid."

"No way! You won't even give me your autograph! I'm just gonna kick your butt!" The junior Doom Lord held the gem tightly in one hand and rushed at Rex with an open hand in the other. The slap connected with Rex's unshaven face and Rex stood still. Richard called out to him, but the man said nothing, his gaze set somewhere far away from this time and place. Frown turned to face Richard now.

Frown shrugged. "I'm gonna call for backup, but I probably should stop you from getting help." He came as the brick with his hands, but was pushed away by an unseen force.

"No. Let him… let him go, Frown." Richard looked to Rex, who stood like an unsettling statue. The human's eyes were glazed over and saucer like, his face pale and frigid looking. The brick floated over the thone, attempting to make his plain form look more threatening.

"Let him go? Last I checked, I'm not Princess Unidork. I don't take orders from you." Frown tried to move forward, but he was pushed again by the invisible force. This force got stronger as Richard moved.

"RJ! Please snap out of whatever hold he has on you! I can only hold him off for so long!" The brick floated to Rex and brushed hair out of his face with invisible hands. "Please, Rex." The brick bit his lower lip.

"I don't know where he is right now, but man his screams are… well, I love screaming usually, but I wasn't expecting such a scared little voice from the great Rex Dangervest." Frown tapped his chin and laughed after a moment at something unheard. He brought the gem out again and shook it by his assumed ear. "Maybe the gem the boss gave me is broken?" The comment and the fact the gem was out in the open was lost on Richard, who kept calling Rex's name to get him out of whatever hold Frown had on him.

"Rex? Please come back." The cold and fearful state his companion was in chilled Richard to his core. Maybe he should get help. He looked around to see that Frown had left, possibly to get help of his own. His companion's voice made the brick jump, both because of how it sounded and the fact that it could be heard.

"Run." This was all Rex was able to choke out before he froze once again. The voice was soft and kind, but that just made the order more chilling. From the distance, Richard could hear two different people giggling. That was very much his cue to get out of there. His body acted before he could say any objections. As he flew, he could hear a woman laughing and telling Rex that the pain in his eyes would look so much better with bruises. He went through the wall of the throne room, but stopped just outside in the garden, covered in the safety of the blueberry bushes.

Why did he run? Rex needed him, though he did say to do just that. He turned to face the castle. Maybe he needed to go back. Something glued him to the spot and made that thought impossible to go through with. He needed to at least get back to the others. He was sure Rex could handle himself, right? It was the only reason that Rex would have told him to run, right? That had to be the thought he settled on at this point. They couldn't afford to lose him, but Rex was strong. You'd have to be strong to be able to do all of the things he's done, good and bad. The fluttering in his heart had yet to abate. Maybe that was because of his fear, or maybe it was something else. There was too much going on in his head for him to know for absolutely certain. He headed for the city in a slow and cautious way, knowing that Puppycorn probably ate them out of house and home and he would need to return with supplies.