#the entire world knew us gymnastics would sweep

[mcxcuseme13]

You know your teams good when international government workers are boycotting

[doublejango]

That blow to the chest had knocked all the air out of Blitz's lungs and sent him sprawling, rolling away across the ground. He lost one of the daggers along the way, but managed to retain the other one, holding it close against himself with one hand, while he used his other arm to block his face as he rolled. The second he stopped rolling, Blitz leapt to his feet--albeit a little unsteadily--and his gleaming, angry eyes tracked the Devil's every movement.

His body ached. A hit like that? Maybe Lucifer was being gentle with him, but Blitz could only imagine that was what it would feel like to be hit full-speed by a fucking semi truck. Lucifer was strong, so much stronger than his slender, graceful form would lead one to believe--and that sword? Blitz's leather jacket had probably saved him from a grievous burn, but there wasn't much left it now. Baring his teeth, he growled again, then ripped the rest of his jacket off as Lucifer spoke. Rather than toss it aside though, he spun it around his left hand and wrist. Might come in useful, he thought darkly.

When Lucifer kicked the knife at him and growled at him to pick it up, if this was any other fight at all, Blitz might have immediately been aroused by the raw sensuality and violence of the command. But here, now? He was trying to fight to get his people a voice, to get them representation, and he couldn't think of anything else. This was worth dying for.

Imps were worth dying for. Hellhounds were worth dying for. Goetia were worth dying for--or one of them, anyway. Blitz kicked the knife. It flipped up into the air, and rather than grab it with his hand, he used his tail, nimbly gripping the knife with it; his tail had as much strong and dexterity as his arms did, and the fight was getting serious enough now that it was time to resort to less noble methods.

"Oh yeah. You care about us so much that you leave imps to what, feel honored if they're allowed to serve? We're a fucking servant class, the peasants who grow the food, sweep the dust, raise the little rich royals. Maybe you can't fix everything right away, I get it, change doesn't come soon. But it doesn't come at all if you don't try." And with that, Blitz attacked again. His chest ached and was already bruising deeply from Lucifer's first blow, and although he was well-aware that it had been a warning, practically a love-tap from a being who could probably shatter an entire world if he struck it a little too hard? So be it. Blitz had signed up for this.

He was learning the way Lucifer moved now, and so while they had been fighting genuinely enough before, the intensity deepened now. Blitz was no slouch when it came to combat, especially when he was fighting for something--and especially when it was for the people he loved. He was quick to adapt to Lucifer's moves and style, and while he might not be an angel with an entire war's worth of experience under his belt? Blitz was an assassin. He was a killer--and a fucking gymnast. This was practically what he had spent his entire life preparing for.

His blows became harder to dodge. He got in closer every time, strikes coming in faster, although not fast enough. Not yet.

Not until the last strike. Blitz knew he would wear out if this went on too much longer, while Lucifer probably never got tired in a fight, and so he put everything into this last attack. After a series of damned good feints, he suddenly lunged in, slashing towards Lucifer's chest with the knife in his hand. His leather-wrapped hand grabbed onto that flaming sword--even though the leather he felt the horrible heat, the familiar sear of cooking alive--and with his tail?

He slashed into Lucifer's thigh.

If he missed now, he was defeated. But if he could make Lucifer bleed? This would all be worth it. Let life be better for them after this, he thought, feeling a strange sense of clarity, as if time was slowing down. And please. One day, let Lucifer forgive me.

I love you, Your Majesty. I need you to do more, to do better. But I love you. And I'm sorry.

That rage was good.. it made him determined but it wouldn’t do any good in the long run, Blitzø knew how to brawl and kill sure .. but did he know how to fight? How to get the better of an opponent ?

Certainly not with how easy Lucifer was parrying his blows , there were several openings for him to choose from but he focused on just dodging and blocking, side stepping here and there leading him in a circle to trip him up.

“You know I can’t tell if your angry at me.. or flattering me~” he laughed, eyes bright once more this is the most fun he’s had in a while , a bit of his old spark coming to his life .

He was an inventor , a creator and a father one of the best titles he’s ever had .

Perhaps this Imp knew about that.. in that case he won’t make his child an orphan . Not today , but he will leave Blitzø something to remember him by.

He suddenly , finally swung out his sword, knocking the imp in the chest with the flat of the blade the hellfire spitting and hissing into the leather.

His first hit, he didn’t put his full power in it but it was enough to send him into the ground hard— a reminder that he was fighting not just an Angel, but an Archangel .

“You really think I value sinners more then Hellborn? Have you ever wondered why sinners can’t leave the pride ring .. why the exorcists never target the Imps and hellhounds?” He stalked towards him as he talked , his shadow growing and shifting into a unknownable form, the crown of fire appearing above his head as two large Horns grew from his head.

“Ever wonder why the overlords seek other sinners or royalty to get their souls and power from ?” He asked him again .

He kicked one of the Angelic blades over to Blitzø, “Pick it up”

[legends-live-in-memories]

Focus On Me

i want yall to pretend i dont have outstanding wips i need to finish lmao. Have this instead:

Dickinette One-shot 1.9K words

Summary: 

“Dick is pissed as hell after arguing with Bruce.

His solution? Go to an underground fight club to get the shit beaten out of him.”

without further ado

Richard Grayson was many things. He was a professional acrobat. He was a dedicated vigilante. Son of freaking Batman himself. And now? Now he was pissed as hell. The fallout between him and Bruce wasn’t supposed to get this bad. Wasn’t supposed to go on this long. The radio silence was deafening and the cold shoulder burned hotter than any flaming hoop he jumped through as a kid. He knew Bruce had issues about Dick’s decision but that had nothing to do with his capabilities as a vigilante and everything to do with Bruce’s own fears and insecurities. Thinking about it just gets him riled up and he keeps replaying the harsh words they threw at each other before fists started flying too.

He needs to get out of his head for a few hours before he plans what his next move is. No. He needed to get out of his head, yes, but he needs to breathe and maybe punch someone who he doesn’t fear disappointing or someone who hasn’t dumped a ferry’s load of emotional bullshit on him. Planning what comes next can have the decency to at least wait a week. 

Trying to distract himself, he went to an underground boxing club he discovered when he was sixteen. The club was deep in the East End, hidden between the Black Bass Bar and 83rd Street. He’s been sneaking there every now and again when he wanted the time to recenter himself and get grounded before facing the world. It was therapeutic, the bruising knuckles, the blistered lips, the burning sweat in his eyes. It was rough, jaded and unpolished. Everything he wasn’t allowed to be. 

He snuck in through the regular back entrance that was reserved for fighters. The air reeked of tequila and piss and cigarettes. He could already hear the cacophony of roars and jeers from the club’s patrons as a match went on in the center ring. Making his way to the side of the ring to put his name into the bracket, he sees the current fight come to a close with a knockout. The poor guy was lying limply with a twisted ankle and a suspiciously dark bruise forming on his left side. The mat is soiled with blood, spit and what was possibly bile in one corner. Dick swung his gaze over to the fighter left standing. 

His breath feels punched out as he takes in the absolute powerhouse before him. A lean figure clad in simple matching black spandex and sports bra that left nothing to the imagination. Her bare feet were bruised and taped in seemingly random places but Dick recognised an arch to them that was only achieved through professional dancing or gymnastics. She was light on her feet, strong on her toes. Chiseled abs that put Superman to shame were marred by scars on pale skin and a fresh bandage over what could possibly be a recent stab wound resting near her hip. He eyed her wrapped fists that were caked in blood and dirt as she flexed and curled her fingers repeatedly. 

If he was left breathless by her physique then her face left him dead and buried. Bold blue eyes narrowed in concentration with her busted lips curled up in a sneer. Her cheeks were flushed and her entire face was covered in a light sheen of sweat. Her hair is pulled back into a regular ponytail with loose strands framing her face. Her hair, pure black, except for bleached blonde ends, looks greasy and unkept, highlighting her lack of care regarding her appearance. Her shoulders are hiked up to her ears and her muscles twitch and flex with pent up energy. She carries herself like someone who’s addicted to pain and the worst parts of themselves, desperate for a quick fix; the perfect reflection for how he feels right now.  Dick can’t wait to get in the ring.

“I’ll pay you $50 to get me in the ring with her right now.” He turned his neck to the fight coordinator who was counting a wad of cash. The balding man barely looked at him and just held out his hand for the payment. Dick couldn’t get his money out fast enough and before he even confirmed that he was the next fight, he was already taking his shirt off and going between the rope barriers to the floor.

The loser of the last fight was being dragged off with no concern for his well-being, while the victor stood off to the side guzzling some water. She barely side-eyes him, a quick sweep of her eyes without turning to face him, and he already feels himself flushing hot from the attention. He preens and starts stretching out his shoulders, rolling his ankles and warming up his legs at the same time. 

He barely registers the presence of the announcer, ears filled with cotton and eyes narrowing at his opponent. He looks for weaknesses, anything that would get him an edge, as he crouches into a starting position. Her wound is an obvious target and she’s short enough for easy face and neck shots. Hair pulling is also an option if he feels particularly brutish. She mirrors his stance, crouch closer to her feet and legs wider to increase lunging distance, and the full force of her gaze almost bowls him over. His eyes harden into ice shards, not willing to be swayed by twin pools of blue fire. The bell dings. He charges.

He swings an uppercut that just grazes her chin and she recoils, spins back and jabs an elbow in his ribs. He grabs her by the same elbow and twists his wrist. She twinges in pain but the hold doesn’t last long. She follows the rotation of her arm and faces him. He smells faint traces of beer on her lips and his mind swims. Pain erupts in his nose as she smashes her forehead into him. She kicks into his knee and sweeps his other leg out from underneath him. She clasps her fists together and drives them into the protruding knobs of his spine, ramming him into her awaiting knee. She moves to pin him and he uses this to his advantage. He grabs the arm that was about to press into his throat and spins her around on top of him, his chest to her back. He locks one leg around hers and cants his weight to the side, pinning her face first into the disgusting mat; he completely blankets her with his much larger body. This position doesn’t hold for long either. She still has an arm free and she uses it to punch into the side of his head. It’s not a particularly strong hit, but with the pain in his nose, and his brain feeling like it’s underwater, it is enough to disorient him and she pushes him off by her hips. 

Her narrow escape lights a fire under his skin and he reaches to grapple for her again. She slips away, again, and stands. He scurries to stand as well and immediately ducks from a leg swinging for his ribs. 

“What brings you here?” Dick almost gets whiplash from how fast he has to move. He was not expecting her to engage in conversation, much less initiate it. But she doesn’t sound malicious, just curious, and she pauses in her assault in attacks to display how genuine she was.

“Same as everyone else,” he says. He swings right for her head and follows left when she ducks, knocking her in her shoulder. “I want to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist and get slapped around for a while. You?”

She snickers at his honesty and drops into a leg sweep. He jumps over the leg but clearly she was expecting it. She rides her momentum into a roundhouse that knocks him flat as he descends. She doesn’t hesitate and charges to pin him again. 

He lets her.

“Why does someone as pretty as you want to risk ruining that nice face of yours?” Her face is close, much closer than this pin requires but he doesn’t want to push her away. But the show must go on so he kicks her in the stomach, digging his toe into her bandaged side to get her off. She recoils like a snake about to spring and regards him with cold resentment. She clearly doesn’t like the reminder of her injuries. 

“I could ask you the same thing, sweetheart. What’s a lovely lady like you doing here getting down and dirty with the local dogs?” She is many things he regards, but lovely is not one of them. ‘Stray cat’ would better describe the scrappy woman before him. The address sets her on edge and he almost regrets describing her as such. Almost. Her next series of punches have him on the defensive and he’s pushed back all the way until he feels the ropes rubbing into the bare skin of his back. The flurry of sensations is exhilarating. Suddenly it’s too much and not enough. He ducks the next punch and grabs both wrists. He made the mistake the first time and knows better now. She won’t escape him unless he lets her. Not one to be outdone, she pulls one more trick out. She doesn’t resist his grip and instead leans up closer to his ear. Her chest is pressed flush against him and he knows she’s tipping just to reach him. Her lips, damp with sweat and cooling blood, brush against his ear and a weight settles at the base of his spine.

“Got a firm grip there?” her voice is soft, almost delicate, and he almost doesn’t register the question. His tongue feels like lead and his mouth has run dry; his brain can’t make the right connections to form words. He tightens his hold on her as an answer instead. She gets it though because she chuckles a swift ‘Good’ before she’s leaping and bracing her feet against his stomach. She leans back and uses her weight to pull them both to the ground, then she lifts her feet and flips him over. His fingers loosen and she slips out of his hold again. She follows the momentum of her roll and sits firmly on his hips, one leg pinning each of his down. She grabs both of his wrists in her small hand and uses the other to tip his chin back, his skull crashing into the mat harshly, blunt nails digging into his skin.

Her face looms over his, again closer than is strictly necessary, and she smirks at him. Her tongue peaks out and swipes at the sweat above her upper lip. He holds his breath, waiting to hear what she has to say next. His patience doesn’t reward him that satisfaction, however. A ding echoes into the room, cutting through the shouts and growls of their captive audience. She won. 

Her victorious smile is a thing of beauty, he can’t really lament his loss. Before he could overthink and get lost in his head he takes a dive headfirst and gives into his impulses.

“I’m Richard Grayson. Call me Dick.” He sounds breathless and rung out. 

“I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” her name is perfect like her. She releases his arms and moves to get off him. She offers a hand to help him up and he takes it. Before he could say something stupid she continues her introduction.

“You can call me Nette. I hope to see you next week.”

She will.

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Meeting and Dating Eric Draven

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(I chose to retcon Shelley in this but I wouldn’t be against writing something that involves her character in the future. Hope you enjoy!)

- You first met Eric at a cassette shop some time before his death. By pure coincidence, you’d looked up and met his eye just as he entered the shop. He held your gaze for a moment before you quickly averted your eyes and busied yourself with searching the shelves for the artist you were looking for. 

- A minute or so later, you could feel a presence besides you. When you snuck a glance, you found that it was the same man from before prompting your heart to skip a beat. He was tall, dark, and beautifully alternative. The most perfect man you’d ever seen in real life. 

- Staying quiet, you focused on the task at hand; though it was a bit difficult with him beside you. After a bit of searching, you finally found the cassette you were looking for and pulled it off the shelf, examining it for a quick second.

“I love them.” the mans quiet voice rang out from beside you.

“Pardon?” you’d nearly squeaked, looking up at the mans face which was now glancing down at you.

“Sorry,” he apologized, smiling while shaking his head. “The Cure; I love them. They’re one of my favorites. Have you heard their latest song; ‘Burn’ I think it was. It’s been all over the radio; at least the channels that I listen to.”

- The two of you talked for a long time, hopping from one artist to the next and then from subject to subject. You continued to talk even as you were checking out and leaving the shop. Speaking with him just seemed so natural, so easy.

- The two of you stood outside the door of the shop, neither of you really wanting your conversation to end but knowing that it had to at some point.

- You were just about to say goodbye when he spoke, telling you that his band would be playing at the concert club down the street that night and that he’d be happy to see you there. Now, how could you say no to that?

- So that night, you got a bit dressed up and headed over to the club he told you about. It wasn’t exactly your usual scene but at the time, it seemed worth going to; if only just to see the man again.

- The instant you got there, you could practically feel the music reverberating off the walls as you tried to find an empty place to stand or sit. Glancing at the stage, your eyes immediately found the exact man you were looking for, shredding on his guitar in all his gothic glory.

- Every now and again, you could see his eyes sweep over the crowd before finally finding you, a small smile making its way onto his face. You stayed there until his band played their final song, nearly an hour and a half after you’d arrived.

- Once they left the stage, Eric came over and greeted you, asking you to wait just a minute as he went to put his guitar away. You obliged and soon enough the two of you were sitting together at one of the small tables in the club, trying to talk to each other over the noise.

- Finally, he leaned forward and spoke in your ear, asking if you wanted to go some place. You happily agreed and the two of you found yourselves seated at a small diner which wasn’t too far away from the club.

- The two of you sort of consider this your first date. You sat and talked for hours, sipping coffee and eating. He got delightfully bashful when you complimented his music, looking down at the table with a smile before quickly changing the subject back to you.

- You shared your first kiss in the rain a few nights later after another one of your dates. There was no way of escaping the downpour so you were sort of just forced to run through it until you could find a bit of shelter. By the time you were able to get under something, you were already freezing and soaked, but all you could do was laugh.

“We might as well just keep on walking, huh?” He’d joked and you agreed, stepping back out into the rain and beginning to walk again.

- You were a few steps away from him when you felt his hand on your arm, softly spinning you around so that you were facing him. You looked up at his face, watching the rain fall down from his cheeks and drip from his hair before he pulled you into him and pressed his lips to yours.

- You closed your eyes, kissing back as he wrapped his arms tight around you. It felt like the world around you disappeared, the only signs of it being the constant pitter patter of rain on your skin. Neither of you wanted the moment to end, even as you stood softly shivering.

- The two of you were dating for nearly a year when you got a late night call from the police. After the first few words, you could barely hear what they were saying, it was like the entire world came crashing down around you.

- You’d come to find out that it was a suspected robbery gone bad and that Eric had died. You were inconsolable for months and even a year later, you still felt as though there was a massive hole in your heart that would never be filled. That was when you were confronted with a face from your past.

- It was late one night and you were walking home from work, slightly paranoid as per usual. Apparently your paranoia was there for good reason as a man began to follow closely behind you while you walked. Unbeknownst to you; or him, he wasn’t the only one keeping a close eye on your figure.

- You began walking faster, hoping that it was just a misunderstanding. That hope was soon crushed as the man behind you began to speed up as well.

- Finally, you broke out into a sprint, praying that you could make it to some shop before the man reached you. You could hear him begin to give chase before suddenly, his footsteps just ...disappeared.

- You slowly came to a stop, glancing behind you and finding no one there. Confused, you searched the area, trying to spot the man but still finding nothing. Finally, someone emerged from a nearby alleyway ...but it wasn’t the man from before.

- He was taller with longer hair and odd paint covering his face. He looked vaguely familiar from afar but it was only after he got close enough for you to see his face that you finally recognized him.

“Eric?” You asked in disbelief as he stopped before you.

“I always told you that I didn’t like you walking home alone.” He said softly, a weak smile playing at his painted lips.

- Without another word, you closed the distance between you, your hands shakily reaching up to touch his face, prompting him to close his eyes. His arms wove around you and pulled you into a tight hug, a hug you returned with just as much vigor, afraid that he’d vanish if you didn’t hold on tight enough.

- He was back. Back and here to stay.

- As much as he would love to be touching you at all times, he also doesn't want anyone to see the two of you together. He doesn’t want you somehow being dragged into something because his enemies saw the two of you together or because police believe you’re somehow involved in his revenge plot. So he tries not to interact with you in public, at least not where anyone could catch you. 

- He’s sort of your little secret; a figure that only you notice, a person that only you know exists. It’s hard to stop a small smile from coming onto your face whenever you’re asked about your love life or pressured to get out into the dating scene. If only they knew. 

- Soft caresses. Whenever his hands are on you, they’re; more often than not, being intimate, gentle and loving. You can practically feel his adoration for you in his every touch. 

- Brushing the hair out of his face so you can see and kiss him properly.

- Long, tight hugs.

- Passionate kisses. 

- Having his makeup smeared across your face. He runs a finger across the paint, rubbing his thumb over your lips and calling you beautiful.

- Sitting up late at night with him and stargazing. 

- Waking up to soft kisses. Oftentimes it’s in the middle of the night but you don’t really mind, you just tiredly reach out to him as he takes off his boots and joins you in bed. 

- He opts for more meaningful and romantic nicknames. Things like: Annabel Lee, darling, beloved, angel, my love, my life. 

- Getting poetry and songs written about you. A lot of the time, he’ll leave them for you to find or; if they’re a song, quietly sing them to you in the dark of the night. 

- He likes being held in your arms when you cuddle, his head on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. But he also loves to hold you, wrapping his arms tight around you and cherishing the way you snuggle into him. 

- Eric is absolutely, irrevocably in love with you. You’ve never had a man so infatuated with you and you never will again. Your relationship isn’t the most conventional or normal, but you never doubt for a second that he loves you.

- He can’t stand the thought of you thinking that he doesn’t care. It’s the easiest way to tear him up inside.  

- He’s incredibly sweet with you, always reassuring you with a laugh when you do something wrong, never getting mad at you for your mistakes and always making you feel better when you’re feeling down. 

- Teasing each other, he likes spooking you a bit and overall just making you laugh. 

- He’s still got a good sense of humor. His jokes may be stupid and he may tell you them a hundred times each but you never mind. 

- Dancing together. Sometimes its romantic slow dancing and other times he’ll just break out into a little jig.

- Getting to watch all his gymnastic and athletic skills. He both amazes and amuses you with the things he does. 

- Grand romantic gestures. He’s a hopeless romantic at heart. 

- He used to have warm hands and he resents the fact that they’re always cold now. One of the main reasons he likes to hold your hands is because he can feel your warmth seeping into his skin. 

- A lot of the time, he’ll just show up and/or vanish into thin air. He’s most likely scared you every now and again with the way he just appears in the doorway of your room or knocking at your window. 

- He wants to take care of you whenever he can. Injured, sick, upset; he’s there for you and knows exactly what to do to make you feel better. 

- Trying to help explain everything that happened to him and figure out how he’s back again; and how to keep him that way. 

- He loves the little things about you; something he learned to do while you were together and perfected while he was dead. He could name a million things off the top of his head that you do or about your appearance that he absolutely adores. 

- Having him play the guitar for you. You’ll usually sit behind him, resting your cheek on his back while he strums along, sometimes humming the words to one of his bands songs. 

- Reading gothic literature together. He smiles whenever you tell him he has the perfect voice for it. 

- He loves horror. Anything scary is right up his alley. Horror movies, Halloween, urban legends, scary stories; he loves them all. 

- Taking care of Gabriel for him. The fluffy feline adores you and Eric likes coming home and seeing you curled up with him on the couch or bed. 

- Kissing in the rain and in the dark of the night. 

- He could genuinely sit and talk with you for hours, or just sit with you without saying a word. Just being by your side is enough for him. 

- The two of you tend to stay indoors and enjoy quiet nights in, he liked it even before everything happened to him. He prefers being alone with you with no way to be interrupted. 

- Getting to pet and interact with his crow. The two of you wind up spending a lot of time together. 

- Getting close to and helping take care of Sarah. He loves just sitting back and watching the two of you play around. He’s adorable when he joins in on the fun. 

- He loves how you make him feel normal, always treating him the same as before and making him feel like his old self again just by being with you. 

- Tracing his scars. He sort of likes when you do it, it’s like you’re taking away the memories of that day and replacing them with happy ones. 

- Comforting him when he thinks about his death and looks into your mind to see your memories of life without him. You just wrap yourself around his back and let him feel what he has to. 

- Eric kinda goes feral sometimes. There’s two versions of this Eric: 1) the guy who kills and 2)the guy who’s looking at you with the eyes of a wolf, wanting to eat you alive. Sometimes he’ll just pounce, pulling you into his body and smashing his lips to yours.

- He’s incredibly protective of you. He knows how dangerous your city is and how fragile life can be. He’s determined to make sure nothing ever happens to you; even if it means hurting or killing other people. 

- Because he can’t really be seen with you, he has a bit of a mean streak when it comes to jealousy. If he can, he’ll scare off anyone who he thinks is getting too close to you, threatening them the moment he can get them alone. You’re his and his alone.

- He never gets upset with you. He might have a bit of a temper; particularly after his death, but you’ll never be on the receiving end of it. You very rarely; if ever, fight, the only times he’ll argue or fight with you will when he’s worried about your safety which is something you’ll never hold against him. 

- He’ll never get tired of hearing you say you love him. Oftentimes, he’ll ask you to say “it” again, nuzzling into you while you giggle and repeat yourself. 

- He tells you he loves you constantly, repeating it between kisses, while kissing your forehead, or saying it while gazing deeply into your eyes. It feels so natural for him to say it; there's never any second guessing, it’s the one thing he’s completely sure about in his life. 

- You aren’t sure what will happen to either of you in the future. All you know is that he’ll love you and you’ll love him for the rest of eternity. 

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

Hi Ralph. I don’t want to belabor the babygate conversation, and so I completely understand if this ask isn’t one you want to post, but I did want to thank you for adding your voice to the conversation, and especially for your discussion of what it means to be a father, and this fandom’s particularly narrow view of what would make Louis a good or bad father. I don’t believe Louis is Freddie’s son, but my reasoning for that has nothing to do with the things we do or do not see Louis doing to support Freddie, and it rankles when people assert that if Louis were Freddie’s dad he would be a deadbeat dad and they’d “unstan.” As you’ve made clear, there isn’t just one way to be a father, or to be a parent generally, and there isn’t just one way for a child to be raised knowing they are loved and will be taken care of. I’m a prime example of this.

My father was an addict, he was in and out of my life because addiction is messy and steals people away from you. My mother chose to divorce him when I was 10, and raised my sister and I as a single mom, she didn’t even bring in a step parent to lighten the load, it was all on her (and if you’re thinking she sounds like a super hero you’d be right but that’s not my point here). If you were to look at my childhood based only on those things I just divulged, you’d probably think my dad was a bad father, and I had a bad childhood because of it. In fact, when I was a child, many people didn’t know my father was an addict and struggling with all the associated mental and physical issues. They just knew my parents got divorced when I was in elementary school, my mom had full custody, and my dad was almost never publicly around, and the assumption fully was that he was a deadbeat dad, a bad father. To an outsider it probably wouldn’t look all that different from the Louis/Briana/Freddie dynamic - single mom, absentee father, father makes sporadic appearances, doesn’t seem particularly connected to or involved with his child, the financial support is sketchy, the father doesn’t seem to even want custody, etc. But that’s not the full story, nor is it the truth of the story. My father didn’t have physical or legal custody over my sister and I because that wouldn’t have been in our best interests - a fact which he was (mostly) aware of and in agreement with. He was, occasionally, completely gone from our lives, because that was the best way for us to stay emotionally and physically safe at those particular times. He didn’t come to many of my band concerts or my sister’s gymnastics meets. He was not the public face of parenthood, and I won’t pretend he was. But he loved me, and I never, ever doubted that he loved me. I spent nearly every weekend with me, with only a few exceptions, from the time he and my mom divorced until he died when I was 17. He would pick me up from school in the afternoon or take me out to dinner or to catch a movie in the evenings so that we could spend a little bit of extra time together. He was the first person I called when something big happened, or just when I wanted someone to chat with. He was always a patient and loving and judgment free listener and advice giver, and, perhaps most importantly, he was vocally and zealously supportive of my mother making the decisions she did to take him out of the picture at times, and to take full custody of my sister and I. He understood the limitations of his ability to parent, he understood the implications those carried, and he understood that his parenthood would necessarily look different than someone else’s because of it. But he wasn’t any less my father, and he didn’t love me any less, because of that. It wasn’t all sunshine and roses, anyone who has lived through a divorce or loved an addict knows that it wouldn’t have been, but when I look back on my childhood I don’t think of myself as having come from a broken home, and I don’t feel like I was dealt a shitty hand or had a bad father even though I know a lot of outsiders did. I’m not saying all this to garner sympathy or attention, but rather to emphasize that (1) our preconceived ideas about what makes a parent good or bad are often narrow and naive, and don’t account for the wide variety of circumstances people actually find themselves in, and (2) you never really know what’s going on in someone else’s life or family.

Like I said, I don’t think Louis is Freddie’s father. But even if he is, I don’t necessarily think he’s a bad father. I think he is a human in a situation that is far messier and more complex than any of us can grasp, and I think all the time he spends out of the spotlight or MIA entirely should be proof enough that most of his life happens outside our purview - there is room and opportunity for the true narrative of his fatherhood to be something entirely different than what we’re being sold. And even if it’s not? Even if Louis is Freddie’s father and his involvement in Freddie’s life is limited to exactly what we see (both of these are big “ifs” to me but I’m willing to suspend my disbelief for a second) - that still doesn’t make Louis a dead beat dad. There are a world of possibilities in this situation, and, like you said, one of them is that the level and extent of Louis’ involvement is what has been decided on as the best path forward for Freddie. We. Just. Don’t. Know. And it seems unfair and hasty to make sweeping declarations like “if Louis really was the father he’d be a deadbeat dad” in the face of so many unknowns.

Anyway. This has gotten way longer than I meant for it to (very sorry…) and there’s a good chance by the time you see this the conversation will be over and it’ll be a moot point for you to even read it. But my original intent in even sending this stands - I truly do want to express my gratitude for your voice in this fandom, and this conversation specifically. The way you advocate for people to take a deep breath, accept you don’t know everything, and then hold space for a world of possibilities in the unknown is refreshing and I think much needed here. The way you’ve discussed this approach as it relates to Louis’ potential fatherhood and all the judgments about his morals that are made surrounding it has really meant a lot to me. So thank you. I hope you have a lovely day 💕

Oh anon - thank you so much for this message. It was really lovely to read about your family and your parents and their love for you. I'm so sorry that your father died. And I'm so glad that you felt both of your parents love so strongly.

Thanks so much for your kind words, they mean a lot to me. One of the reasons that I approach this tumblr the way I do is because of who is going to read it. Louis isn't going to read it, and neither is Briana or anyone else involved. But other fans will. Fans who have messy families, and messy lives and who don't live their life in the way other fans think people should. This world is very hard to navigate for a lot of people and there are more than enough shoulds in it already, people don't need to hear more just because they like a boyband.

[i-drink-and-i-write-fics]

Let Nature Take Her Course

Chapter 6 (7 on AO3): Who Are You?

Summary: Everett begins to have his doubts about Juna.

“What did I miss while I was gone?” I called out to the lab assistant as I wandered in. There had been no issue getting back to my hotel in London after that whole Thadeus-the-abominable-snowman, so I had taken my time getting a flight to Poland. After check-in, I would toy with the idea of “retiring” so I could devout my time fully to the world restart.

“Pretty quiet here, though the CIA are on they’re way,” Stacy called out from her end of the lab. She had come with the lab and I hadn’t really cared. This job was just to make me seem human so I could keep a closer eye. I certainly didn’t need the money and my ‘doctorate’ was fabricated so I could be high up on the human food-chain to keep a better feel on the pulse of the governments of the world.

At the mention of the CIA, I instantly wanted a drink. Not that I could get drunk, but I felt the warm liquor - any liquor - running through my veins would calm me down. It was taking all my restraint not to lift up the heavy metal lab table and hurl it across the room.

“Why in fresh hell are they coming here? We don’t work with the US Government in any aspect.”

Stacy sighed as she came over. “The agent on the phone wouldn’t say, only stating it was for the safety of the lab personnel.”

Fucking hell. This has Agent Ross written all over it. Didn’t think he would take me seriously when I said I was going to visit myself. Clearly, I am underestimating him and that stops now.

As if on cue, he walked in trailed by three other agents. The tagalongs began to sweep the lab as Ross made a bee-line for me. “Dr. Everhart, are you and your assistant ok?”

“That is such an odd question to ask. I think a far more appropriate one would be ‘why the fuck are you in my lab?!’ But that’s just me.” Stacy’s jaw dropped in shock at my lack of cooperation. I just turned my back to them and walked over to my lab bench, removing my suit jacket in the process. “Unless I have missed something, we have not alerted the authorities of any safety issues. And if we had, I’m pretty sure it would be to the Polish law enforcements if not Interpol themselves. Not the US CIA, where you have zero jurisdiction here.”

The was a painful silence as my words hung in the air. And then the very distinct sound of footsteps trying to be soft as they approached me. “We believe you to be in danger.”

I didn’t bother to look at Ross as I pulled my lab coat on. “And why would you think that? Have we placed a distress call?”

“Mother Nature specifically mentioned you after completely freezing the Secretary of State. We would have been here yesterday but your assistant said you were traveling from London.”

I looked up to see fear in his eyes. And not for himself; for me. Which was absurd, but of course he didn’t know that. “I can’t even begin to describe how my life isn’t in danger. Now please leave, before you contaminate anything.”

He measured me with his eyes before responding. “You’re not afraid of her.”

“Why would I be? I’m not the one who went dicking around where I shouldn’t, as I warned.” I began to arrange a microscope.

“Yes, you did.” Came a quiet reply. “You seemed to know exactly what she would do, despite saying you didn’t know her very well.”

There it is. The mistrust humans are supposed to have towards me. Wonder what the fuck took it so long. Perhaps my pheromones worked too well with him. “Now you’re implying I knew she would turn Secretary Ross into Frosty the Snowman. That is some mental gymnastics you have done.”

“Alright, maybe not that scenario entirely but you knew she was dangerous.”

“Good fucking lord.” I looked up from the table to glare at him. “How in the ever-loving fuck did you become CIA?! EVERYONE knows she’s dangerous. That’s why you geniuses had a meeting about it a few days ago.”

“I’m trying to save your life and you’re disregarding it! She specifically mentioned you! I need you to trust me!”

“That’s you’re biggest mistake. I don’t trust anyone and neither should you. The end of the world is coming. Just accept it.” I leaned over the table at him. “What the fuck is your fascination with me? Did you ever stop and ask yourself why? A complete stranger you decided to hit on before AND DURING a shootout. Do yourself a favor and use your brain and not that tiny head between your legs. You may actually survive to see the end of the world if you do.”

My last part wasn’t quiet and the room was deadly silent as my words hung in the air. Everett was trying to fight his face growing red and losing the battle. “Was that a threat?”

“I don’t make threats.”

“No. You make promises.” He finished.

Fuck. A human that actually pays attention. Who knew I’d see one in my existence?

“Actually, I was going to say I don’t make threats because I’m a scientist. We only offer what has a high probability of happening based on research and analysis. And my base research of just listening to you says you will probably die soon because you can’t help pissing off a god-tier mutant.” I stood back up and walked towards the back of my lab, knowing fully well he would follow.

He didn’t disappoint. “You’re right. We did know she was dangerous. But I can’t sit back and let someone destroy the world.”

“Destroy humanity. She wants to destroy humanity, not the world. They are not automatically one and the same despite us wanting to believe it’s so.” I turned to face him.

Everett nodded his head. “You’re right again. It’s not. And yes, I don’t know you. Though, not from lack of trying on my part.”

I rolled my eyes and he cautiously moved closer.

“I can’t explain it, but the first time I saw you - when you strolled up to that bar - I had the weirdest sense of déjà vu. As if we had known each other before.” His voice was now low so the other agents wouldn’t hear.

“Corny as hell, frankly.”

Everett laughed, “yeah, I know. But it’s true. I felt drawn to you.”

“Well, as long as we’re using clichés, you should know I’m married to my work. So it would be best if you looked elsewhere.”

“I’m not a bad guy, really.”

But maybe I am.

He sighed. “Listen, I’m torn in two. Part of me is full agent, wanting to protect you because she mentioned your name. But part of me wants to get to know you better. Would it be so bad to really go out to dinner one time?”

“Is that how you want to spend the last moments on earth? Not trying to save humanity but giving your personal hope just one night? Sounds like misplaced priorities.”

Everett gave me a smirk and for the first time I noticed he looked like hell. Sure, he had shaved and clearly changed since the last time I saw him, but the bags under his eyes indicated he hadn’t slept one minute since I killed his boss.

“Maybe I just know how I would spend my last days on earth - besides trying to save it.”

“Maybe you should be spending it catching up on your sleep.” I raised an eyebrow at his condition.

His face grew sober. “I haven’t slept since she left the compound. When she froze Secretary Ross…. I’ve seen people die before. Occupational hazard. But this, this was something different. If she was human, that part left her long ago. And when she mentioned your name, I just had an instinct to find you. To protect you. To keep you from ending like him.”

I could tell from his demeanor, his eyes, the way he spoke, that he was being completely honest with me. And it threw me for a loop. I couldn’t even remember the last time anyone worried for my safety. Perhaps my parents. But that was literally thousands of years ago and it was hard to tell if I could trust my memory pre-mutation.

But this behavior, it was striking a long-dead cord in me. Compassion? Perhaps. But I would not allow myself to feel it. To feel anything for him. Seriously, how well could a relationship work out once he found out I was the one who killed his boss? That I was the one who will end humanity? It would be a shorter romance than Romeo and Juliet, that’s for damn sure.

Sighing, I leaned back against a wall. “Listen, I know I come off as a prickly bitch, but I am… thankful you were concerned for my safety.”

“Was that so hard?” He smirked again.

I glared at him. “That being said, as I mentioned before it’s completely misplaced. One of the few people Mother Nature leaves alone is environmentalists. Especially ones desperately trying to save the planet. If she were to contact me, I have no doubt it would be to see if humans were finally taking her seriously.”

“But why you?”

“Because I’m one of the few humans who have crossed her path and come out alive. But don’t let that fool you into thinking she and I are buds. Just one of the few not likely to die. At least, not until Armageddon.”

“So how do I get on her good side? How do humans?”

“I’m afraid it’s too late.” The exhaustion in my voice was evident. Why did humans have to be this way? Covering the earth like a plague. Every other organism lived in balance with their surroundings.

“You sound like you’ve had this conversation before.”

“It may have come up once or twice.”

Before we could continue, an agent walked up. “Agent Ross, no sign of her.”

“Thank you, Agent Carter.”

“But we believe she may be in the area.”

Now that confused me. What sign could they be misinterpreting? I haven’t set anything off.

“What makes you believe that?”

“As I was walking outside, the sky went from perfect to threats of a thunderstorm in under five minutes.”

Right, damn. I forget that my emotions can be tied to the weather when I’m not paying attention.

Everett nodded his head. “Then it’s settled. Dr. Everhart, you and your assistant will stay at the CIA safe house tonight while one agents stays outside your residence. Just for tonight.”

“I have a feeling we don’t have a say in this.”

“Not in this regard. No.”

Fucking hell. This was going to be a long night.

Chapter 7

[wonkasmissstarshine]

The Chocolatier’s Rose {Willy Wonka x OC} Ch.13

GIFs not mine. Credit go to owners.

Summary: Charlie’s prize is revealed, but it’s not what he was expecting.

Tagging: @holdmeicant​ @willymywonkers​ @sleepiesapphicxoxo​

"Now, how many children are left?" Willy said. He turned around, taking his goggles off, and faced Charlie and Rose.

"Willy," Rose said, taking off her goggles as well. "Charlie's the only one left now"

Willy's eyes widened and he looked at Charlie. "You mean you're the only one?"

A smile played on Charlie's lips as he nodded. "Yes"

"What happened to the others?" Willy asked playfully, causing Rose to grin. The same grin grew on Willy's face. "Oh, my dear boy! That means you've won!" Willy took Charlie's hand and started shaking it. "I do congratulate you. I really do. I had a hunch, you know, right from the beginning. Well done. Now, we mustn't dilly or dally. Because we have an enormous number of things to do before the day is out!" He grabbed Charlie's wrist and broke the handshake. He then let go of his wrist and walked for the elevator. "But luckily for us, we have the Great Glass Elevator to speed thing al—" Willy ended up walking right into the elevator. Rose gasped as he fell to the floor. Willy stood back up soon after. "Speed things along" He finished. He pressed the button and the elevator opened. "Come on" He urged the Buckets. They got into the elevator with him, dumping their goggles into a bin.

Willy pressed a button, and Charlie became curious about it. "Up and out? What kind of room is that?"

"Hold on" Was all Willy told the boy. Charlie smiled at that, and he looked straight up. The elevator shot up. It was gaining more speed the higher up it went. "Oh, my goodness" Willy said, looking upwards. "We're gonna need to much faster, otherwise we'll just never break through!"

"Break through what?" Charlie asked. Rose had an idea of what Willy meant though, and she internally panicked.

"I've been longing to press that button for years!" Willy stated, staring at the two siblings with an excited grin. "Well, here we go! Up and out!"

"But, do you really mean?" Rose questioned.

"Yeah, I do"

"But it's made of glass!" Rose protested, her panic now becoming externalized. "It'll smash into a million pieces!"

Willy laughed maniacally and looked up again. Rose grabbed onto Charlie, and held him close to her. She closed her eyes, never once daring to open them as they rapidly sped up. Though, she opened her eyes when she heard glass shatter. The elevator had shot up so high that they were in the clouds. Then, the elevator began plummeting to the ground. Rose gripped on even tighter to Charlie, all the whole Willy was giving them a spaced out and dreamy look.  He turned around and pressed a button. The elevator stopped, now with the support of rocket propellers.

Rose let out a sigh of relief, and let go of Charlie. She looked up at Willy, who was smiling gently at her. She returned the smile. The elevator moved along and from it, they could see the other guests leaving the factory.

Augustus was covered in chocolate and licking his fingers. Rose wouldn't be surprised if he was part chocolate.

Violet was back to her normal size, but she was blue now. She was doing cartwheels, flips and contorting in ways contortionists only knew how. Perhaps she could find a new passion in gymnastics.

Veruca was next. Both her and her father were covered in trash. Rose saw Veruca glance up at the elevator, and then turn to her father, presumably asking for a flying glass elevator. Looks like that girl didn't learn anything. Mr Salt must have told Veruca no, because she stomped off a little bit just before her father.

Last, but not least, was Mike. Mr Teavee was carrying Mike's jacket for him, since he was now too tall and skinny to wear it. Well, if Mike by some miracle ever got into sports, basketball would be perfect for him.

Rose couldn't say she felt bad for the children though. It was their own fault, and by extension, their parents fault as well, especially Mr Salt.

"Where do you live?" Willy asked the two Buckets.

Both of them turned around. Charlie pointed out their home. "Right over there. That little house"

******

Mrs Bucket was chopping cabbage in the kitchen, Mr Bucket was reading a newspaper, Grandpa Joe was sweeping up the floor, and Grandma Josephine, Grandpa George, and Grandma Georgina were lying in bed, as usual. "When do you think they'll be back?" Mrs Bucket asked.

"Hard to know, dear" Mr Bucket answered her.

That's when the glass elevator crashed through the roof and landed right in the house. Mrs Bucket shrieked in surprise. Mr Bucket jumped onto the couch. Grandma Georgina, having just woken up from her nap, said, "I think there's someone at the door"

"Hi mom!" Both Charlie and Rose waved at Mrs Bucket. Willy waved too, albeit a small and awkward wave.

Mrs Bucket waved back at her two children, and the man that was with them. "Hi"

Rose and Charlie exited the elevator. They ran over to Mr and Mrs Bucket, and Grandpa Joe. "Mom, dad! We're back!" Charlie exclaimed. The five of them shared a group hug.

Willy had finally stepped out of the elevator, and approached the hugging Buckets. "This is Willy Wonka" Rose introduced, smiling lovingly at the man. Willy looked at Rose and returned the smile. "He gave us a ride home"

"I see that" Mrs Bucket said, glancing up at the ceiling.

Willy looked between Mr and Mrs Bucket. "You must be Charlie and Rose's p...p..." He was struggling to say the word.

"Parents" Mr Bucket finished for him.

"Yeah, that"

"He says Charlie's won something" Rose explained to her parents and grandpa.

"Not just some something" Willy began. He started looking around in the cupboards. "The most something something of any something that's ever been. I'm gonna give this boy my entire factory" Everyone grew shocked expressions on their faces.

"You must be joking!" Grandpa Joe exclaimed.

Willy began to explain. "No, really. It's true. Because, you see, a few months ago, I was having my semi-annual haircut, and I had the strangest revelation. In that one silver hair I saw, reflected my life's work, my factory, my beloved Oompa-Loompas. Who would watch over them after I was gone? I realized in that moment, I must find an heir. And I did, Charlie. You"

"That's why you sent out the golden tickets!" Charlie concluded with glee.

"Uh-huh" Willy nodded.

"What are Oompa-Loompas?" Mrs Bucket asked in a whisper.

"I invited five children to the factory and the one who was the least rotten would be the winner" Willy opened up one more cupboard, finding Charlie's toothpaste tube cap replica of the chocolate factory.

"That's you, Charlie" Rose said, giving her brother a hug.

Willy walked up to Charlie and asked, "So, what do you say? Are you ready to leave all this behind and come live with me at the factory?"

"Sure, of course!" Charlie said. Rose wasn't sure she'd ever seen him smile so brightly. "I mean, it's alright if my family comes too?"

"Oh, my dear boy, of course they can't!" And just like that, everyone's smiles dropped. But it wasn't only Rose's smile that dropped. She could feel her heart sinking down into her stomach. "You can't run a chocolate factory with a family hanging over you like an old, dead goose" Willy glanced over at the grandparents. "No offence"

"None taken, jerk" Grandpa George replied.

Willy threw him an annoyed glance but ignored the comment all the same. "A chocolatier has to run free and solo. He has to follow his dreams. Gosh darn the consequences" Willy stepped back into the elevator. "Look at me. I had no family, and I'm a giant success"

Rose's eyes were brimming with tears. She wanted to say something to Willy, but as soon as she opened her mouth, it immediately snapped shut. Charlie grabbed her hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze. "So, if I go with you to the factory, I won't ever see my family again?" He asked.

"Yeah" Willy nodded. "Consider that a bonus"

"Then I'm not going" Charlie decided. "I wouldn't give up my family for anything. Not for all the chocolate in the world"

Willy's smile fell from his face. "Oh, I see. That's weird" He gave one more shot at trying to convince Charlie. "There's other candy too besides chocolate"

"I'm sorry, Mr Wonka. I'm staying here" Charlie told him sharply.

"Wow" Willy frowned, and his eyebrows furrowed. "Well, that's just...unexpected and weird. But I suppose, in that case, I'll just... goodbye then" He gave a nod and was about to press a button. He looked at Charlie again. "Sure you won't change your mind?"

Charlie nodded. "I'm sure"

And for the first time during that whole discussion, Willy tried meeting Rose's gaze. "Rose" He tried. And then he suddenly felt guilty when he saw her face. How could he say all those things in front of her?

Rose looked away, wiping the tears from her face. "Just go, Mr Wonka"

If Willy wasn't feeling defeated before, he definitely was now. It hurt him to hear Rose call him Mr Wonka instead of Willy. It broke his heart. He found himself to care deeply for the girl all in the course of one day. Now, she wouldn't even look him in the eye. With a final goodbye, Willy pressed a button, and the elevator flew out of the house.

"Things are going to get much better!" Grandma Georgina chirped optimistically.

There was a sudden knock on the door. Mrs Bucket went to answer it. It was Harry, and he was holding a wedding dress in his hands. "Hello Buckets!" He greeted, but then quickly noticed all their sad faces. "Is this a bad time?"

Mr Bucket glared at him, and immediately stepped in front of Rose to hide her from view. "What do you want, young man?"

"Oh, well, I've just come to drop this off" Harry explained, holding up the wedding dress. Rose peeked over her father's shoulder, and felt even more tears coming when she saw the white fabric. "It belonged to my sister, but it'll fit Rose" He handed off the gown to Mrs Bucket.

"Er, thank you, Harry" She said unsurely, folding it nicely over her arm.

Harry looked in Rose's direction. She was trying to remain hidden behind her father. Harry smiled, trying to get her attention. "Rose?"

"She's not in the mood to talk, young man!" Grandpa Joe said to him.

Harry got the message and backed off. "Alright, well, I just came here to tell her that the wedding will be tomorrow. One o'clock sharp" His eyes scanned the other Buckets. "And I apologize, but none of you are welcome to the ceremony. I hope you can understand" Harry didn't even wave or say goodbye. He just left the house, leaving the Buckets speechless. "Darling," Mrs Bucket said, turning to face her daughter. "Can you explain to us please?" The tone she used wasn't mad. Her voice was full of concern, and her expression was too. All of the Buckets were.

"Rose, what have we told you?" Mr Bucket said, using a gentle tone, and gripping his daughter gently by the shoulders. "You don't need to marry that boy"

"Well," Rose began, calming down from her sobbing. "Dad, I know you lost your job, and Mrs Mason said the pie shop would be closing soon. Things were only going to get worse, so I saw no other choice other than accepting Harry's marriage proposal"

"But Rose, you don't need to marry him" Mr Bucket assured his daughter. "The factory offered me a much better job in fixing the machines"

"And sweetheart," Mrs Bucket spoke up, rubbing Rose's back. "Mrs Mason stopped by earlier today. She said it was the busiest day she ever had. The bank is giving her an extension, and she's positive she'll be able to pay. She's even able to hire more employees, and she's promoted you to a position in the kitchen baking the pies"

"R-really?" Rose asked both of her parents. Both Mr and Mrs Bucket nodded.

"Rosie" Charlie spoke up, making Rose look down at him. "You're not really going to marry him, are you?"

"Well..." Rose paused, not really sure of what to say. "I..."

"Because, what happens if you do marry him, but he doesn't allow you to see us ever again? I mean, he doesn't even want us at the wedding" Now tears were starting to form in Charlie's eyes. "I don't want him taking you away from me"

This was becoming too much for Rose to handle. She was feeling conflicted. On one hand, she really didn't need to marry Harry anymore for her family's sake. But for Rose's own sake, she was still considering going through with it. She might as well, considering she'll never love anyone the way she loved Willy Wonka again.

She had only known Willy Wonka for one day, but she had fallen deeply in love with him. She never felt that way about anyone before. But now she was never going to see him again. So, Rose figured, she might as well be stuck with Harry for the rest of her life.

"I can't do this right now!" Rose burst out into tears again and ran out the door. The other Buckets couldn't do anything but watch as she did. She needed her space right now.

"Charlie" Grandpa Joe looked down at the boy. "What exactly happened today?"

The boy answered his grandfather. "Rose and Mr Wonka fell in love with each other, but now..." Charlie gazed at the door which Rose ran through moments ago. He then looked up at hole in the ceiling. "They'll never see eachother again"

[manatehispants]

Entertain Me!

“Okay. You can stop now. Like right now.”

Harley kept her arms wrapped tightly around Floyd who despite his words was doing very little to actually make her stop. The wild card blonde acted like she didn’t hear a word the assassin said. She continued to rub her pale skinned face against his cheek like an affectionate cat who had just got done hitting the cat nip. Lawton rolled his eyes. He gave it two more minutes before he attempted another protest.

“I ain’t playing around, Harley. Let go or I’mma shot you right in the face. Last warning about this.”

This time he did try to push her away from him although there was no real force to it. He’d never say it out loud, but he liked the crazy jester. Somewhere along the line she had become meaningful to him. Harley knew it too. She knew Deadshot wasn’t going to ever say he liked her let alone cared for her, but his actions showed it in his own way. And this time it wasn’t all in her head either like it had been with Joker. Nope! This was real. Harley faked a pout, but finally she disentangle herself from the man. She leaned back on the hotel couch laying her head onto Deadshot’s shot and swinging her legs over the other side. Her platinum blonde pigtails dangled just off of Lawton’s lap. He let out a small grunt and wondered why she always did that with such force. He also wondered for the zillionth time why she stuck around him. Was she really so fucked up from her time with Joker that she thought Lawton was as good as it got? He glanced down at Harley, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His heart quickened when his eyes locked onto her’s. They were full of something he knew he didn’t deserve, love and adoration. Laughing Harley winked at him almost as if she knew what he was thinking. Maybe she did. Maybe she knew far more than Lawton credited her for.

“We should go see that Taylor Swift concert the one that is in town tomorrow! I have the perfect outfit! Oh! We could get matching outfits! It will be so fun! I’ll post all the pictures up on Instagram! Eat your heart out Bats and Robin, there’s a new dynamic duo in town!”

Where the Hell had this damn idea come from!? Lawton pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Nope! He didn’t even want to get into that aspect of it with her. It would only give him a headache.

“We ain’t doing that. I told you already I am in town for work. That’s it. And never ever compare us to Batman and his kid sidekick again. Better don’t pretend there is an us cause there ain’t.”

“But I am bored. Come on. Entertain me! Pretty, pretty, please? With a big fat cherry on top? Oh! And sprinkles. We can’t forget those. Great! Now I want ice cream.”

Pouting again Harley sat back up and leaned herself onto the assassin’s muscular body. She ran one hand down his chest her hand stopping to rest on his stomach. Floyd’s body reacted by tensing. It usually wasn’t good when someone touched him in such a vulnerable spot. As much as he wanted to trust Harley.....She was still crazy and crazy people do well, crazy things. He forced himself to relax by inhaling deeply onto his cigarette. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling as he let out a perfect ring of grey-blue smoke. He watched as it slowly rose up. One more was blown out before he bothered to answered her.

“Nobody asked you asked you to stalk me out and break into the hotel room. Which you still haven’t explained why you did.”

He should be pissed with her for that, but he wasn’t. He was actually sort of glad she was her or at least he was when she was making off the wall comments and crushing his balls with her head. Really who the Hell “rested” their head down with that much force? Harley’s darkly painted lips vibrated together as she waved off Lawton’s words.

“Stalking and breaking in are such strong words ta’ be throwin’ around! What I did is more like enthusiastic followin’ against ya wishes with a surprise stop by!”

Floyd gave Joker’s ex girlfriend a blank stare. Harley rolled her eyes and dramatically collapsed herself onto his shoulder. Locks of her shocking blond hair pouring onto him. Like he had done so many times today he again rolled his eyes at her giving off the impression of being put out by this. But both knew the truth, he loved it. He liked having someone in his life who was crazy enough to not only accept all parts of who he was, but to embrace them. Unlike others, Harley understood what the dangers of his work entailed. Sure she liked playing house, but she wasn’t going to force Deadshot to be someone he was not. Just as he would never change her into someone she wasn’t. He didn’t write her off as by product of Joker or see her as a tragic warning story about loving the wrong man. When he looked at Harley that’s what he was looking at.....Harley. There was so few in her life who did this. Sure, there was Ivy and Harley loved the woman to death. But with Ivy it wasn’t that simple. Ivy meant well, but she always wanted to fix Harley. She wanted to take Joker and all parts of him away from her. She didn’t understand that no matter the Clown Prince of Crime would forever be a part of Harley. To be with Ivy meant she would have to give up part of herself, and selfishly Harley wasn’t willing to do that. Maybe there would come a day when she could, but right now she couldn’t. She couldn’t be whatever it was others wanted her to be. She needed a chance to be her own person. Free of Joker, free of being named a sidekick. Ivy always said and did treat her as an equal. This was true, but with Ivy everyone still viewed Harley as a sidekick. They saw Ivy as her Joker replacement. The Harlequin of Love buried her face against Floyd’s shoulder. It was so very child like that for a moment Lawton thought of his daughter.

Outside Harley that was the only person who truly cared for him and who he too cared for. She was why he continued down this path. She was why he would never retire from this work. It was her face that haunted his mind any time he considered turning his gun his next target and onto himself. Lawton finished the last drag of his cancer causing stick and tossed the bud to the floor. Suddenly his heart ached for the one he could never be near and for the life he discovered he would never be able to have. Carefully as if she was made from glass Floyd touched the back Harley’s head. Smiling against his shoulder the wild card nuzzled his shoulder and then looked up at him. God damn her and the things she made him feel. He didn’t want to feel anything! Right now he only wanted the world to be shut out. Maybe he could get to help with that. He cupped Quinn’s face in the palm of one hand, and like clockwork she did as was expected. She understood what was happening. Floy was connecting with her the only way he knew how to be affectionate with another person through sex. She leaned her face into his hand nuzzling against. Her perfectly painted lips laid a soft kiss against his palm. Moving his hand so that part of his palm was now under the infamous bombshell’s chin, Lawton tilted her head up to him and leaned forward kissing her upon the lips. His free arm went around her slender frame pulling her near him. Instantly Harley had both her arms wrapped around him. She needed this as badly as he did. Her body melted against his and her lips felt perfectly at him on his. The taste of cheap beer and cigarettes danced onto her taste buds as she deepened their kiss, pushing him for more.

Almost roughly he tugged her closer now to him. His tongue dipping into her welcoming mouth. Exploring every inch of it as if it was there first time together. Her mouth was sweet. She tasted of cotton cotton candy and cherries.....A mask of innocence. It was as intoxicating as the liquor he had been drinking away all night. Her love is a crazy deadly one and in the end Lawton knows she’s going to fuck him over somehow. She always did, but she also always came back to him. Joker will come calling or someone more attractive will show themselves to her, but for moment in time she belongs to him. It’s thrilling and he’s always been a sucker for a head rush. The jester’s tongue dances into his mouth and soon their tongues entangled with another fighting for dominance. The soft moan that escaped her was quickly making Floyd realize his pants were far too tightly. He pulls his mouth away off her’s. Quinn is staring at him her sapphire eyes clouded with lust. Harley runs her black painted nails down his back and Lawton feels his desire for her.....For what comes next growing. A shiver of pain mixed with pleasure goes down his entire spine.

“Ya gunna be my Prince Charming, sweep me off my feet and take me ta’ bed now or not?”

He shouldn’t do it. Harley shouldn’t be encouraged. He’s going to get burned by her. It’s only a matter time. But fuck it, you’re only going to live once, right? Or that’s what he keeps hearing. He might as well get his rocks off while he still can. He swoops the ex gymnast expert up off the couch and into his arms. Instantly her arms around looped around his neck. Her lips are crashing into his in what will surely be a bruising kiss for the both of them. Not that either care. The small sting of it only adds to the pleasure they are both becoming overwhelmed with as Lawton carries Gotham’s infamous wild card to bed. Tomorrow he has a job that needs to be done. Tomorrow he will be back to being the professional he prides himself on when it comes to work. Tomorrow Harley will be off on yet another on of her crazy adventures proving herself to the word, but mostly proving to herself she can be a solo act. But that’s all stuff of the future. For now the two are more than a little content for what the presence holds for them between the sheets. They will make the most of the night and for awhile neither will worry about that aching loneliness that eats away at them.

[semi-anonyme]

November 3, 2020

12:05pm

I woke up at 7:00am today and I knew a few things: 1.) I would buy a Vitamix and begin to make smoothies every day 2.) I would stop holding onto the past 3.) It would be my last entry on this tumblr

Today, it is Election Day. I am very much hoping Joe Biden will win, not just for my sanity but for everyone’s sanity, for a little hope in humanity’s fight against the allure of anti-intellectualism, scapegoating, its growing tolerance of hate.

I remember the last election day, or rather, the evening. We all thought Hillary would win uneventfully. I remember my colleague dipping out of work early to go to the Javits Center to celebrate her victory. I remember watching in disbelief from my basement computer, walking upstairs with my eyes wide and jaw dropped. “Are you watching the news right now Mike?” “Yeah, Trump is in the lead. It looks like he’s about to win Pennsylvania (or was it Michigan? Or Wisconsin?)” I walked to bed in disgust, woke up in disgust, confirmed my disgust.

There was not one conversation I heard on the train or in the street that day that didn’t involve Trump. That night, I drank alone at Three Diamond Door. I still remember the buff black dude sitting in the corner downing Bell’s Two Hearted IPAs.

Anyway, election day 2020. I’m going out to vote in about 2 hours. I got today off. Thanks, progressive companies.

I’ve had a lot of internal discussions with myself on here, published them as blog posts. I have timestamps to remember them by, I’m glad. In the past ~8 months since the pandemic began, I’ve gone back to a lot of my entries -- oh, this is what it was like in the beginning in March. Oh yes, May, I was indeed watching a lot of K-Dramas, it was getting hotter. Ahhh yes, I did learn a lot about not having the city as my crutch.

Just in general, on this blog, on the countless loose leaf papers in my journal, I’ve had these battles about meaning. This blog pre-dates seeing Jody my therapist, who I’ve been seeing faithfully for over 1.5 years now.

I could go on. The point I’m making rn in this last entry is this -- all that stuff is in the past, it was important, I internalized it. Now it’s time to move on. I’m glad this exists, these 450 entries exist, they exist with a purpose. But now? I know who I am, what I want to be.

I have no dilemma of engineering vs artistry. Now that I’ve been away from loud bars, I have no FOMO about the nightlife. It’s kinda just time to start from scratch, this knowledge.

I just created a new tumblr, domo-knows. I’ll likely have a companion YouTube channel in the future. Anyway, a few and somewhat ambiguous bullets for myself since, you know, this blog was always just for me.

ON THINGS I’M LEAVING BEHIND ACTIONS 1. Random drinking. Today, I’m going to buy an Other Half Finback IPAs, pop them open around 8pm and start watching election results. I’ve gone into detail before about drinking, but just to sum it up, drinking alcohol is the one thing I can say captures how complex and funny it is being a human -- how we use it socially, justify it, cling onto it, how it becomes tangled up in our highest achievements and our most shameful insecurities. I’ve consumed alcohol for these various reasons in my life:

a.) I was avoiding doing something difficult b.) I didn’t want to be alone in my room, and preferred the loud chatter of conversations and music at a cramped bar c.) I did not trust my social abilities sober, so I drank alcohol because I’ve never known anyone who has not liked me when I’ve had a couple (when I’m shit-faced, another story) d.) To hook up with a girl e.) I was bored f.) I was about to do something boring and wanted to make it more exciting g.) Because it was a beautiful sunny day, perfect for a beer on a patio h.) Because it was a cold and dreary day, perfect to brood over a Manhattan i.) I was lonely j.) My life was going too well, I wasn’t used to that, and I needed something to question k.) My life was going poorly, and I needed something to cheer me up for the evening l.) I needed to make a decision, so I drank alcohol and wrote in my journal and came to a good decision that I stuck with m.) I needed to make a decision, so I drank alcohol until I no longer cared, and the decision was punted off until the next day n.) I I needed to make a decision, I thought a drink or two would jigger my thought process, but I ended up getting distracted by something my drunk self was interested in, and the decision was punted off until the next day I’d come up with more but they’re all just variations of that and who wants to read more of that? 2. Eating sugary sweets, justifying it by saying I have “an addiction” I actually never cared for sweets until high school. Most birthday cake I had was gross, my parents bought Chips Ahoy or Oreos which tbh aren’t all that great, and I was never exposed to really good pastries until I was in college. In high school, I dropped a buncha weight entirely too quickly and I ended up with a fats and sweets “addiction” that I’ve “had ever since”. This is a common thing.

I’ve held it close to me mentally -- my “sweets addiction”. I didn’t question it, it was something I just had, something to hang onto for the rest of my life because I fucked up when I was younger.

But as I’ve gotten older, I understand that these things -- addictions -- serve purposes. They keep us comfortable in what we deem to be true of ourselves. They (poorly) provide temporary breaks from incessant mental gymnastics/fatigue. Anyway, blah blah, big sweeping declarations, blah blah, I’ve done that all before. But when I woke up today, I knew I would get a Vitamix like I’ve been talking about for years, and I made a decision to stop holding onto this. I always eat 2 meals a day with a wild west assortment of things in between, cake and cookies and granola bars and Halloween candy. Now, 2 meals and a protein smoothie/juice.

Let them muscles grow bb. Feel good about my body, treat it like the fucking temple it is.

3. Dicking around on the internet I enjoy reddit. I enjoy wikipedia. I also end up on these sites when I’m avoiding other major responsibilities and uncomfortable feelings. I know what I want: it involves a lot of deep practice. I could read about programming all day and I’d be fascinated -- you know, the history of Silicon Valley, Introduction to the Rust Programming language, new JavaScript frameworks, discussions on HackerNews about The Best Way to Build Something. But nothing beats getting your hands dirty. Nothing beats poring over source code, running into strange errors, resolving them, moving on, over and over ad nauseam until lo-and-behold, you are an expert.

I can read about music, listen to raps over and over, but nothing beats analyzing a verse over and over and actually hearing the syllables landing on, falling behind the beat.

I’m here to structure my day. I know what I want. Expertise, pride, and know-how. A differentiated skillset so I can collaborate with other differentiated skillsets. Good taste, a feeling of belonging. All that shit, all I ever wanted but didn’t know until recently. THOUGHT PATTERNS 1. FOMO What is it with being a human -- a Man, especially (sorry is that sexist, but also, not sorry) -- that makes us believe that everyone has everything we have and more? That we are the base model without power windows, and everyone else is an upgrade? I love going on walks in New York City. I love riding the trains in New York City. But while some of this love is healthy spectatorship, much of what I’ve engaged in is unhealthy envy.

I’m done with that though. I know what I like. And I know I have a dope life. And I know that I’m a good person to know, that people may have different qualities than me but I also have different qualities from them. I’m cool with my small close-knit friends. 2. INDECISION I kinda expanded on this above. I know what I want, and all questioning I’ve done (especially recently) has been my effort to save myself from doing the work, save myself from having to declare what I am. 3. ENGAGING IN FEELINGS OF BEING LATE I am 31 years old. This is something I know to be true: there is a 13-year old who can program circles around me. There is a kid who can play a rendition of Misty on piano so soulful that it’ll bring a tear to my eye. There is nothing, technically (as in, technical expertise), that I can do that can’t be done by anyone else. But I do believe in my taste and I do believe in my life experiences. And I do believe that whatever I create can only be mine, have my signature, and I think that whatever I create in this world that I’m proud of is going to be good. That’s a fact, and I’m going into the future with that as a fact.

Farewell, semi-anonyme Anyway, I was going to write more but I wanna get going, more to do. I’ve got some work to do, some voting to do, some writing to do, some planning to do.

I love you all. See you on the other side.

[xaz-fr]

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Set in a fantasy world of the semi socialist society Fey Alliance with magic, dick head dragon riders, benevolent necromancer, and even bigger dick head gods of mischief. The Zealous Servant is the story about a guy named Spayar who, basically, has to keep his crown prince of a bff from being murdered by his entire family by murdering them first. Honestly though Spayar just wants to take a nap and find a cute boy to kiss and not have to worry about his corpse potentially being dragged through the street after a war. Better win that shit then.

I will only ping this particular list once and if you want to be pinged for future posts a like or reblog will get you on the next pinglist. Reblogs (especially with a dumb comment but not required) are way more appreciated as it allows other people to see the work

@estevnys @bahamuut-fr  @deadpool-scar-bro @barkingjester @flelagela  @golden-lionsnake @frxemriss  @starry-ampelope

This just in: Spayar is a BIG GAY MOOD

Chapter 4: The Mourning Rose

The city of Nedrag and the surrounding area sat in a low part of the land. The little bay the city sat in was enclosed by two cliffs that rose like they were embracing the sea and sky. Nedrag was set in the lowest part of the cliffs, in the only bit of shore there was, and Spayar was surprised to see that there were also buildings cut into and built onto the northern cliff face. He'd never been to Nedrag so of course he wouldn't know. Ships bobbed in the bay, only the smallest boats able to get close to the port and avoid the perils of shallow water. The city itself were neat plaster white buildings with flat roofs, sitting in neat rows like teeth in increasingly larger semi circles around the bay.

Directly next to Nedrag, separated by a black wall, was the Garden. If Nedrag was monochromatic, with only the blue Shard to contrast it, the Garden made up for it by being every color in the spectrum. The largest building, the Grand Temple, at the center of the Garden was a pure alabaster and a gold gilt roof. Across from it, down a paved walkway, was the chapel, and it was as black as the Grand Temple was white. Where the Temple was full of beautiful sweeping curves designed to look like it was hovering above your head without supports and had large stained glass windows in the front of a silver man with a moon for a halo, the chapel was squat and straddled the pathway like a toad. The air seemed dark around the chapel, which was also an eighth of the size of the Temple, and Spayar was glad he'd never get to go in there.

More paved pathways branched off from the Temple like the spokes of a wheel, that went to white buildings of various sizes. Some were cottages, others looked like dormitories or classrooms, stables, workshops, training grounds, and then up near the cliff it was buffered against was the large graveyard. Each plot was marked with a post with a white circle placed on it's apex; the sign of the full moon. The walls of all the buildings except the chapel and Temple were covered in greenery and flowers. This far north it was warm enough that flowers didn't have a season and bloomed nearly all year round and the ones that didn’t were magically encouraged to do so. The Garden was a riot of color, purple climbing up the side of a house, thick stripes of yellow and red flower beds lined the pathways, rose bushes with flowers as big as your hand were practically everywhere. It was a perpetual springtime paradise in the Garden it seemed.

"I hate this place," Von said from his horse as they looked down on the city and temple complex from the Sea Road, the road that ran directly from Peonia and the Garden. A gift, it was said, from a Peony Governor to a High Priestess. If you listened to the Aldashi version the two were lovers. The Nedalian version said it was a peace offering. For Spayar didn’t know. Probably some petty argument the neighboring provinces had about gymnastics or plant growing.

"You have to admit, it does look pretty," Spayar said. Idly.

Von looked at him with a frown, "You know what they do in there, don't you Spayar?"

"Yes, I am well aware," the teaching tables were legendary in the Garden and you could see them from here. Open air amphitheaters with a small stage where the only object upon it was a heavy wooden table that was said to be black from blood and bent from hate. They regularly held live dissections on criminals who warranted the death punishment; murderers, rapists, pedophiles, partakers in incest, and traitors. If they survived the lesson a healer tended to their wounds, regrew organs if needed, and they were put back in cells until needed again. The necromongers who taught lessons in anatomy were experts at keeping their 'patients' alive for weeks. If a patient survived four months, half a year, on a teaching table without dying all their charges were dropped and they were free to go. Spayar didn't know of one time someone had made it all six months.

That wasn't even the end of the horror that went on there though. Spayar was sure he didn't know half of it, and didn't want it; was glad he didn't know.

"It's sickening really," Von said.

"They aren't all like that," Spayar said. He’d met a few necromancers while serving time and some necromongers. They were just people who were more fanatic about their worship of the god of death than most of the Alliance. That didn’t make them bad.

Von looked at Spayar, "They're a noble house of the Alliance, Spayar," he said seriously, "they're all like that."

"They're just people. People who are useful to us. Stop complaining.”

Von sighed, "Yes, you’re right-

“I tend to be.”

Von gave him an annoyed look but it didn’t stick. “And I suppose they could be worse. I could throw my hand in with the Clan. I heard my sister is doing that. Idiot," and he tapped his horse's side and they headed for the Garden.

“She is?”

“Last I heard she was sleeping with one.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Why my siblings use their bodies like that when everyone knows it means nothing will never cease to baffle me,” Von said. Spayar looked away in embarrassment. He knew why they would. He knew because it was useful to him in the same way.

He cleared this throat, “She must be desperate if she’s actually in bed with the Clan. I hear they circumcise themselves. That’s weird.” Von snickered from his saddle and they urged their horses to continue along the road down to the Garden.

There were two entrances into the Garden, the Rose Gate, and the Sea Gate. The Sea Gate connected the Garden to Nedrag and allowed people to move in and out of both places without having to go around to the front Rose Gate. Three necromongers and a single necromancer, a skeleton crew, were manning the Rose Gate, the portcullis down and looked like the vines of some creeping plant. The walls surrounding the gate were covered in spines like a barbed rose and a large, red, piece of stone had been carved into the shape of a rose to hang over the entrance, the black stone that housed the gate and made up the wall looked like leaves. The necromongers looked at the two of them as they approached. "The Rosalia are accepting no visitors now," one said.

Von looked at Spayar to say something clever. "We come in the name of crown prince Vondugard Le'Acard. We're here to see the High Priestess, Lady Helida Rosalia. Now open the gates or the Asuras will hear about how you turned away her son's envoy," Spayar said. He was good at this stuff. Making people scared, not of him really, but the power behind him. He knew how to make people do what he wanted them do. Just a few right placed words and all sorts of doors opened up for him.

Of course it would have just been easier to announce Von himself, but they didn't want people to know they were here. They'd been careful coming to the Garden from Peonia not stopping at towns along the way and using the main road to travel fast to outpace anyone following them from Peonia.  To the Asuras her children didn't just visit an important house for no reason, at least not one like the Rosalia. They had plenty of reason to keep their presence unknown. Thankfully it had only taken two days to ride up the coast.

The necromongers looked at one another and then at the necromancer. She pursed her lips and they and spoke amongst each other a moment. Spayar looked over at Von, what were they going to do if they didn't get in? It didn't come to that, "Tell his highness that our doors are always open to him," the necromancer said and the necromongers opened the portcullis. Von and Spayar walked under the Rose Gate and through to the other side. The portcullis thumped down behind them.

They rode to the Temple, and a pair of holsters ambled out curiously. Once it was clear they were guests of Helida they took their horses, helping them down and said they’d send their bags to where the High Priestess was allowing them to stay. After getting their names to add to the stable list they were beckoned off to enter the temple.

"Let’s hope we didn't come at a bad time,” Von said as they headed for the open mouth of the Temple. The entrance was open with a ethereal muslin veil covering the entrance. The bottom was beaded to keep it from flailing in the wind but parted like water when Von lifted the edge to go in.

"Her mother just died, Von," Spayar frowned at Von.

“I meant now,” he heard the eye roll in Von’s voice. “But it was almost five months ago Spayar, surely some of the bite is gone," Von said with a frown, "and her only daughter's naming day is approaching-

"It's in four days," Spayar supplied. He'd been tasked to know the naming days and names of every major noble house growing up, that included the new ones too. Von knew the heads of houses and important others. He didn't have to remember the others; that was what Spayar was for.

"Good. So lets hope she isn't so damn depressing. This place celebrates death after all."

Spayar frowned after Von. He just hard to remind himself that for a prince Von was pretty sheltered. He’d only ever been in the capitals really, or places where they were openly welcoming royalty. He hadn’t been around real people other than the Hillsmans in who knew how long. “That’s unfair to them,” Spayar grabbed him before he could go too far into the Temple.

"I'm the crown prince-

"These people could be one of your best allies. Your mother made herself no friend to Maja when she was alive, siding mostly with the Drake on important house politics when the two were involved. But they aren’t senseless or chaotic. They’re just people who worship Lemp, which is good because not many of us do.”

Von frowned hard at him, "Why do you have to be so damn smart all the time, Spayar?" Spayar didn’t miss the hurt feelings in his voice. Spayar let his arm go. He shouldn’t have felt bad for reminding Von to not be so judgmental but he was.

"You made me that way," Spayar said instead.

There was an uneasy silence between them for a moment. "You're right,” he said, acknowledging he’d done this himself.

“So listen to me when I give advice. Otherwise what is the point of me? A trophy?” D’aelar, an old Fey word meaning zealous servant, the most devoted to their chosen member of royalty. Von's older siblings called Spayar d'alaer to mock him in equal measure of how much they were jealous of their little brother to have someone so devoted to them as Spayar was to Von. There had only been a handful of named d'aelar in the entire existence of the Alliance since the first Asuras and his d'aelar, Masalla. To be named was no casual thing and Spayar didn’t always feel like he deserved it or that he was appreciated enough for actually having it.

Von’s eyes widened. “No,” he was quick to assure. “You’re my friend,” he touched Spayar’s arm. “You’re just… annoying sometimes.”

“So are you, don’t hear me complaining,” Spayar huffed.

“Oh so that whining you did all the way down the Westerlance didn’t happen?” Von grinned, relief spreading across his face that the uncomfortable moment was passed.

“Okay, maybe a little,” Spayar allowed.

“Can we go in now?”

“Yes.”

The muslin pooled against Von’s hand as he gently pulled away the veil barely concealing the entrance of the Temple and they quietly stepped inside. Inside the Temple was as grand inside as it was outside with shiny, multi-colored, marble floors and delicate white pillars. Frescos decorated the walls, most of the scenes involving death and women without faces riding pure white deer. Others involved naked men with stag heads eating the flesh of fallen warriors, and one depicted the three bird-like furies with gleaming swords and dark leather covering their bodies, ready for war, all of the paintings were scenes under moonlight of some form of solar eclipse.

This part of the Temple was totally open and at the back was a large, silver, statue of a man, Lemp; one of the twin head gods, ruler of the moon and the Shadowed Lands. He stood with one foot supporting most of his weight and you could see his ribs and clear line of his pelvis even through his clothes. Silver hair covered his eyes and in one hand he held a glass orb that glowed gently from the inside. A representation of the soul no doubt. In the other hand he held a shepherd's crook.

"Bad timing," Spayar whispered softly to Von as they walked a bit deeper into the side wings. The Temple was filled with people, all kneeling on the floor watching three people standing under the statue of Lemp, one women and two men, singing in a language Spayar didn't know. He had to assume it was the old tongue the necromancers spoke before their country had become part of the Alliance, the one their Red Book was written in. Spayar didn't know they spoke it anywhere else other than at funerals. The woman was a soaring soprano while the two men behind her were basses and it was a pleasant surpise. The singers had lovely voices that the vaulted ceilings of the Temple made resonate down into your bones.

Von tugged Spayar over to a wall and a small alcove where incense were burning gently in an alter of two cupped hands. Spayar looked up at the fresco and grimaced, they stood right under a stag headed man, a jogull, his maw dripped blood, his eyes a wild red color, teeth huge and pointed. He swallowed a bit and looked away, not liking being reminded that the Shadowed Land wasn’t the only place a soul could end up. "What’s this?" Von asked Spayar quietly to not disturb the service.

"No idea," Spayar whispered, "I think it's some sort of service."

"Is it a holy day?"

“Well… It is Lemest? So I guess? I'm not a Rosalia, how should I know?"

“Because you know stuff,” Von hissed.

"I don't know this," Spayar glanced at the Temple and the singing people. It was a very hauntingly beautiful sound he had to admit, also kind of creepy. But what did the Rosalia do that wasn't a bit creepy? "We'll just have to wait it out."

“Annoying,” Von muttered but they had no choice. They stood back, out of sight, waiting for it to end. Spayar's feet started to hurt before the song- songs?- ended. Everyone in the Temple bowed, touching their heads nearly to the floor and then stood up. The sound of hushed talking was nearly instant as they left through the main front entryway. Spayar recognized all of the people as necromancers or necromongers. No general servants or people from Nedrag had been in attendance. He could tell by their eyes and the way the men wore their facial hair. Every necromonger he’d met while serving time complained about having to keep their face shaved for religious reasons. Back home it was easy but on the road you sometimes had to make due with trusting someone with a dagger at your neck. If you were lucky an officer had a shaving knife or there was a lonth around who had the type of killer precision to shave your face without nicking you.

Once the last person had filed out Von stepped out of the alcove, "Okay, lets find the High Priestess," he said and Spayar followed him down the side wing to walk down to where the Temple had doors. Behind the main area of prayer the Temple also contained the rooms of the Governor and their family, the true Rosalia, since every man and woman who served Lemp called themselves Rosalia.

Von knocked on the door to the living area and a servant answered the door, "Can I help you, sirs?" she asked.

"We're here to see the High Priestess," Spayar said.

"She isn't seeing anyone."

"We're envoys of the crown prince Vondugard. Ask her if she'll see us," Spayar put in kindly.

The servant frowned at them, "I will ask," and she closed the door on them.

"What if she doesn't see us?" Spayar asked Von.

"Helida isn't stupid. She'll see us."

"Does she know we're coming?"

"No. But I know Tallalsala came and saw her. Helida nearly invoked my mother's wrath when she quite literally threw my sister out on her ass," Von chuckled.

"But?" Spayar asked, he hadn't heard this. That made him extra nervous. He hated not knowing what the royal heirs had been up to while he was gone. What stupid mess they’d made while he wasn’t around to capitalize on it.

"It was a few weeks after her mother died and, as you said, my mother and hers were not friends. She threatened to create a portal into the sky and see what came out if my mother wanted to 'punish' her for not tolerating Tallasala’s rudeness, which included some very nasty things including stripping of titles and going into the Book of Bloods. Needless to say it didn’t end well and Tallalsala had to apologize. My mother managed to smooth things over after that but we’ve had no correspondence with the Rosalia since.”

"Your mother is an idiot," Spayar said with a snort.

"She is," Von said passionlessly.

"You'll do better than her," he said as the door opened again to the servant girl.

"She's agreed to see you," she said.

"Thank you," Spayar said and they followed after the servant into a hallway. She led them to a room at the back of the Temple complex and knocked. Someone within bid them to enter and the servant opened the door, Spayar and Von went in.

Helida wore a dress down to her knees the color of storm tossed water, gray and blue and cold that made her brown skin look gray. Her long, brown, dreadlocks were piled on the top of her head like a crown and she wore small yellow flowers in her hair, woven into her locks. She had one brown eye, and her right one was the color of a drop of blood. Despite the mourning dress she didn’t seem any less than he expected her. Of course he put on all sorts of brave faces so wasn’t above thinking that of her. The room wasn’t exactly a room but an open air courtyard surrounded by high blooming hedges and enclosed by small gazebo.

When the two of them climbed the two short steps up to the wooden floor of the gazebo she bowed lowly to Von. “Your highness,” she said.

"You knew it was me?" Von said, hands behind his back.

She looked up at him with cool eyes, “I expected someone else to come along eventually after her highness Tallalsala made such a blunder. That and you look like your grandmother, of course I knew it was you.”

Von grimaced. “I see. I am actually not here to speak of politics at all, regardless of my incompetent sister,” Von said.

"Oh?" she asked, raising her brows at him.

"I came for two reasons," he said and stepped over to Helida. He took her hand in both of his, "I'm sorry about your mother," he said sincerely and Spayar actually wondered how sincere he truly was. Von didn't do things like this unless he could benefit from them. And he didn’t know what it was like to want to mourn a family member. "I know our families did not get along as well as they should have while she was High Priestess but she was an amazing woman. The world shall mourn her passing as I'm sure Lemp is glad to have someone like her back with him."

"She was,” Helida swallowed and it was the first time Spayar saw a chip in Helida's armor, and extracted her hand from Von’s "No doubt she's at peace in the Shadowed Lands." Von and Spayar crossed themselves respectfully.

"I also know that your daughter's naming day is coming," Von smiled warmly at her, "I had hoped to be invited," he held up a velvet bag he pulled out of nowhere containing the hair comb he’d bought n Tassa’s approval. Spayar didn't even bother to question where he'd been hiding it.

Helida appraised her prince, looking for lies, deception, or a way to make her look a fool in an attempt to regain his sister's honor. The truth was though Von didn't care about his siblings, much less Tallalsala. He was here for himself and yes to celebrate little Paja's naming day. After a few moments Helida allowed a slight smile to come to her face, "It would be an honor your highness,” she said. "I'll have some rooms for you prepared for you both. I assume you aren't here publicly?"

"No," Von said, "Discretion would be appreciated. My mother doesn't want her children anywhere near the Garden until... oh how did she put it?" he seemed to think a few seconds, holding his chin. "Oh, right, until 'that new red witch has remembered who holds the power'." Helida's eyes narrowed, Von shrugged, "But I am nothing if not a misbehaving son,” he said with a charming grin.

"You may want to be careful your highness," Helida said, "Roses have thorns."

"I'll just wear gardener's gloves then," Von’s smile didn’t falter for a moment.

Helida looked him over a last time, “Hmm, I like you more than your sister," she said.

"My sister is a moron," Von said candidly. "So, those rooms my dear High Priestess? Also maybe something to eat? My vassal and I are starving."

"Of course. And perhaps also a bath," she said mildly, Spayar wrinkled his nose but did agree. "I'll have Nemi air out some of the guest rooms across the court, you may make yourselves comfortable until they're prepared and have your bags brought to them.”

“Thank you, Helida. You are a most gracious and warm host.” He gave a little flourished bow more for the flair and less for the respect. That amused her and she chuckled.

“You are a gracious guest, prince Vondugard,” she said respectfully and stepped down from the gazebo to get the servant.

"Helida," Von said as she opened the door.

"Yes, your highness?"

"I am sorry about your mother. I can only imagine what it must be like," since Helida had no parents. Her father had gone through the Departed ceremony to get himself ritually killed shortly after Maja had suddenly died. Spayar wasn’t quite sure of what still. It was hard to get information from necromongers or necromancers in the Arm about what had killed the late High Priestess.

Helida looked over her shoulder at him, "Something tells me you will, your highness," and then she left the two of them.

When the door closed behind them Von grabbed his chest dramatically. "I have never been more scared of a woman in my entire life." He dropped onto the wooden bench that wrapped around the gazebo,

Spayar chuckled and sat down next to Von, "She is quite something," Spayar agreed with a smile.

"I felt like she was going to snap me in half with just her eyes," Von said, sagging in the chair.

"She is the High Priestess," Spayar reminded him.

"I must be a fool to try and play with the Rosalia. No wonder my mother distanced herself from this house when she could. They're terrifying!"

Spayar laughed, "Weren't you the one who said all the noble houses are this bad?"

"They are!"

"And that you wanted to try for the Drake as well?"

"Uhg, don't remind me. I can wait on the Drake until I feel like I'm not in danger of having my nuts ripped off and stepped on by a necromancer," Spayar laughed louder this time. "Laugh it up Spayar. I'd like to see you talk to her."

"You forget," Spayar said, "everyone you know and associate with is above me and could kill me whenever they wanted, for any reason. I'm used to dealing with people who make me squirm. It's a good lesson for you to find someone who scares you."

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s good for you.”

“And yet I have learned that everything that is ‘good for me’ sucks,” Von cried.

“Well… depends on what’s sucking,” Spayar said mildly and Von just looked at him very confused. At least Spayar knew Von was still innocent like that.

“How do you do it? Deal with those people?”

“I just remind myself you need me.”

“I am an adult, and quite capable,” Von said.

“Yeah. But you still need me,” Spayar said with a little self satisfied grin. “Who else will watch your back but me?”

“I guess you have a point. I do like having you around, even you are completely unreasonable at times.”

Spayar snickered as the door opened. It was another servant woman, this one looking much more everything than the one who'd showed them here. "Sirs, your rooms are ready. If you'd follow me," she said and they both heaved themselves off the bench and followed her. She led them out of the Temple and across the well paved path to a guest house between the Temple and Chapel. “Here you are,” she showed them in. It was several one room apartments with attached bathrooms. “You missed lunch," she said, "but Lady Rosalia is having food brought to your rooms shortly."

"Excellent," Von said, "Thank you," he nodded to the woman who just brushed something invisible off her apron and left them. "Bath and food?" Von asked him.

"I'll come over once I'm out," Spayar said.

"Good," and then Von vanished into the room he'd been given.

Spayar slipped into his own. It was well furnished but nothing horrifically elaborate. His bags were on a low bench at the end of the bed and there was a door to a bathroom on the left. He stripped and went to the bathroom, thankfully it looked the same as the one back home with an above ground tub. He knew inset floor tubs were becoming popular among the wealthy, especially nobility. Spayar just found them difficult to get in and out of.

The water was warm out of the tap and there was over a dozen vials and bottles of every scent he could imagine and a few he couldn't as well as three different soaps. He picked the mildest smelling ones he could find and washed. It felt good to get rid of all the dirt. He heard someone enter his room but leave again without announcing themselves, probably just his lunch. His stomach growled then, reminding him of how hungry he was. Spayar had planned on soaking in the bath a bit but his stomach demanded he do otherwise, so he climbed out of the tub, dripping wet and went into his room without bothering with a towel.

There was a tray on the side table filled with cool and raw foods. He groaned. Shit, he forgot the Rosalia were vegetarian. He'd been looking forward to meat, but no meat was allowed inside the Garden and other than specific sacrifices no animals were allowed to be harmed here either. If you wanted meat you had to go to Nedrag. Spayar looked forlornly at his meal and picked at a baked bun filled with vegetables. It wasn’t that it was bad but in Peonia raw meat was already being sold, despite the very clear law saying that wasn’t allowed, and that made cooked meat for purchase even more expensive. Von hadn’t wanted to contribute to it so they’d only eaten fish in Peonia.

He wandered around his room a bit eating the bun and letting the wind from the open window dry his naked skin. He looked for spy holes and hollow areas where there shouldn’t be. He also checked under the bed and in the closet but found nothing. Either the Rosalia were trusting or they didn’t care. He supposed it was probably the latter. Who was dumb enough to make plots against the house of necromancers in their own home? Satisfied with his room he dressed, grabbed his tray still full of food and went to Von's room. He used a bit of magic to push the door open so he didn't have to take his hands off the tray.

"Von," Spayar called as he entered.

"Still in the bath," Von called back as Spayar closed the door.

"Still?" Spayar sat on Von's bed, putting the tray in his lap and started putting food in his mouth. He didn't care if it was vegetarian, he was starving and it was good. Honestly he didn't even notice the lack of meat as he ate some sort of cool, savory, tart filled with cheese and vegetables.

"It feels wonderful," Von said delightfully from the bathroom and he heard some water sloshing, the door was ajar but Spayar couldn't see inside. "You didn't want to relax?"

"I'm eating," Spayar said, his mouth full. From the bathroom Von laughed.

"I do have to admit," Von said, "This did turn out better than I expected."

"You expected to be ejected?"

"As soon as she saw me honestly," and Spayar heard more water sloshing around. "You remember the Rosalia ruled Nedalia before it became one with the Alliance."

"I remember," Spayar said. Old Nedalia had had two rulers before they became part of the Alliance. A weak king and a much stronger faction of priestesses who served Lemp. Von's ancestor had taken Nedalia nearly fifteen hundred years ago, promising that the Rosalia would rule this province and not the now extinct Rensun.

"Honestly it's like some of these houses still think they rule," Von muttered, just loud enough for Spayar to hear.

"Well that's why it's called the Alliance," Spayar shrugged as he shoved an apple slice covered in honey into his mouth and nearly gagged on how sweet it was, "You only rule through their agreement of an alliance," he went to eat the rest of the food on his tray instead of the honeyed apples. There was cubed and skewered squash, yam, and turtle peppers covered in a thick brown sauce he was into.

"I know," Von sighed.

"Then why do you make me remind you?"

"It'd just be so much easier if the Alliance was smaller, and I didn't have to worry about such high and mighty nobles."

"I don't," Spayar said.

"You're not a Le'Acard," Von said and Spayar heard yet more sloshing, a lot more sloshing. "You don't have to worry about the stuff I worry about."

"Yeah I just have to worry about you. And let me tell you, one Le'Acard is enough to... worry about," Spayar trailed off, the food practically falling out of his mouth, as Von came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and he swallowed thickly. Before he'd left to serve his Von had been a child. He'd been almost fifteen years of age and seeing him shirtless was like seeing a child shirtless. That was two years ago and Von's visits to bother Spayar on his service had come maybe twice a year for a short period of time, this was the longest he'd spent with his prince in two years. In two years Von had grown up and he definitely didn't look like a child now and had some hair on his chest and a defined abdomen he definitely hadn't had when Spayar had left. His arms were muscular and his skin was bronze all over, meaning he'd trained, outside, shirtless, during the summer. Spayar blushed and thanked every god he knew his skin was too dark to show it.

"Yeah but you like it," Von didn't even seem to notice and smirked at him before going to find some clothes. Spayar stared down at his tray. Good gods when had Von become a man? He always sort of knew it but he still thought of Von as that barely fifteen year old kid he'd left in Assarus two years ago. Von definitely wasn't a kid anymore. This just made it worse for Spayar honestly.

"It has its benefits," Spayar said and cleared his throat.

"Well of course. I mean you get to be in my presence," Von teased.

“Yeah, the presence of the most royal pain in my ass," he said but still was staring at his tray as he heard Von pull on his clothes. His knuckles were pale where he was gripping the tray. He wanted to look, but he didn't.

Von laughed, "Food any good?" he asked as he sat next to Spayar and finally he could look, oh thank the gods he was dressed. Von had his own tray of food next to him, between the two of them.

"For nothing but vegetables, yes, its good," Spayar said and pried his hands off his tray so he could eat. The gods were testing him with giving him a hot best friend, one who was also a prince. It was a cruel test.

"I forgot they don't eat meat," Von popped one of the little cheese and vegetable tarts into his mouth thoughtfully. "Honestly I don't know why the Drake and Rosalia don't get along. The wyrms are vegetarians, the necromancers are vegetarians, the Wyrd practically sustains itself on fish and chicken. "

"So they should get along based on their food preferences alone?" Spayar rose his brows at Von.

"Why not? Not like their hatred is any less stupid. Do you even know why they hate each other?"

"No," Spayar said. The reason for the blood feud had been lost centuries ago, and had started when the Rosalia had first started to train necromancers, decades after they joined the Alliance. All anyone knew was that the two factions loathed each other and the feud had nearly led to civil war several times in the past two thousand years. No one even knew why. Anyone Spayar talked to who wasn’t part of the feud also thought it was beyond ridiculous.

"No doubt its over something stupid. Like a girl, or a pig, or some insignificant slight," Von said, unimpressed as always with the petty hatred between the Rosalia and Drake.

"Who can say honestly," Spayar said. "So other than Paja's naming day what is your plan here?"

"Nothing," Von said.

"Nothing?"

"Yes. Nothing," Von had found the apple slices and was polishing those off while he eyed the ones Spayar had left on his own tray. Spayar didn't like sweet things that much, he knew Von did though.

"What do you hope to accomplish with that?"

"That I'm better than my mother," Von said. "I've been planning what to do for a while and honestly Tallalsala's mistake was a great opportunity for me," he smiled slightly, madly. "My family has lost the art of subtlety the last few generations. My mother didn't even kill her own mother, she just found her hurt brother who'd thrown the coup and killed him, taking his place. It's all brute strength and no brawn in my family. Bless my father for being a snake in the grass and slithering into her bed,” he crossed himself like he was thanking a god.

"Which none of your siblings got except you?"

Von shook his head, "Teldin is good. He's overly cautious, but a good match for my brain," he tapped his temple, leaving a slight residue of honey. It took more willpower than Spayar would admit to to not wipe it away with his thumb. "Can I have those?" he pointed to Spayar's honeyed apple slices, the only food left on his tray.

"Yeah," Spayar said and Von took the little plate they were on happily. Spayar smiled slightly, he liked making Von happy, even if it was just small things like honeyed apple slices.

"I have sources," Von said, the apple slices vanishing down his throat quicker than they maybe should have while he was talking, “Not you, I know what a surprise. But they’ve told me Teldin has put his lot in with the White Foot and the Wren-Kal."

Spayar frowned, "Both are powerful," he said. The White Foot were a nomadic people from the north who lived in the foothills of the Spine and within the Spine itself at times. They were a fearsome cavalry and being so close to the Federation border they could shoot an arrow or swing a sword almost before they could talk. The Wren-Kal were a house of powerful warlocks, many of which with the lightning element. Not a great enemy to have.

"Yeah and like I told you, Tallasala is approaching Clan chieftains. She knows Teldin has started to move." The Clan of the Yellow Hills was a collection of tribes who only barely agreed to Alliance laws and abided more by their own tribal laws than not. They were also known ritualistic cannibals. The ritualistic part was usually left out in most people’s minds so they had a fearsome reputation.

"What about Obi and Dellin?"

"They probably also know. Honestly if I know then my mother knows and so do my older siblings," he didn't mention the younger ones. Malora, Cashchil, and Gurrin, were all too young to worry about politics. The next oldest, Cashchil, was only twelve. "Though if I know about the White Foot and Wren-Kal I don't know about others. Military officials, master smiths, lower houses. All important."

"Was the Tallalsala coming here a reaction to her learning about the Wren-Kal?"

"Possibly," Von said licking the last of the honey off his fingers and the natural frown on Spayar's face deepened. "She moved too quickly, pissed off a potential ally, and then went whimpering back to mother." He rolled his eyes.

"Teldin will move soon?"

"I don't think so. You know how he is, everything is methodical. He won’t do anything until he knows he can and will win.”

"How long do you think you have until he makes a move?"

"A year. If I'm lucky," Von said seriously and Spayar swallowed. Von was marking his life at one more year if he didn't stage a coup first. Why couldn't the Le’Acard just wait until the old Asuras died or stepped down like every other kingdom? Why did the death of an Asuras always come accompanied by so much blood shed? Right, because the Alliance was like no other kingdom on Priman'osta. "Once I'm done here I need you to return to back to Assarus before me-

“Why not accompany you?”

“It’s safer for you in Assarus than it is for me. Teldin is there. He won’t hurt you but I don’t trust him not to do something to me.”

“And what are you doing?”

"I'm going to head south-

"Please don't say Peonia."

"No. The Lord Peony loves my mother. She has that… man,” he stopped himself from saying something rude, “in her pocket. I'm going to go to Alderin."

Spayar thought about who lived in Alderin. It was a little city too far inland to have a port and was off the main road that ran the length of the Shard. There was no high noble family there, so lower, probably a military official. He squinted in thought about what was so important about Alderin to have a someone needing to watch it. Trade, of course. "One of your mother's Praetors lives in Alderin," Spayar sad once he remembered but that didn’t help his confusion.

"He does."

Spayar blinked, "You're going to try for a Praetor?" he asked. Though it was a better idea than the Archon since usually when the Asuras died they were either killed or forced to step down. The Archon only obeyed the Asuras and was dangerous to have around when you took the throne. More than one Archon had betrayed a new Asuras after a coup to warrant the tradition.

"X'vazior and my mother have been on the rocks lately. She wants to try and capture land beyond the Mesa Plains, X'vazior publicly refused to lead his Arm across it-

"That happened like five years ago," Spayar's brow creased, "I thought she forgave him."

"Publicly. He still shamed her, and she humiliated him. X'vazior is holding onto that grudge."

"You know for a fact?"

"My mother summoned him to the Summer palace this year. He said he was busy and could not 'tend to her every whim' since they were suffering a bad harvest this year and he had to find a way to get food to his people," Von said.

"He really doesn't like your mother."

"You would be surprised how many people hate my mother," Von sighed and sat back, holding himself up with his arms. "She spends frivolously, she's a coward who hides behind her title, she wants to be a conqueror when every province is trying to find enough food during a bad year for harvests and can't afford a real war. She shuns powerful houses because they frighten her and I heard that the Shade are simply not reporting anything. Any of Aklin’s men who are sent into LoHaJo’in  never come back, the Shade kill them no doubt. The Drake are starting to bite a bit too hard on the Rosalia and my mother isn't doing much to stop them. I've heard rumors that people are scared there will be a civil war, a proper one and not a mere Conflict. My mother can't hold the Alliance together and people are angry."

"Does she know this?"

"She must," he sighed and rubbed his head like he had a headache, "Aklin's a good spymaster. He knows things I could never dream of knowing about her, about what's going on. I think she's too scared to do anything. She doesn't know how to be Asuras." Spayar did not agree or disagree. He didn't know much of the Asuras, but his father certainly complained about her plenty, usually in the same breath he complained about Von 'spiriting his son away to be his lap dog'. Spayar was usually too busy focusing on everything else to look too hard as his Asuras and the only thing he truly knew about her was that she did kill her brother during his coup before he could kill him. "She's an idiot with a wooden sword trying to train lions," Von sucked his teeth, "and now they're starting to growl at her and she doesn't know what to do."

"You'll do better," Spayar said.

Von looked at him, his brow low over his eyes in a worried look, "I have to be if I don't want to die," he said. "For my survival I need to be better," and he looked away. Spayar didn't know what to say to that. After a moment of hesitation he reached over and put his hand over Von's, Von twisted a few of fingers to grasp Spayar's.

"We'll be fine," Spayar said softly.

"I hope so," Von said, looking at him again, "I really hope so."

[goodfortune-au]

Good Fortune (Soulmate AU) Chapter 15: Together Again

“Jesus! Pennywise-”

“What’s the matter, darling? Are you not pleased to see me? I should think you are, naughty girl, with all those dirty thoughts running around inside your head.”

Her face flares up scarlet again. “I… Of course I want to see you, I just…”

“...Wasn’t ready for all the mental gymnastics?” He strokes her cheek apologetically. “Oh dear, oh dearie me… You’ll forgive ol’ Pennywise, won’t you? He was only trying to make you happy, was only trying to make you laugh… You know, like… This.” That hand drops to her stomach and gives it a devious tickle, and when she lets out a guffaw of helpless little giggles he shrieks with happy hyena laughter.

“Yes, yes! Like that!” He says, practically singing, delighted to find her leaning into his touch rather than away from it. Despite all the teasing and pestering she’s just as pliant as ever, so desperate for warmth and affection and distraction from her problems that she responds to his manipulations with nothing less than outright joy. It pleases him to no end.

When he continues tickling her, she’s starting to lose her breath. “Stop, I, hahahah-- STOP! Pennywise I-- What are you doing here?”

He stops tickling her and lets her catch up. She gulps down air, gasping as she struggles to stay upright. He knew he couldn’t let it go too far- she had asthma. Not the kind like that annoying little brat with the inhaler, but the kind that sent her into coughing fits if there was too much stress on her lungs. No, he needed to be careful, needed to take care of her. Pennywise makes a path for her and leads her to the couch so she can sit down, smoothing a hand down her hair comfortingly as he does so. She sits and looks up at him with tears of laughter in her eyes, wiping them away with a cough. He gets down on bended knee to take her hands in his, and yet even in such a position, he still towers over her. His eyes are golden starlight staring down into hers, earnest and passionate.

“I couldn’t bear to be away from you for another second, my girl. Pennywise needed to come, needed to see his precious Angel with his own two eyes. And what a sight you are for him…” He runs a silken thumb over hers with a sigh. “Tell me… Are you as happy to see him as he is to see you?”

She chokes on her captivation, a dopey smile starting to creep across her face. “Of… Of course I am.” She squeezes his hands and he appears grateful for the reciprocated gesture. The tape is still playing behind them, the credits of Ferris Bueller serving as a backdrop for their clearly romantic moment. Pennywise appears to process this, and on the shadows of his face she can see a grin start to form there.

“...Did you like my performance, pretty girl? I thought I looked pretty good up there on that parade float.”

She starts to burst out laughing again, and the sound of it is music to his ears. “...I c-couldn’t believe what I was seeing! I… I didn’t know that you could do that!”

“Well, they don’t call me the Dancing Clown for nothing, sweetness.”

“Not that, I meant-” She gestures to the screen behind them. “The movie, you just… Made yourself a part of it. I didn’t know you could do that, it was f*cking insane.”

He leans down closer to her face and her heart races. “...I told you I was full of surprises, didn’t I?”

“Well yeah, but, oh!~”

He pulls her to her feet all of a sudden and she cries out when she almost loses balance. But his hands are there to keep her upright and she clings to them for dear life. He holds her steady in his arms, his gaze doesn’t falter.

“I think you’ll be pleased to learn just how much I can do, Angel.” He whispers huskily. She falls silent, her eyes telling the tale of how spellbound, how enraptured she is now in this moment, simply unable to speak as that tingling warmth starts to coil in her belly once more. “Yes…” He tucks a strand of wayward hair behind her ear, and then his hand cups her cheek, resting gently there at the slope of her jaw. “I think you’ll come to find that I can offer you more than you knew you ever wanted… The entire world, if you so desire it…”

“...The entire world…?” She repeats back to him, dizzy and lovesick.

He stares back into her eyes, truly in love with the way they twinkle like water from a rich mossy brook. “Yes…” They’re both silent for a time in each other’s arms, the tension, the chemicals clearly there between them but neither one will make a move. “Yes…” He pulls back a little, and her heart sinks ever so slightly. “...But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, dear pet. Like I said, we should take our time, take things slooooooow…” He starts to sway her ever so gently in his arms and she giggles. They both stop again and he looks down at her.

“...Do you know how to dance, Angel?” He asks her.

Her face slightly flushes at the question. “I-Well.. I used to take dance when I was a little girl, but I… I haven’t practiced in years, so… No.”

“Well then…” He says, his voice deep and sultry. “Maybe I’ll just have to teach you.”

He hadn’t taught her that night. No, Angel found she was much too tired to absorb anything new, regardless of how electrified she was at Pennywise’s reappearance, so he’d simply taken her to the haven of her bed, pulled back the covers, deposited her gently onto the mattress and joined her there, holding her so gently and sweetly until her eyes had grown heavy and she’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t tried anything. No- now was not the time for such things. He knew he needed to be patient, needed to hold himself back until it drove her mad. He wouldn’t even kiss her, not yet, not when a such crucial juncture in their relationship was still ahead, one that needed to be handled with the utmost of care. He knew that he needed to be careful- as much as she was leaning headfirst into all of his attentions, she was still, after all, a human girl, and a compassionate one at that. Once she learned who he was, who he truly was, things could go one of two ways; she would either turn away from him completely, or she would justify his actions and stay with him. Though he had ways to make her come around to the idea regardless of any opposition, he hoped and planned for the latter. He knew it to be entirely plausible; she had, after all, done such a thing in the past following his disposal of that shopkeeper. She hadn’t known for sure that it was him but she had certainly entertained the possibility, and even still she found herself slowly starting to rationalize such a heinous act, though she might never dare to admit it. Loving and tenderhearted though she was, he knew there was a darkness inside of her, a dormant darkness just waiting to be awakened. She was his counterpart, she was his other half. She was caring; she was a human side to his untamed monster, but she was not without that untamed monster tainting the honeyed sweetness within. He just needed to rouse it from slumber.

He hadn’t taught her that night, or the night after that, or the night after that. He had, however, been coming back to visit on an increasingly more regular basis much to her delight. He would usually come in the afternoons to evenings. She would come home from work, worn out after a long day, and find him waiting for her in her living room. She had reacted to a lot of his manifestations at first with surprise- pleasant surprise, albeit- but surprise nonetheless. After a time, however, just as with the gifts, she had become in tune to a certain pattern of behavior which she could use to anticipate him. This came when she wouldn’t hear anything from him in a while; that is, she wouldn’t hear his voice when she woke up in the morning, wouldn’t feel eyes lingering on her while she was getting dressed or while she was in the shower or the light tremor under her feet when she acknowledged his presence with teasing displays. Wouldn’t hear him talking in her ear as she walked her commute or as she worked her shift. No, he would be strangely absent apart from the occasional gift, a gesture she knew to be his own subtle way of informing her that he was, in fact, still there with her, that he hadn’t abandoned her, that she wasn’t alone in the big, bad town of Derry, even as the looming threat of disappearances was still hanging over everyone’s heads. And then, one day, usually three to four after his apparent vanishment, she would come through the door and be greeted by sweeping touches, peppered kisses on her cheek or on her neck and she would melt, would breathe it all in wholeheartedly and welcome him back into her arms.

Angel adored the attention, Angel was hypnotized by it. It was energizing, it was revitalizing in a way she couldn’t put words to. Ever since Georgie’s disappearance, she was slowly finding herself at a growing decline. Work was no longer exciting, hadn't been for a long time; it was simply another routine she had become disenchanted with. Living alone was suddenly more than she could handle with grace, a problem she wished she could say she was encountering for the first time, but it was, in fact, something she had grappled with in the past. It was true, living alone had gotten easier with the Derry Public Library, but that meant almost nothing with the onset of another bad depression funk, which she knew was coming. She could see it from a mile away but she was virtually powerless to stop it, almost immobilized as she saw the dark cloud draw nearer and ascend over her head like a death knell. Suddenly she had felt sluggish, could hardly muster the strength to get out of bed every morning and continue with her daily obligations. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t take care of herself properly. When he had first come along, it was no different. He was simply an escape, just another coping mechanism. She felt herself becoming obsessed, could feel herself slipping headlong into another fixation, an escape from dull and wearisome reality. It brought her happiness but there was something missing from it all. That something had come to her on Valentine’s Day, when she finally felt his touch for the first time and suddenly, so suddenly, it had all become real.

And how real it all was now. She could hardly believe it, the way her dreams had come true. It was almost like a fairytale, with him the dashing prince and her the elegant princess being swept off her feet. It was all so deliciously idealistic and wonderful, she wanted more than anything for it to last forever because she had… Never felt so special before. Pennywise made her feel special. From the beginning, he had been nothing but kind and chivalrous, giving and generous to her. Protective and gallant, coming to her rescue on multiple occasions whether it be a physical threat or her own feelings trying to kill her from the inside out. The way he spoke of her, the way he touched her… No one had ever done that before. It all felt so perfect, and it was addicting. It was starting to make her blind to all her problems, like they all simply didn’t matter so long as he was there with her. She had even started to get a little better as his visits continued.

It had all started slowly after Valentine’s Day. Though Angel was by no means an ingrate to Pennywise’s vocal support and encouragement of her, she was nonetheless still despondent on almost a day to day basis. She was still having difficulties getting out of bed, even as he sang to her and urged her to slip from the covers with a smile on her face (“Rise and shine, my sweet little bird, it’s time for you to get up and face the day!”), was still having trouble with keeping up hygiene and eating correctly even as Pennywise bolstered her to make better decisions and take better care of herself. Even as she continued to gain weight from poor dietary decisions, he was still supportive and kind; he complimented her, commented on how cute she was, how beautiful, and showed open and enthusiastic attraction to her and her body, often while she was getting dressed or showering (“Your curves are so ravishing, darling; you look like a precious work of art”), phantom hands grasping her as he did so. Would deal with her intrusive thoughts as he lulled her to sleep, singing the same lullaby each and every night (“Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clements,”). But as time went on and the weeks passed, as Pennywise had begun visiting her in person and giving her reason to be bigger than the challenges she faced, she found herself finding purpose among the grit once more. She was becoming a little happier again.

Along the way, he had reinvigorated her love for the arts again too. Angel was an artistic girl, always had been, but her depression often had a way of snuffing the flame of inspiration anytime it had started to thrive and burn. Throughout the years, she lived through a tiring cycle. She would spend months and months in a slump, in some kind of creative limbo, she would dread the idea of picking up a pencil, couldn’t muster a single idea to put onto the paper, be it in the form of art or written word. She would spend such time agonizing over her lack of productivity, and then suddenly, it would all come back to her again like a lightbulb being switched on in her brain. A flood of motivation would come to her, and she would revel in an artistic renaissance once more. She would inevitably fall back into another slump just as quickly as it had gone, but in the meantime she tried her best to take advantage of the manic period that had come to her like a blessing, a bombshell of efficiency she would do well not to waste. She would make all manner of things during these times, mostly morbid art she wouldn’t dare show anyone (that, like most things, had been mostly beaten out of her over the years), mostly of characters she’d conjured out of her own imagination; she would sing, she would cook, she would write. And sometimes, sometimes, she would play.

Angel was a musician. She had started in the 4th grade, had inherited a trumpet from her grandfather, who had passed it down to her father before her. It was a 1920 H.N White King Liberty model with a silver bell, and she’d grown up treasuring it throughout her entire adolescence. She was quite good too; she’d had something of a natural talent for it, having been born with musical blood and all on both her mother and her father’s side (mom had played cello, and was damn good at it as well). She’d gone from playing the ever obligatory Hot Cross Buns to complicated concert etudes over the course of her childhood, had achieved first chair consistently and was even drafted for honor band ensembles a couple times. When she’d gotten to high school she’d only improved, had taken up marching, jazz and concert band for her elective classes. Derry High School was by no means prodigious or impressive in any regard when it came to their musical department, but she took it all in stride anyway, thriving in a performative setting whether it be a marching band competition or improvisational soloing in jazz. It was one of many of her hobbies that she exploited to chase that ever elusive feeling, the feeling of being special.

Pennywise had already known all this about Angel, but he thought it best to feign ignorance of her past for the time being, choosing instead to “learn” things about her naturally throughout the course of many conversations with her; all in an excuse to engage, to build their chemistry organically. His omniscience was something he felt he could let her find out about in time. Though she was more than aware of his otherworldly existence at this point, he didn’t want to risk freaking her out too much with things she wouldn’t yet be able to understand. So instead, he talked to her. He asked her questions; he was interested in what she had to say, because she was, after all, a very interesting person, though she would hardly ever give herself due credit for that. She would tell him things about herself, would regale him with stories about her childhood and her years as a teenager, all her trials and tribulations, her pitfalls, her various mishaps and misadventures. She would even ask him questions on occasion, like where he had come from, what the extent of his power was, why he had chosen her, but his answers were mostly cryptic and indirect (“A place far beyond all this, little one”, “More than you can possibly imagine, dearest,” “How could I have chosen what was made especially for me, precious?”); they frankly seemed to inspire more mysteries than they had solved but she thought it best not to needle him too much. She was sure it would all come in time.

So Pennywise had begun with encouraging her art. Would appear over her shoulder or whisper in her ear, telling her little things, little details about things that she was drawing that he particularly liked or found fascinating. He praised her creativity and the macabre nature of her work; asked her things about her characters, requests for knowledge which she was all too happy to oblige. He liked her inkwork, found it bold and rich and thorough, evocative of her distinctive style. He would tell her as much, and enjoyed the blush on her face at every compliment, each boost to her self-worth that she so desperately needed. She was so shy, and had started out mostly unreceptive to his admiration, but in time he had built her up to accept it with meek appreciation, a far cry better than the self-deprecation of before. It wasn’t much, but he would take what victories he could get. One way or another, she would come to see how special she was. He would see to it.

Praising one hobby had progressed onto praising the next, and the next after that. Pennywise had never had much of a taste for human food, but he could tell that Angel clearly had a knack for cooking that was not to be overlooked, and he would laud her creations with enthusiasm. He read the things she wrote and spoke favorably of the strong sense of voice in her words, the way he could feel her personality, could see it bleeding from the pages. And then finally, he had come in on her one day while she was playing her trumpet. She’d picked it up again on a whim one afternoon after work; truth be told, she’d let it slip to the wayside out of self-consciousness after one too many harsh complaints from the neighbors, as while she could shake off their ire at the volume of her punk records, she could stomach less the idea that her playing was too offensive to the ears to be heard. So she’d stopped, and hadn’t played for about a couple years or so, letting her hard-earned range and technique from years of playing dwindle into rust. But now, in the presence of Pennywise and the respite from her problems and insecurities that he brought, she had felt a little inspired to pick back up from where she had left off. She had started out incredibly awkward in her articulations, and it had been a little embarrassing when he would walk in on her fumbling with the valves but this, like all things, was not something Pennywise would react to with disdain or derision. No, he was nothing but sweet and supportive, and in less than a week she was back to tackling improvisation, her favorite part of jazz which was, by a landslide, her elective of choice back in her school days.

And then it had only naturally progressed from there. Once she had gotten her technique back and was improvising once more, she’d started playing her jazz records again. This was different from her hardcore records, they were emotional and full of soul in a different way. She liked the classics, mostly big band acts, and had a modest collection of them on vinyl; Count Basie, Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, and Dizzy Gillespie were just some of the big names she admired. She liked to play along as much as she could. She admittedly wasn’t the best when it came to playing by ear but if given time and room for studious contemplation she could discern the notes and write down tabs for them. Pennywise loved to come listen to her play; liked to dance for her when she did, most often doing the Charleston or the Twist, would make her crack up laughing in the middle of her performances as he would shimmy and jive about the living room. It was so strange and so delightful, and though Angel had seen bright spots before in her life, they were nothing at all like this somehow.

The days had continued just like this, with Pennywise leaving her gifts, Pennywise talking to her almost every day, coming to visit her when he didn’t and delighting her with his presence every time. Her favorite days were the days they talked, the days they spent lazing away on the couch together, the days she played for him, the days they laughed. Even her worst days were bearable with him around to take care of her, and things didn’t seem to be so bad when all he needed to do was take her in his arms and tell her that everything was going to be okay. All it took was one simple embrace and suddenly it all didn’t matter, none of it did. His voice was like a balm to her soul, the sweetest lullaby that soothed her to sleep like a resting babe, could have her out like a light within minutes. His stare was almost the same, in a sense. When she looked into his eyes, she felt something patently unlike anything she had ever felt before. It was like a siren song, calling to her from someplace unknown, someplace far beyond her understanding and it made her so warm, it almost made her burn inside with something mad, something dizzying that had her stumbling, flitting towards it helplessly like a moth drawn to flame. Though it would have her losing consciousness every time, she found herself addicted to the sensation, so enamored with his stare that she simply couldn’t help herself.

Pennywise could not be more pleased at the natural progression of their relationship so far. When all of this had started, when he had first awoken from his great twenty-seven year sleep and come to detect her deliciously fragrant aura fanning over his senses like a delicate perfume, he had expected an uphill battle, had expected her to react to his interactions with confusion at best and outright horror at worst. Though he dared not think on it, some small part of him feared the latter, feared that she might shy away from him, ignore him, spurn him. It was a part of Pennywise that was irrational and free of complex thought, and that part of him stirred with unease at the idea that she might move on without him, find some other stupid, silly human to mate with and give all her love and attention to. That he might have to do things the hard way and rip her from their arms kicking and screaming, taking her unwilling to the bowels beneath Derry where they would stay together for years. No, he did not want that. It was an unsavory end to eons spent in pining and anticipation, and he was better than that, was greater than to let some mere mortal stand in the way of destiny and fate. It was an unreasonable notion anyway, he knew it to be so. He was sure that the very same fate and destiny that had given him such a gift had seen fit to guarantee his eventual conquest for, after all, she’d already come so far in her life without courting another human soul. Her perceived undesirability to the others, her status as a social pariah in the town was simply insurance to his ends, a way to keep her isolated from all those who weren’t worthy.

And yet here she was, flitting eagerly towards him and his ploys to bring them closer together; accepting his gifts, his love and attention without a second thought, and all because she had never in her life been shown the time of day before. How lonely she had always been, overlooked and neglected by most everyone in her life for years; the kid picked last in gym, the third wheel to everyone’s shallow little relationships, the shy girl afraid to truly speak up for herself for fear of alienating herself even further. She might have put on a brave face throughout her childhood, pretended to be hardened and impervious to the hurtful words and actions of others, but he knew better. He knew who she was, who she truly was, and he knew how fragile her ego and sense of self worth really was, even if she pretended otherwise with her loud sense of fashion and boisterous sense of humor. His focus, his recognition and interest, it was the sweetest candy in existence to her and he knew she was so starved for it that she would do little else but gobble it all up as it came to her, as he offered it with a gracefully gentle silken hand. And with every single piece she would be further hypnotized, letting the saccharine poison linger on her tongue until it was the only taste in existence she craved. And her attention, in turn, was something he craved so terribly that it was almost an ache, an emptiness in his eldritch soul. He wanted to occupy her mind so completely, wanted to be her central preoccupation in everything. He wanted her to love him more than anyone or anything else on this disgusting little planet. He wanted to possess her completely and utterly in mind and body, and be the only thing she would ever truly care about. He wanted her. All of her.

And it would seem he was well on his way to having her, if the past few weeks were any indication. He loved being with her, and he loved how delighted she always was to see him. She’d started out so shy and closed off to his compliments, would always either refuse them or angle her face to the floor in embarrassment whenever he praised her. He’d needed to work on that. No, no mate of his would be so unsure of their worth and value, so doubtful and hesitant to acknowledge their own precious merit. It was an honor in itself to be intertwined with him in such a fashion; to be destined to a creature so great as himself made her a priceless little trifle, and she needed to know just how priceless she was. He would stop at nothing until she knew, and thankfully he was making great headway as of late. She was starting to write again, to make more of her precious art, was spending hours in the kitchen just slaving away to make things just for his delight and appraisal. She needn’t know that he sated his palate on things of a different nature, not yet at least. In the meantime he was content to try her creations with cloying enthusiasm, building her up with passionate admiration for her efforts and leaving her just a little more bound to him, more prone to hinging on his every word. And the days she had started playing that darling little trumpet of hers were his favorite. Her soul came out the most when she was playing her music; she would get so lost in it that he could just see all the dormant exuberance and vivacity inside, just begging to see release. The way her eyes would close while she was improvising, the way the voice of her horn would rise and fall with each note, the way her hips would sway with each resonant refrain... The music was simply a channel, a conduit with which she could soar to heights that truly suited her, the only worthy counterpart to him, the insidiously wicked beast of Derry.

And as the frigid days of winter slowly melted into the fresh dew of spring, a special occasion was appearing over the horizon. Calendar days of March flitted off into the wind until April had slowly come of age, and Pennywise could see as the days progressed how Angel stewed with stirring anticipation of a sort. Her birthday was coming, and he knew it, though he wouldn’t admit as much to her. No, he wanted that to come as a surprise. He knew that Angel’s birthday, much like most other occasions in her life, was little more than an annual disappointment. With little money and even less friends around to celebrate the affair, it was often something Angel looked to swallow quickly so she could move on and continue life as usual. Though her birthdays were never distinctly bad, they were nonetheless patently unremarkable events. The only noteworthy milestone in age was that of her 21st birthday, as now she could at least drown her sorrows in alcohol whenever she felt the urge to do so. It was rather lucky indeed that that particular urge hadn’t possessed her as of this current depression spiral, though she’d be lying if she said it hadn’t started to become tempting before Pennywise had introduced himself. With all of this in mind, he had been thinking of ways to commemorate the event. He could feel how antsy, could taste on his tongue how restless she was. With all the late night visits, all the teasing and the heavy petting, he knew that she wanted more from him. It was plainly obvious, even if she hadn’t any idea just how obvious it was. He knew her to be desperate for something of more substance, but he couldn’t take her, couldn’t even kiss her just yet, even if some deep, dark part of the recesses of her mind yearned impatiently for it. No, better to save such things for crucial junctures in their relationship, when she was much more likely to reject him in the wake of unsavory discoveries. He intended to weaponize his advances, and introduce them only when necessary, when it would benefit him most. The time to lavish her with pleasure and ecstasy would come, he just needed to be patient and dangle the spoils just frustratingly out of her reach.

In the meantime, however, he needed to draw her in more, and he knew this to be a ripe opportunity to do so. He’d started to prepare some weeks in advance, planning and plotting a simple romantic evening that would have her eating right out of his hand. He’d already laid the groundwork for the night to come, and he would come to her with a modest but elegant gift, meaningful and significant in its intent to draw her in. He would entice and seduce her with his charms, would hold her close and taste the delicious wanton desire, and follow through on a promise from before. He would orchestrate the tension between them and intentionally let it fall short, would leave her frustrated from the lack of resolution, leave her wanting more than ever before. But he wouldn’t indulge it, not now. Despite his own primal desire and lust, he would hold himself back, because now wasn’t the time. No, no, not when there was so much yet to be done. He wanted so badly to take her, and he loved to see her pine for him in turn, but now wasn’t the time.

And on the day of the 17th, he’d planned to make his move. He woke her up as he often did, had watched her shower and dress for the day, had seen her out of the house and talked to her normally, plainly and unassumingly as though he had no idea what the special occasion was. She hadn’t told him, was too shy to do so, so she’d simply kept her mouth shut and continued on with her day. And what a hellish day it had gradually turned out to be. It started when she came to clock in for work; the commute had taken a little longer than usual due to an unusual surplus of traffic, and the librarian had given her what for as a result. She became sheepish and jittery, taking to the front desk with the intent to forget it but finding that she kept reflecting on her chastisement with embarrassment through the hours. She kept stuttering when talking to the patrons, had stumbled on her words on more than one occasion, so she had increasingly fallen silent after a number of mortifying social blunders. How she wished for Pennywise to whisper in her ear as he often did, offer her encouragement and counsel for all her trouble, but no, he seemed strangely absent on this day. She figured he had other things to attend to; he sometimes did, and she didn’t pry into his dealings, but she often found herself disappointed as a result. She at least hoped to find a gift for the day, an offering that she might delude herself into thinking was a present for her special occasion, but no such luck even as she clocked out and took her lunch break, the time she would usually stumble on such a prize. Lunch was an ordeal all its own; on her way out to the town monument she’d stepped in an errant pile of dog shit, and no amount of scraping and scuffing would get it completely off the bottom of her shoe. She’d found that the apple in her lunch box had a spot of mold on it, rendering it inedible, and as she ate her sandwich she was met with an unfortunate mustard stain on her blouse. Trying to wash it off in the sink only seemed to make it worse somehow, and as she bungled through the rest of her shift she found herself increasingly disheartened.

The Losers had come over the weekend before to celebrate, but it had turned out to be little more than the same proceedings as always. She would welcome them in, they would take to her couch to talk about school and the Bowers gang, catch up a little, they might take in a movie of some kind, a VHS off Angel’s bookshelf; Bill would be mostly silent as a result of his ever-present grief, Eddie and Richie would bicker with Stan sometimes snarkily interjecting, Angel would have to intervene and break them up. It was a cycle she admittedly grew tired of sometimes, as much as she loved them all, and as time wore on she found herself getting exhausted at their presence, so she’d sent them home after some hours spent horsing around. She felt a little guilty for feeling the way that she did, but she could hardly help it; call her jaded, but she was increasingly fatigued at having to always be the adult in these situations. Though she’d always dreamt of having children, it was nonetheless overwhelming to be in charge of four of them at once a lot of the time. It was times like these she really wished their parents would take a more hands on approach with their kids, but she knew they likely wouldn’t care enough to do such a thing. No, as much as Angel sometimes resented it, she was big sister to them all for better or for worse. In times like these, it was definitely for the latter, though she would never dare admit it.

So she’d finished work for the day, had finished clean up and finally clocked out, then began her walk home. Her legs were spent from being on her feet all day, and she simply wanted to go home and take a nap so she could bring herself from one dull day into the next. Maybe the next day she might see Pennywise, or at the very least hear from him again. She always held out for the possibility, had always looked forward to it, to that warm feeling she’d feel coursing through her as the precursor to his inevitable manifestation. The walk home was surprisingly uneventful, no blunders to worsen the day, but on the flip side of the coin, she hadn’t found any gifts either. No little trifles poking out of crevices on the ground, nothing dangling innocently off a tree branch for her discovery. No, he was simply absent in every sense of the word, and on this day in particular she found that especially disappointing. She wanted more than anything to see him, wanted to look on his ethereal visage with the same moonstruck gaze as always, the one that always crept across her face when she found him waiting for her, expecting her. His fiery hair, his gorgeous eyes, his striking makeup and elegant silken suit; he was truly beautiful in every sense of the word. That he had chosen her still baffled her beyond all measure, but she had gone past the stages of questioning it. If what he said was true, after all, choice had nothing to do with it. It was, as he said, destiny, and having seen what she had seen over the course of this year, she was somewhat inclined to believe it, as ridiculous as it all sounded. As much as she wanted to put this entire day behind her, she also wanted more than anything to tell him about her day, to confess how much this day meant to her in the hopes that he might do something about it, might make it up to her in a way that only he could. Fat chance, she thinks wistfully, and she fishes out her key ring to swing open the front door. When she steps inside, however, she hears the familiar lilt of his voice, and she looks up, startled.

“Happy birthday, my sweet.”

She’s taken aback by the display in front of her. Candles everywhere, lighting up the dark room. The soft glow of the flames make it all seem unreal. Candy red balloons bob and float carelessly about the ceiling, the strings dangling down like gossamer spider thread. There’s a familiar scent in the air and she knows that it’s him, the cloying scent of a traveling carnival, rich and unearthly and eternal. And he’s there in the middle of it all, his face lit up by the luminous display all around him, simply waiting for her arrival. He carries a box in his hands, one simple and tasteful in its wrapping, with a red bow affixed to the top. She drops her bag on the floor, stunned and speechless. He beckons her forward with a smile.

“Come to Pennywise, my pet, he has something to give you.”

“P-Pennywise, I-”

“ Shhhhhh, don’t question it. Just come here.”

She feels a shiver run up her spine at the gentleness of his voice, so wonderfully seductive and sensuous in tone. Her legs move of their own accord, simply propelled forward by her wordless elation. She resists the urge to run. She comes to him and with the box in one hand he carefully takes her by the hand and guides her to the couch.

“Sit down, darling.”

She complies and with a tender exchange he hands her the box. She gives him a silent look of gratitude and numbly begins to unwrap it. She undoes the bow and sets the ribbon aside, and she tears away the wrapping paper with cautious consideration. Waiting inside is a vanity box of some kind, and when she opens it up her breath hitches in her throat.

Oranges and lemons

Say the bells of St. Clements

You owe me five farthings

Say the Bells of St. Martins

The box sings a delicate lullaby melody in the form of pinstruck notes on the tuned teeth of a steel comb. It’s a music box warbling the refrain of Oranges and Lemons , the familiar cradlesong he had used to lull her to sleep so many times before. In the center of it sits a ceramic clown, poised in an elegant pirouette, and it spins slowly to the tune. Tears start to prickle in her eyes.

“Pennywise, I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Open the middle drawer.” He whispers.

When she does so, she finds something waiting inside, a familiar sight she had looked on with fascination so many times before, a feature she had so always admired. Suddenly, she realizes something missing from the sleeve of his right arm, and she takes the trifle out of the box to examine it in the lucent candlelight. It jingles softly as she holds it up. It’s one of the bells from his suit, attached to a simple golden necklace, and as she looks on it with wonder she starts to melt. He reaches down to stroke her cheek fondly.

“...This way I can always be with you, even when I’m far away. Come, darling, turn around so I can put it on you.”

She obeys him in her stupefied daze, and she shudders with breathless exhilaration when those silken hands brush up against her neck. He sweeps her hair out of the way and fastens the clasp around her neck, his touch tickling ever so slightly when it lingers on her collarbone. The necklace hangs tastefully about her throat, and when he brushes her hair from her shoulders to her back again he leans forward to whisper in her ear.

“Come with me.” It’s such a simple and dominant request, and she feels the coil in her belly start to flare up as he gets up and extends a hand to her. She takes it again and he pulls her up off the couch.

“Do you know how to foxtrot, my dear?”

She’s caught off guard by the question and, suddenly, memories of one of their earlier conversations comes flooding back to her.

“N-no, I don’t… I don’t think so.”

The record player speaks up now, starting to play a pleasant tune. She recognizes it, a track from one of her favorite movies. It’s ghostly and beautiful and she shivers when she hears it, a light piano melody that segues into a comforting horn refrain. It’s Midnight with the Stars and You, courtesy of Ray Noble and his orchestra.

“Come. It’s easy, I’ll show you…”

He takes her to the vacant space of the dining room, and all she can do is simply follow behind him. The candlelight with the music is intoxicating, and the scent of his presence only works to hypnotize her even more. He leads her with one hand and as he turns to face her he simply towers over her, a creature that might be intimidating to anyone else but not to her, never to her. The way he looks down into her eyes so fondly is spellbinding, staring into her like she was the most exquisite little thing in the world, something rare to be loved and cherished. She feels small just then, not in a way that was degrading or in any way demeaning, but just because he feels like the entire universe in that moment; unfathomably big and all-encompassing and, most of all, warm. She can’t breathe.

“Keep your left hand… Here.” He purrs, repositioning her fingers delicately on the broad slope of his shoulder. “...And your other hand here in mine.” She giggles bashfully and he grins. “Now,” He says, his stare unwavering. “Watch, keep your lovely hazel eyes on me.” He demonstrates a few gentle twists and turns and she’s simply swept along for the ride, her feet gliding along with his and matching his canter, if a bit clumsily. They move about the room in fluid motion, coming back and forth, to and fro, in a seductive circle that has Angel overcome with dizziness. She tries her best to obey his wordless commands, timid and insecure in her movements. He can see how shy and embarrassed she is and he’s just as gentle as ever, using his feet and his grip on her hand to guide her.

“Yes, follow my lead, sweetheart. It’s so easy…”

Midnight with the stars and you

Midnight and a rendezvous

Your eyes held a message tender

Saying "I surrender all my love to you…

He takes her into a soothing back and forth sway and she moves with him, letting him lead the way, letting him take her wherever he pleases. The tension between them is inescapable, it does nothing but emphasize the growing heat in the room. She starts to get the hang of it in time, though her form is still ungainly and unsure. She missteps and breaks out into flustered laughter, angling her red face to the floor in an effort to avoid any imagined judgment. His hand leaves her hip for just a second and he tilts her chin up to look at him again.

"No no no, pretty girl, eyes up here. I want you to look at Pennywise, nothing would bring him greater joy..."

She squeaks and nods, squeezing his hand reflexively. He squeezes back, fixing her with a reassuring gaze as they start to move again.

"That's it… Thaaaat's it. Oh, you're doing so good… My good, precious, talented little Angel…"

“Am I…Am I doing this right..?” She asks him, her voice quiet, her tone unsure. She drums the fingers of her left hand nervously on his shoulder. Her movements are tentative and cautious, but still he smiles at her. “I… Told you I used to take dance when I was little, but I’m afraid I lost any ounce of grace or poise I might have had before. I, hahaha… I feel like a cat on ice.”

“You’re like a perfect little ballerina.” He whispers decadently.

She flushes. “You think so?”

“I know so, precious. Look at you, learning so fast…”

He twirls her away from him with one hand and she yelps when she comes colliding back into his chest. She looks up at him with stars in her eyes, breathless and gasping. He looks down at her with a coy grin, enjoying her captivation, so easy to secure and yet so delicious to savor. He holds her close, their bodies pressed together, not tightly, but just enough to create friction. She picks it up more and more with each step, pensive though she was, and as they move and sashay about the room with one another her movements gradually become more graceful.

Midnight brought us sweet romance

I know all my whole life through

I'll be remembering you

Whatever else I do

He looks down at her as he looms above, tall and imposing. But despite it all she’s not afraid. No, she’s never afraid with him, never more than simply enchanted with his presence and taken with the way he looks at her, the way his eyes glint so splendidly with torrid passion at the mere sight of her face. All it takes is a few seconds of tension and she finds herself getting hung up on those eyes, his hair, his perfect red-capped nose… His lips…

Midnight with the stars and you…

Her heartbeat starts to move faster in her chest as he stares down into her. The way they still move together is captivating, their feet fluid as they circle elegantly around the room in each other’s arms. He’s chasing her, leading her into a corner and all she can do is let it happen. She wants it, needs it to happen more than anything else in the world, more than anything in this very moment, and as the walls are closing in around them they get ever closer to that final end. He’s leaning in close, she starts to part her lips-

Reeee EEEORRRWH!!

“F*CK!”

In just a second, all tension is gone from the room. Angel trips clumsily over Mayor Jello and almost goes sprawling backward to the floor. Pennywise is quick, though, and catches her in his arms, setting her upright in his hold again. He savors the feeling of her clinging to his chest and the way she heaves in air through her own, gasping and panting and out of breath. She starts to giggle hysterically into the silk, wiping away tears of joy as she looks up at him again.

“Are you alright, my sweet?”

“Yeah, y-yeah I…” She laughs. “Good thing you caught me, I almost ate shit.”

She hugs him tight, and he hugs her back, the both of them laughing, sharing in the joy together. They don’t kiss.

[corona-de-vil]

How did this happen?

How did this happen?

The article I‘m sharing below is the first post about Covid-19 that I shared on Facebook, that I can find – on Feb 6, 2020. The first cases were reported back in December 2019, in Wuhan. I’d heard about it, I’d thought about, it entered my mind a few times, but I wasn’t concerned. This was happening in Wuhan, China, thousands of miles away from Cincinnati, Ohio. Surely, we were safe. Clearly, we should have all been paying more attention. The doctor referenced in the article below, died. He died trying to treat patients from a virus that seemed like the flu - that he didn’t yet understand.

In the U.S. we were too busy holding impeachment hearings and failing to impeach our corrupt President. The world was mourning Kobe Bryant’s death. At home, my uncle and my grandma Secen had both passed away days apart. We were mourning them. I was able to see her a few hours before her death and although I’m so grateful for that, it was so sad to see her so frail and so close to death. I’ll never forget her sister-in-law coming in and overhearing my grandma whisper for her to pray with her. I think she knew then it was upon her. She lived a long and full life I know, but still, I can’t imagine lying there with a fully functioning brain knowing that your body would give out at any moment and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Life and death have always weighed so heavy upon me. I feel like I am constantly trying to sweep away thoughts of death. 2020 had already started out as a shit year. I worried about my dad losing his mom. Elizabeth Warren, the best candidate in my opinion, fell in the polls and ultimately dropped out. I was getting over that and busy being excited that Bernie Sanders was looking likely that he really could be the nominee and then, March 3rd, Super Tuesday came and went and out of nowhere, Joe Biden swept taking the delegate lead and not looking back. Not everyone cares about these things, but politics is really important to me and we need to get Trump out of office. Also the kids were sick and Jonathan and I were both sick, so we were out like an entire week as a family. It took me days to clean up all the vomit filled laundry. Isla was telling me dirty stuff was coming out of her mouth and Sophia was crying “please don’t throw up, please don’t throw up”…. Pretty much breaking my heart seeing my kids so sick.

So 2020 has been less than stellar to say the least. And now here we are, Sophie has been out of school most of March and she probably won’t ever return to preschool. She was supposed to be working on art work for her end of year art show, having a pizza party with her classmates, getting ready for a graduation ceremony. She may never see any of those kids again. She has no idea. My heart hurts. They haven’t been to gymnastics in weeks. Isla has cried several times because we can’t go to the zoo. And we have no idea when this will end. Everything is cancelled until further notice - Opening Day, all of baseball, the flying pig marathon. I have renewed anger for Trump supporters. I’ve seen so many posts over the last month about how this is blown out of proportion, that it’s a hoax, that the media is in a frenzy and scaring everyone. The sad reality is its real, and its very scary. And we lost weeks not preparing – our President couldn’t stop this virus from reaching our shores, no one could  have prevented it really, but he wasted time downplaying for weeks and were paying for it. Its global, it’s a pandemic, but he is not a leader and he caused us to fall behind the curve. There is a shortage of tests, numbers are under-reported, everything is basically shut down and we’ve been in a lockdown in Ohio for nearly 3 weeks. We’re under social distancing, stay at home orders ow until at least April 30. It’s April 1st. Thankfully Governor Dewine has been taking it seriously in Ohio. 

There are close to a million cases worldwide, with over 200k in the U.S. and nearly 40,000 people have already died. 

I’m already losing it a bit. So, here we are, making the best of it. We have our beach vacation planned the last week of May. Right now I’m crossing my fingers we don’t have to break Sophia’s heart and cancel. ☹

So I guess that kind of catches things up. I’ll add a timeline from wiki.

 Beijing (CNN)The death of a doctor widely regarded as a hero in China for blowing the whistle on the threat posed by the Wuhan coronavirus has led to a massive outpouring of grief and anger online.

Li Wenliang died of the virus in the early hours of Friday morning local time, Wuhan Central Hospital, where he worked, said in a statement. The confirmation follows a series of conflicting statements about his condition from the hospital and Chinese state media outlets.

"Our hospital's ophthalmologist Li Wenliang was unfortunately infected with coronavirus during his work in the fight against the coronavirus epidemic," the hospital said. "He died at 2:58 am on Feb 7 after attempts to resuscitate were unsuccessful."

Li was among a number of supposed "rumormongers" detained in December for spreading news about the virus. He had warned about a potential "SARS-like" virus spreading in Wuhan. Nothing Li said was incorrect, but it came as officials in the city were downplaying the severity of the outbreak and its risk to the public.

There were more apparent efforts to control the narrative even after Li's death -- leading to widespread anger.

Earlier on Thursday night, several state media outlets had reported Li's death, following which Chinese social media erupted in mourning. Hours of confusion followed, with Wuhan Central Hospital releasing a statement saying Li was still alive and in critical condition, adding that they were "making attempts to resuscitate him."

State media subsequently deleted their previous tweets, only for the hospital to then confirm his death.

Wuhan's whistleblower

Li had raised the alarm about the virus that ultimately took his life.

In December, he posted in his medical school alumni group on the Chinese messaging app WeChat that seven patients from a local seafood market had been diagnosed with a SARS-like illness and were quarantined in his hospital in Wuhan.

Soon after he posted the message, Li was accused of rumor-mongering by the Wuhan police.

He was one of several medics targeted by police for trying to blow the whistle on the deadly virus in the early weeks of the outbreak, which has sickened more than 28,000 people and killed more than 560. He later contracted the virus himself.

Li was hospitalized on January 12 and tested positive for the coronavirus on February 1.

Fury on social media

China's social media channels were awash with anger following news of Li's death.

The topics "Wuhan government owes Dr. Li Wenliang an apology," and "We want freedom of speech," soon began to trend on China's Twitter-like platform, Weibo. Each gained tens of thousands of views before disappearing from the heavily censored platform.

Another topic, called "I want freedom of speech," had drawn 1.8 million views as of 5 a.m. Friday morning local time (4 p.m. ET Thursday).

Top comments under the Wuhan Central Hospital's statement about Li's death included "I've learned two words: political rescue & performative rescue" and "Countless young people will mature overnight after today: the world is not as beautiful as we imagined. Are you angry? If any of us here is fortunate enough to speak up for the public in the future, please make sure you remember tonight's anger."

Several comments also marked the timing of the announcement. "I knew you would post this in the middle of the night," wrote one Weibo user.

"You think we've all gone to sleep? No. We haven't," said another.

Confusion over his condition

The Global Times first announced Li had died in a tweet at around 10:40 p.m. local time Thursday, linking to a report that cited friends and doctors at Wuhan Central Hospital.

It deleted the post several hours later. Other Chinese media outlets also deleted their reports of his death, without explanation. The World Health Organization released a message of condolence following the initial reports that Li was dead but later updated their statement to say they did not have any information about the doctor's status.

Wuhan Central Hospital issued a new statement confirming his death later that day.

The death toll and number of people infected by the Wuhan coronavirus continues to grow, with no signs of slowing despite severe quarantine and population control methods put in place in central China.

The number of confirmed cases globally stood at 28,275 as of Thursday, with more than 28,000 of those in China. The number of cases in China grew by 3,694, or 15%, on the previous day. There have been 565 deaths so far, all but two of which were in China, with one in the Philippines and one in Hong Kong.

CNN's Amy Woodyatt contributed to this story.

[tyranttortoise]

Napstaton x Reader fluff

Raffle Winner One-shot for @bigfanofpuns Napstaton x Reader  ||   Underswap Pacifist Surface timeline Reader specifics:  aerial acrobat.   ... I went a little further and did an aerial acrobat with a specialty in silk acrobatics.

*Hope you like it!

You didn't know what to expect when you got the call from a rather shy, soft-spoken person that claimed your talents were requested--but of all the possibilities you entertained, standing in front of a literal, smiling robot was never one of them.

"Yo!  You must be Y/N!  Gotta say, it's great to meet you in-person.  You're exactly what my next show needs!"

They beam at you, and your eyes sweep over their metallic body, taking in the sight of their blue jacket and matching hat (turned around backwards to sweep the gray locks of hair from their face), the headphones around their neck, and the fist now extended out to you.

"Don't leave me hangin', dude."  The robot shakes their hand toward you, and you finally snap out of your shock to awkwardly fist-bump them.  

"Sorry, I just..."  You trail off, so many different questions running through your mind at once, that it was difficult to pick just one.

"I know, it's kinda overwhelming meeting a star as big as me, right?"  The robot reaches out and claps a hand on your shoulder, leaning forward.  Your spine stiffens in surprise, but you have to admit... He's actually really handsome.

And totally a robot.

"I don't think I know who you are," you manage, your best apologetic smile plastered on your face.  The robot blinks slowly, pulling back yet not breaking the physical contact.  He stares at you for a moment longer before he suddenly breaks into a grin.

"Ohhh, dude!  You really had me going for a second there.  I doubt there's a home out there that doesn't know the name Napstaton.  My NTT line is pretty rad, after all!"

The name sounds vaguely familiar.  But, if this robot's famous... then...

"How do you know who I am?"

"Your video!"  He releases your shoulder to give you a thumbs up.  "Once I saw how talented you are with acrobatics, I was, like, so entranced!  Holy cow, you're limber!  How did you even start doing aerial silk shows?"

You feel your face heating up.  It's always been a passion of yours; you got into gymnastics as a child, and then went from there, using uneven bars to propel yourself into flips and corkscrews mid-air.  But, the moment you saw an aerial silk show, where the acrobat would twist their body between two hanging strips of silk, combining the acrobats you loved with the sensual beauty of the silk, well...

You wanted that to be you.

So, it had become a hobby.  You were known for how versatile your moves were, how you basically made it into a dance.  But, you only did small local performances.  You never expected someone from Ebott City to take notice.  And you especially never expected that someone to be a celebrity robot.  

... Did he even count as a monster?  Would it be incredibly rude to ask?

"It was just something I wanted to try," you finally answer, finding your voice as the initial shock wears off.  "I've always been an acrobat, but the silk shows are something new I've been trying."

Napstaton raises a brow.  It amazes you that their mechanical features are so expressive.  Who in the world built them?  

"Woah, you say that like it's so easy!  Aren't you scared of falling?"

You shake your head.  "Nah, I've walked tight-ropes before.  As long as the silk is secured well, I won't fall."

The robot whistles low, crossing their arms.  "Well, in that case, you've got nothing to worry about!  We'll make sure you won't literally break a leg."  They grin wide, and there's something so charming and relaxed about that expression.  Is it in their programming?  

Or is their something more to them?

You find yourself eager to discover what that something is.

The first day of rehearsal, you sit back and watch the performance.  Napstaton is spinning records and remixing tunes in a massive DJ booth to the side of the stage.  A literal pink ghost is singing, and it's the same timid voice you heard on the phone before--only it's beautiful and relaxed when put with the music.  There's an equally-timid-looking, yet absurdly-muscular horse monster singing backup vocals and adding a deep baritone timbre to the mix.  The two of them harmonize well, especially with the tone of the music.

There's also a blue-haired rabbit monster is scowling off to the side, dressed up as... the scenery.  In fact, it seems like the only thing he adds to the performance is standing there with a crude bush costume around him, and his head sticking out of a hole.  

You wisely decide not to question it.

The group runs through all of the songs, and you find yourself getting lost in the music.  When they stop, you realize why they're so popular; they're mesmerizing, even without the hook of being a monster band.  

Napstaton deftly jumps off the edge of the stage, landing with a metallic clunk in front of you.  They're wearing their usual charming grin, filled with the content confidence of someone quite comfortable in their own skin--or metal casing, rather.  "Whaddya think?"

"It sounds pretty amazing, honestly," you respond, your brows raised.

"We always sound rad," he agrees, although he does seem to brighten at your compliment.  "So, can you make up a routine based on that?  I can give you some CDs with the songs to take home."

"Yeah, that'll definitely help.  I can come up with something."

"Cool!  How about we rehearse again in a week?"

You spend all week listening to the songs and practicing at the studio your friend runs.  You don’t know why, but there’s a part of you that’s eager to impress the robotic celebrity.

You can’t stop thinking about the way they smiled at you, the confidence exuding from them in waves.  They had accomplished so much since ascending from Underground (you finally Googled them, and hoo boy, they weren’t joking when they said everyone knew them.  Their NTT line was everywhere), and yet, they hadn’t been stuck up about it.  Instead, thye’d been warm and friendly, casual even, like you were friends despite just meeting.  

It was refreshing, and you want to make sure your routine is perfect.  If you play your cards right, this could even be what propels you further in the world of acrobatics.  

At the first rehearsal, the stage looks the same, only there’s now two long silk ropes hanging down, in the same shade of blue as Napstaton’s jacket.  You’re wearing a simple leotard as you examine the silk, tugging on it, and then jumping up to swing on it slightly, making sure its secure.  

“Don’t worry; I’m, like... 95% positive you won’t fall to your death.”  

Napstaton’s voice startles you, and you nearly let go.  They reach out and place a hand on your back, steadying you, and their fingers touch the skin exposed by the leotard.  Surprisingly, they don’t feel cold, but warm... and slightly buzzing.  It makes your skin tingle.  “Sorry,” they chuckle.  “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you...ah...”

They seem to trail off, and you notice their gaze on the exposed skin of your legs.  You can’t help but shift on your feet, feeling a little self-conscious.  You don’t have much experience with monsters--much less robots--and aren’t sure if your attire is crossing some strange boundary.  “Is this okay?  The silk tends to slip if I’m wearing leggings or tights.”

“What?”  They snap out of it, shaking their head.  “No, no, i-it’s fine.  I was just thinking that Happy is gonna have to whip you up some rad threads for the show!”  There’s a soft blue glow to their cheeks suddenly that you find fascinating. 

... Is Napstaton blushing?

Instead, you query, “Happy?”

That charming grin is back in-place.  “Yeah, my cousin!  He does lead vocals!  Name’s Hapstablook, but I’ve always called him Happy.”  They shrug.  “It’s stuck.”

A robot with a ghost cousin?  Monsters are so interesting!  And so strange.

The rehearsal starts, but this time, it’s just you and Napstaton, the song playing from a CD.  They still sit at the DJ booth to the side, kicked back in a chair with their feet up and their arms behind their head.  

You can feel their gaze on you, intently watching.

Your face flushes, and you try to block it out.  

When the music starts, you immediately grasp both ropes and climb, twisting the silk around your body as you do so with practiced ease.  You invert in the silk, hanging upside down, slowly spinning in a circle as you dangle and wait for the moment when the beat of the music begins to rise.  At just the perfect moment, you drop, rolling down the silk and catching yourself with your legs to spin upright.  Even over the music, you catch Napstaton’s startled gasp, and when you spin around toward them, you see that they’re no longer chilling in the chair, but leaned forward with both feet planted on the ground in front of him.  

Your performance is perfectly choreographed, filled with inversions, flips, and displays of your upper body strength.  At one point, you slide down and catch yourself with only your ankle wrapped in the silk.  At another, you stretch out sideways and spin in the silk, wrapping yourself up, only to slide down further.  One song slides into another, and you keep the moves up, timing each feat with a portion of the song.  When the song ends, you end up rolling down the silk from the top, only to catch yourself at the bottom, still wrapped up.  One leg is bent behind your head, the other with your toe pointed down toward the floor, an arm stretched taunt and wrapped in silk, and the other extended toward the imaginary audience.

Napstaton breaks into applause and gives you a thumbs up.  Their grin is the widest you’ve seen yet.   

“Your rad performance is definitely going to be our grand finale!”

The next week, Napstaton’s made some notes on your cues.  The adorable pink ghost, Happy, films you during rehearsal, and Napstaton remixes a few of the beats to better fit the fluidity of your moves.  They’re mostly content to let you do whatever you want on the silk--NT seems utterly blown away by your flexibility, and super chill about the entire thing.  

It’s nice and sets you at ease.

Later that week, Happy gets your measurements and runs some costume designs by you.  It’s fun sitting just talking to the ghost, and although he seems really shy, when he talks about music, his entire face lights up.  

“.....Napsta has been watching your video a lot,” Happy comments quietly a few days later, while hemming part of your outfit.  

“Yeah?”  You quirk a brow, twisting your neck to glance at the pastel specter.  Happy’s cheeks are even pinker than usual when he nods.  “Isn’t that how I landed this gig in the first place?”

“N-not that video.... the one from rehearsal.  They’re really impressed...”

You can’t help but feel the flush rise to your cheeks.  The idea of Napstaton, watching your perform with that same intensity they had in their gaze the first time they saw your acrobatic feats in-person, well... It made you happy. 

“I’ve been listening to their music nonstop lately, myself,” you admit, omitting the fact that you bought an NTT shirt with Napstaton’s face on it a few days prior.  You maaayyy or may not be using it as your new favorite sleep shirt.

In the mirror, you see Happy’s smile brighten.

After rehearsal the following day, Napstaton catches you once you change out of your leotard and into normal clothes.  “’sup?  Wanna grab a bite before you go home?”  

Dinner with a celebrity?  You should probably feel nervous, but instead... that charming grin makes you feel at ease.  “Sure, is Happy joining us?”

NT shrugs.  “Nah.  Said he already ate, so I guess it’s just you and me.”

Now that makes you feel slightly jittery, but you’re happy to accept their offer.  You wonder what kind of fancy restaurant a famous DJ would like to eat at.  You’re not exactly dressed for anything that they could possibly--

They park the car at McDonald’s.

You can’t help but laugh, and Napstaton rubs the back of their neck.  “Uh, you don’t like Mickey D’s?”

“Just not what I was expecting,” you claim with a grin.  “You’re just... down-to-Earth for a monster celeb.  Or robot celeb?”

“Either works.  I’m still a monster, ya’know.  Got a SOUL and everything.”  They tap their chest with their fist, and the heart-shape imprinted in their design begins to glow a faint white.  

A robot with a SOUL?  Maybe that’s why they’re so expressive.

“But yeah.  I mean, I try to be.  Never have been the fancy type.”  They shrug, looking slightly abashed.  “Were ya, like.. hoping for somethin’ more?  We can go somewhere else.”

You open up the car door, shaking your head.  “This is perfect, NT.  Let’s go.”

The two of you order burgers, chicken nuggets, and fries, then find a corner booth to sit and talk.  You learn a little more about what drove Napstaton to stardom, and you finally ask them how they’re cousins with a ghost.

“Easy-peasy.  I used to be one, too, before the totally awesome Doctor Undyne built me this body!”

“What?  Are you telling me you’re a literal ghost in the machine?”  Your eyes are huge.  “How did you become a ghost?  Did you die?”  The inquires get blurted out before you can think about how insensitive that sounds.  Whoops.  You start to back-pedal.  “Sorry.  I mean...”

NT waves their hand dismissively.  “No biggie.  I was born a ghost.”  Their grin turns amused.  “Humans have such weird ideas about ghosts.”    They get up and throw away the trash, but instead of heading back to the car, they tilt their head toward the nearby park.  “Wanna walk off all of that greasy fast food.”

You want to prolong the night.  “Why not?”  With a shrug, you follow them down the sidewalk, chatting about yourself--what got you into aerial acrobatics, why you decided to try silk ropes, the first time you had successfully walked a tight rope--and Napstaton gave you their full, undivided attention.

There’s a moment of silence before you decide to voice a question that’s been weighing on your mind.  “Why did you want a robotic body?”

NT’s smile fades around the edges slightly, the light in their eyes seeming faraway as they look straight ahead.  They’re quiet for a moment, and you immediately regret asking, but then they speak up, “I wanted to be like the humans.”  That admission catches you by surprise, and when you turn toward them, Napstaton reaches out and takes your hand.  “I wanted to be corporeal--to be able to touch and be touched, and not just with my music.”  

You don’t really know what to say to that.  Your fingers shift to lace with NT’s, and you squeeze their hand.  “I’m glad you got to do everything you’ve dreamed of, NT.”

Their charming grin returns, and they squeeze your hand in return.  “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

The day of the show, you discover the stadium is packed.  There are even people sitting in the grass past the seats, and large jumbo screens situation on either side of the stage to showcase the performance.  

Holy crap, you’re nervous.  

Napstaton grins, winding an arm around your shoulders as you peek out from behind the curtain.  “Ready to give ‘em a show, Y/N?”

“Maybe,” you mutter, your nerves fluttering in your stomach.  NT laughs, pulling you against their side and squeezing your upper arm.  

“You’ll knock ‘em dead.  So totally dead, in fact, that they might even become ghosts and haunt the place.  Isn’t that, like... the human stereotype?”  Their grin is shit-eating at this point.   

“Ha ha.  I think Happy’s the only ghost we need haunting the place.  And, well--you, if you count.  But Happy wouldn’t scare a soul.”

“Not on purpose, anyway,” NT comments, laughing. They squeeze you one more time.  “Alrighty, it’s totally showtime.  Let’s put on a rad performance!”

And they did.

You watch most of the show from the side, listening to the haunting (ha) vocals and melodies, followed by a few more up-beat songs.  When your cue comes, you cross the stage to a chorus of cheers, all because of your costume, courtesy of Happy.

You’re dressed like Napstaton.  

Your leotard has a blue heart in the center, and you’re wearing the same baggy-style dance pants as them, completely with a hat turned backwards.  Your grand entrance involves a backhand spring toward the silk, which suddenly tumbles down from the ceiling.  When you regain your footing at the ropes, you rip off the dance pants (Happy was sure to just have the sides snap in place, making the feat easy) and throw the hat into the audience like a frisbee.  

Of course, they eat it up.

Your blood is pumping in your ears, your nerves jittery.  If it wasn’t for the rush of adrenaline, you’re certain your hands would be shaking, but at this point, you’ve practiced so much that you can do the entire routine on auto-pilot.  As you spin upside-down on the silk, waiting for the right moment in the song to fall, your gaze catches Napstaton’s, and he takes a hand off the controls to give you a thumbs up and that grin that makes you so weak now.

You hit your cue perfectly.  The crowd loves it.  You can vaguely hear Happy’s singing over the pounding of your heart.  There’s a couple of times where your motions could have synced better with the music, but overall, you’re giving the performance of your life.  By the second-half of the last song, you notice another voice join the vocals, a tenor complimenting Happy’s soft voice.  Slowly, it begins to overtake the vocals, rising in volume and absolutely stunning.  That had never happened in rehearsals.  

At the end, when you roll down the silk ropes, coming into your final pose where your body is stretched within the binds, you realize who’s been singing.  And you definitely don’t remember those lyrics.

And I can’t sleep at night ‘cause the ghost of your touch still haunts me.

Napstaton is standing in front of the silk ropes, and they reach up and skillfully untangle your ankle, freeing your leg.  With your arm still wrapped in the bright blue silk, NT slides an arm around your waist and dips you back with a smirk.  The audience goes nuts, but it all fades to white noise in the background.  You’re too entrance by the face that’s only inches from yours.

“I thought you hated ghost stereotypes.”

They shrug, looking mischievous.  “Thought it was most def ironic--you hauntin’ me.”

You blink slowly.  If you weren’t already out-of-breath from several minutes of showcasing your upper (and lower) body strength, your breath would have hitched.  

“You mean, you wrote that part.... about me?” you manage, your gaze wide and searching theirs.  

“Isn’t it obvious?”

In the next moment, you grab NT’s hat, pull it off their head and to the side of their face--and then wrap an arm around their neck and kiss them right then and there.  The entire stadium erupts in the loudest cheering and applause you’ve ever heard.  When they pull back, NT looks surprised, their lips still slightly parted.

“Maybe for my next song I can write about how your kiss makes me malfunction.”

You groan, swatting them with their own hat, while they just give you that grin.  

If you wrote a song, it would be about how it never fails to give you butterflies.  

(* Mobile Imagine Masterlist  )

[aion-rsa]

Does The 100 Need a Spinoff?

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With “Anaconda,” The 100 has joined the pantheon of TV shows (including Supernatural, Gossip Girl, and The Office) that have introduced a backdoor pilot in the hopes that it will be greenlit to a full spinoff series. Now that we’ve re-met Bill Cadogan, his Second Dawn cult, and his family (whose clashes and burgeoning Grounder culture will be the heart of the series) we debate: Is The 100 a show that really needs a spinoff? After seven seasons, can we say “your fight is over,” or are there as many story ideas as there are symbol combinations on the Anomaly Stone?

Pro: Yes, “Anaconda” proves there are still stories worth telling in The 100 universe.

Prior to watching “Anaconda,” the backdoor pilot episode meant to sell us all on the value of a The 100 prequel series, I’ll admit that I wasn’t completely sold on the need for one. But this hour did one important thing right: It reminded me how great this universe is at telling stories about characters struggling through their darkest hours, and how that duress can forge heroes  – or monsters – from ordinary people.  

And there isn’t much that’s darker than life in a nuclear wasteland. Except maybe a nuclear wasteland that we already know will only grow much darker, more divided, and more terrifying as the story continues. 

Thanks to a luck of timing – or “our current hellscape nightmare scenario” depending on how you look at it – “Anaconda” also illustrates why right now is the perfect moment to tell a story like this, positioned to begin at the end of all things. Though we’re only given a brief glimpse into the show’s world of 2052, it certainly has an uncomfortably familiar feel, with its climate protests, police brutality and worries of overpopulation. Not to imply we’re all headed for bunker life anytime soon, but the overtones of a world we can recognize do make the hour feel more timely and relevant than its predecessor generally does. 

Though we already know what Calliope Cadogan’s world will look like a century after she and her merry band of Nightblood teens climb out of the Second Dawn bunker hatch, we’re less clear on how exactly that will come to pass. And suddenly, I really want to know. How does this group of relatively familiar-seeming twentysomethings who want to save the remnants of humanity eventually turn into the violent and combative Grounder clans we met back in The 100’s initial seasons?

By the time our The 100 faves reach the ground, the world on post-apocalyptic Earth feels pretty well established. But “Anaconda” shows us that wasn’t always the case and now I desperately want to know how humanity got from one extreme to the other. What other kinds of survivors are out there? How do these people, so firmly united at the outset of this story, inevitably split apart? And where do other familiar horrors like the Mountain Men and the Reapers come in? 

Full disclosure: I want to see this prequel get dark. I want the Bunker teens to struggle with the basics of survival, and pay the price for not knowing how to do things like hunt or forage. And beyond that: I want betrayal and horror. I want the full and complete breakdown of everything we understood as humanity in our world before the one the Grounders inhabit rises to take its place. 

As a character, I really liked Callie, who seems to be a mix of Clarke’s bravery and Abby’s savior complex, topped off with an activist mentality/morality that feels entirely new to this universe. It’ll be interesting to see how a character like Callie adjusts to life in a world that’s almost exclusively focused on survival and the sort of hard choices she’s likely never had to make. She’s much more optimistic and hopeful than any character currently on The 100 and she has yet to embrace the tribalism that will come to define her people in the years to come. 

However, for all that Callie is the “good” one in her family – if you define good by simply the act of not embracing a weird and creepy cult – she’s still been raised in a life of relative privilege and luxury, and even in the bunker her status as Cadogan’s daughter likely protected her from the worst of post-apocalyptic life. What sacrifices will she be asked to make, and how will they change her? (It feels as though she’s started down this path of darkness pretty definitively by shooting her brother.)

The idea of placing Callie at the center of what will essentially become Grounder culture as the first true Flamekeeper is also intriguing. To be fair, the idea of that entire culture tracking its roots back to things like Callie’s made-up childhood language or the fact that “Tree Crew” was originally an environmental activist group does seem a bit convenient. (It also feels a bit “chosen one”-ish, as well, which is admittedly tiresome.) But it’s never actually made a lot of sense that Grounder language would have changed so thoroughly in what is essentially three generations, max, so most of this really works for me. And it makes me wonder what other answers I didn’t know I needed that a The 100 prequel series based on “Anaconda” might give me.

– Lacy Baugher 

Read more

TV

The 100 Prequel: Would Any of The 100 Cast Crossover?

By Natalie Zutter and 1 other

TV

The 100 Prequel Series Would Use a Lost-Like Flashback Format

By Lacy Baugher and 1 other

Con: No, “Anaconda” is not the way to expand The 100 universe.

It kills me to say no, because I love this show and want to see its mythology live on beyond seven seasons. I’m just not convinced that this particular prequel series is the way to go.

It’s not personal; I have trouble justifying prequels in general, because I often find that they rely overmuch on dramatic irony and other established knowledge rather than finding ways to tell a good story that doesn’t rely on knowledge and emotional attachment to a different show. Prequels are often working within worldbuilding constraints when it comes to characters, in-show mythology, and the in-universe timeline—which doesn’t have to be a bad thing. In the case of The 100, we know that the Ark fails and that the Grounders ultimately suffer when they first cross paths with Skaikru. Prequel spinoffs can either adjust to the limits of a canon that was entrenched years earlier, or retcon it.

Unfortunately, it feels like “Anaconda” has done the latter. While I can’t make sweeping judgments based on one backdoor pilot, the reveal that Trigedasleng is, at least in part, a whimsical language that Calliope Cadogan made up as a child undercuts so much of what we’ve learned about Grounder culture over the past seven seasons. I’m in complete agreement with Lacy that it’s just too convenient that this Special Girl is at the center of everything, when the series had already explained how Trig came out of desperate years of survival and attempts to reunify after the world seemingly tore itself apart. Remember that the survivors all think various world leaders pointed nuclear warhead at each other; only Becca seems to know A.L.I.E.’s dirty secret.

Speaking of—Becca already somewhat occupied the too-convenient role of being a key player in so much of the series’ history! From A.L.I.E. to Polis to Nightblood to being the first Heda, this character was already centered in a half-dozen preexisting plotlines, a ready-made protagonist in whom the audience was emotionally invested. To jump ahead to her death (that we already knew was coming) and pass on the Flame to Callie seems like The 100 prequel is trying to forcibly justify its own existence through new, untested characters for the sake of having unfamiliar faces.

What could save this narrative choice, to Lacy’s other great point, is the possibility of Callie confronting her own privilege as she voluntarily moves through the nuclear post-apocalypse. It’s one thing to bravely decide to shrug off the comforts of the bunker and to go looking for the people who weren’t considered “worth” saving. It’s another to actually survive: learn to hunt and forage, set up the necessary hierarchies so their ragtag group doesn’t devolve into anarchy, and make the difficult decisions (about laws, about justice, about consequences) when people stop cooperating.

In many ways, it could be a poetic parallel to the early days of the original 100, as the delinquents debated whether they were in an eternal, no-parents-allowed party, or their own futuristic Lord of the Flies. And as we all know, the party was over when Jasper got speared by a Grounder.

Even if Callie is the creator of Trig, and even if she and August establish clans inspired by his Tree Crew tattoo, they need their own foil, the way the Grounders were for the 100. That could be some sort of survivalists or militia, to foreshadow the bloodier side of Grounder society; or people like her friend Lucy, who were left behind to die but didn’t, and who have had two years of resentment to take out on these Second Dawn defectors. But none of that is in the backdoor pilot, so it’s difficult to judge if the series might go that route.

My biggest mental block is that I’m just not emotionally invested in Callie or the Cadogans. Despite “Anaconda” setting up broad strokes for their different relationship dynamics, none of Callie’s decisions seemed truly difficult. Again, she was privileged enough to decide to leave, even if it were for the noble cause of finding other people who deserved to be saved more than she did. I’m just not sure that that noble thinking is enough to justify an entire TV series.

“Anaconda” took too many narrative gymnastics to recontextualize the show’s mythology that was already pretty well-established. I would rather see a The 100 spinoff that takes place in the future. We’ve already done a six-year time jump in real-time and a 125-year jump thanks to cryogenics, and now there’s a quintet of planets with convenient wormholes and screwy timezones—the show has established various routes to tell a story even farther in the future than its own future! We don’t know how The 100 will end, with the Disciples’ great war or the fates of the handful of survivors that started out as the original 100; but I would rather see their descendants’ adventures, covering entirely new ground as opposed to retracing old steps.

– Natalie Zutter

What do you think? Does The 100 justify a spinoff? Let us know your thoughts in the comments below.

The post Does The 100 Need a Spinoff? appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[gyrlversion]

We couldnt let a KISS ruin ten happy years: Katya Jones and Neil

Not many women could fit into their wedding dress six years on, but Katya Jones says that’s one of the perks of being a dancer. 

‘You can eat what you like – as long as you’re dancing.’

Later this month she’s going to be performing while wearing that very dress, on stage, reliving her own love story in a show written by the husband who adores her. 

He’ll play her leading man, literally sweeping her off her feet. Katya’s husband is, of course, fellow Strictly Come Dancing professional Neil Jones. 

The pair, who’ve been married for six years and together for just over a decade, were dance partners before they were lovers, and reached the top of their profession, becoming world Latin champions.

Neil and Katya Jones (pictured) who’ve been married for six years, spoke about how they overcame a blip in their relationship when Katya kissed her Strictly partner Seann Walsh 

A few years ago they hit on the idea of devising a show that would combine stellar dancing with a gripping story. 

Neil would mastermind the show, while Katya would design the costumes. 

And the story? Quite simply, the show, called Somnium, is a retelling of their own love story, an epic tale of how two unknowns from very different backgrounds would battle their way to the top in a ruthlessly competitive world.

It would be an unlikely story, granted, and colourful in more ways than one. 

The sultry Russian heroine would be paired up with the ginger Brit, and his hair colour would be the butt of a few jokes. 

‘It’s our story, yes,’ says Neil, explaining how every detail, down to their first kiss, will be played out at London’s world-famous Sadler’s Wells Theatre.

So what was that first kiss like in real life? The pair giggle. 

‘Well, it was on a beach,’ says Katya. 

‘We were in Russia rehearsing, and it just happened. It was romantic; there were horses on the beach.’ 

Neil laughs. 

‘I did ask about getting horses in the show, and Sadler’s Wells came back and said they’d had horses before, but it proved too problematic.’

It’s all so sweet. Or it would be were it not for the fact that between writing the show and getting it onto the stage, their real-life love story was given a most undesirable plot twist. 

Katya was photographed in the middle of another kiss – a drunken one in the street with her Strictly partner, comedian Seann Walsh – and all hell broke loose. 

Katya and Neil (pictured) reached the top of their profession and became the world Latin champions before joining Strictly Come Dancing in 2016

Seann’s girlfriend dumped him and fired off an angry open letter about what a rubbish boyfriend he’d been anyway. 

The story even made the news bulletins.

And then there was Neil, who still had to turn up to work and watch his wife continue to dance with the man she’d been caught in a clinch with. 

To his credit, Neil reacted with amazing dignity. 

He says the fact he’s still with Katya today tells its own story about that chapter in their lives. 

‘It was a shock,’ he admits. 

‘And we had to work it out between ourselves, to understand what had happened. 

‘But I wasn’t going to allow that one little thing to get in the way of ten very happy years.

I didn’t want to run around in a panic. That’s just not me – Neil 

‘People have said to me, “Why didn’t you feel this? Why didn’t you say that?” For me, the initial reaction was to stay calm. 

‘I didn’t want to run around in a panic, because that’s not me. 

‘I’m private. I’m also quite positive. 

‘I wanted to speak to Katya – we had to sort it out privately.’

He says it was his mother who urged him not to over-react. 

‘Mum always said people make mistakes, and you have to be understanding. 

‘It was a mistake, and we’re here now, together, moving on.’ 

Presumably there were private showdowns that were more about fury than understanding?

Seann’s (pictured right kissing Katya in October) girlfriend dumped him after he was photographed with Katya, the dancer says every love story has its ups and downs

 ‘We’re passionate people. But there was understanding too. I’m from a divorced family. I’ve seen things like this.’

Neil looks for an analogy from the dance world. 

‘When the person you’re dancing with makes a mistake, you don’t throw a fit and tell everyone they did the wrong step. 

‘You look at why the step was wrong, and how you can fix it.’

Of course none of this is alluded to in the stage show. 

The action stops even before the pair join Strictly Come Dancing. 

Isn’t there a risk the audience’s knowledge of the real-life predicament might sour their enjoyment of the unfolding love story? They say what happened to them simply shows what a rollercoaster love can be. 

‘Every love story has its ups and downs,’ says Katya. Neil nods. 

‘No relationship is perfect. I think people can relate to that.’

Over to Katya. She’s normally open, bubbly and warm, but quite understandably on this subject she’s more terse, and her answers sound rehearsed. 

The normal trajectory in these post-Strictly interviews is that the pro dancer gushes about how he or she is still best mates with their celeb partner, and will be for life. 

None of that here.

Quite the opposite, in fact – Katya clearly doesn’t want to even mention Seann’s name. 

Katya (pictured with Neil on their wedding day in 2013) apologised to Neil at the time she kissed Sean and fought to not allow the mistake to jeopardise their relationship 

I suspect she’s still cross with herself, more so perhaps than Neil is with her. 

With that one drunken kiss she didn’t only invite a question mark to be put over her marriage, but also over her professionalism.

‘I apologised when it happened, and I’m happy to apologise again now.

‘I made a mistake, but I don’t want that one mistake to jeopardise everything we’ve built. 

‘And it hasn’t. We have our trust back.’ Neil? ‘Oh, 100 per cent. I wouldn’t be sitting here if there wasn’t trust. 

‘We wouldn’t be putting on a show together, working together.’

I don’t want one mistake to jeopardise everything – Katya 

Perhaps what the debacle illustrates is what utter pros you have to be in such circumstances. 

Katya and Seann performed for three more weeks until they were finally voted off the show. 

Neil kept turning up for work and smiling for the cameras, although tellingly he says he never had a conversation with Seann about the incident.

(‘There was no need to,’ he says. ‘So many celebs come into Strictly but apart from Seann dancing with Katya I didn’t know him.’)

Katya says she just had to prove how professional she was (albeit belatedly) and get on with the job. ‘Of course I regretted it. 

‘I apologised for the pain I’d caused, to Neil, to our families, even to the fans, who didn’t expect that. 

‘Emotions were high, but Strictly said we could continue, so I knew I had to teach this person how to dance, no matter what.’ 

Katya (pictured with Neil in a photocall for last year’s Strictly tour) says her first thought when her kiss with Seann went public was to be as truthful as possible

It might have been easier for all involved if they’d been voted off the show the following week, but Katya sounds relieved they weren’t. 

‘They kept us on, which was great. It showed it was about the dancing, nothing more. 

‘And the moment we went out it was because the dancing wasn’t good enough.’

She says that when the news broke, her only concern was in being honest with Neil. 

‘When it came out I thought, “I’ve got to tell Neil.” My first thought was that I wanted to be as truthful as possible with him.’ 

She makes it sound so considerate, but this honesty was coming after the event, when she knew the news was already heading for the front pages? ‘Well, yes.’

I dyed my hair once. It looked ridiculous. Never again – Neil 

I conclude this uncomfortable topic by asking if this has been the biggest blip they’ve encountered in their marriage. 

‘There have been plenty of blips on the professional side,’ says Neil. 

‘But on the relationship side, yes.’ Katya doesn’t seem to entirely agree. 

‘We’ve been tested so many times. 

‘Trying to make it in our world isn’t easy, constantly being judged, getting knocked down. 

‘You have to be really strong to get through. It’s not like that was the biggest test of our lives.’

So do they seem happy together? Well, yes. 

Obviously, they’re both consummate performers, so nothing is for sure, but they seem perfectly at ease with each other. 

Katya revealed Neil’s mother was supportive after the Seann situation as she’s seen how much she and Neil have been through 

They finish one another’s sentences, make jokes, and when they’re talking about how they fell in love, she touches his arm.

They’re chalk and cheese physically, though, and their backgrounds were worlds apart. 

Katya was born Ekaterina Andreevna Sokolova in St Petersburg to wealthy Russian energy company executive Andrey Sokolov and his ethnic Korean wife Tatiana. 

She started dance lessons at the age of six, and also trained in gymnastics, singing, drawing and piano.

Neil, meanwhile, was born in a British Army camp in Munster, West Germany, where his father was stationed. 

His parents later divorced. He started dance lessons aged three, and was better known in the dance world than Katya when they met. 

Early in their careers, the pair lived with his mother. 

‘She saw how hard we struggled,’ admits Katya, explaining why Neil’s mother was so supportive after the Seann situation. 

‘She knew how much we’d been through.’

The pair were brought together because, despite living in different countries, they shared a coach, Richard Porter (‘he’d fly to Russia to train me,’ says Katya). 

The stage show is told from his perspective; the coach character is the narrator. 

In 2008, he told Katya the guy he had in mind to be her next partner would be dancing at a contest in Blackpool and they could link up to see if there was any chemistry (in a professional sense). 

Neil (pictured with Katya on the Lorraine TV show) says he dyed his hair once, after being advised it was necessary to be a convincing Latin dancer 

Katya took her mum with her, who, not knowing which of the male dancers the coach had lined up for her daughter when she first saw them, declared, ‘I hope it’s not the ginger one.’ 

Why? ‘Because of his hair colour,’ Katya laughs. 

‘She loves him now, but that was her first reaction. She wasn’t impressed.’

Neil sees the funny side. 

He makes an interesting point about being a redhead in the ballroom dancing world, quipping that people with red hair have thicker skin. 

‘It comes from years of being teased about it.’ 

When he started on the professional ballroom circuit he was advised to dye his hair, on the grounds no one could be a convincing Latin dancer with ginger hair. 

‘I did it once,’ he laughs. ‘It looked ridiculous so I said never again. It’s all changed now, of course. 

You’re constantly being judged on everything you do. Not many people survive it – Katya 

‘Now it’s OK – in any competition you see a smattering of ginger heads. 

‘It makes me happy. 

‘Young kids still ask me about it, and I always say, “Be who you are. Don’t change.”’

The fight to become world dance champions dominates the plot of the show. 

‘It’s a really tough world,’ admits Katya. 

‘You’re constantly being judged on everything you do. Not many people survive it.’

Dance partnerships are fickle things, but many do develop into full-blown romances, and theirs did. 

‘It was a gradual thing,’ says Neil. 

‘We were spending all this time together but I’d had other dance partners before and there was no hint of romance there. 

‘But this one was different. 

Neil (pictured with Katya in London) revealed taking part in Strictly has opened many doors, including the possibility to pitch their own show 

‘Our coach thought we’d be good together because, he said, we were “both as mad as each other”, and we just laughed at the same things.’

Neil and Katya married in 2013 in London, where they settled, but they were still travelling all over the world to compete. 

Obviously Strictly brought them into the public domain. 

Katya stormed into the show in 2016, with her unforgettable routines with Ed Balls.

Neil joined the same year, but in the pool of show dancers rather than paired with a celeb. 

Did that cause problems at home? ‘No way,’ says Katya. 

‘It wasn’t personal, it was just that they needed a girl in that position.’

Despite the fact their Strictly fame has put them in a sometimes difficult spotlight, the couple don’t seem to regret becoming part of the show. 

‘It’s opened so many doors,’ admits Neil. 

They know they wouldn’t have been successful in pitching their own show without the glare of the Strictly limelight too.

Later this month they start rehearsing for a Strictly Professionals tour, suggesting it’s business as usual. 

The really interesting part, though, will come when the next Strictly series kicks off in the autumn. 

Will this be the year Neil gets a celebrity partner? And will the show’s bosses pair him with the shapeliest celebrity sexpot they can find, just to see if Katya is as understanding as he is?

For now, though, they’re presenting a Strictly united front. 

They won’t be drawn on whether the next step in their marriage will be having children (‘this show is our baby for now,’ says Katya), but they’re only too aware that the whole world will be watching what Mr and Mrs Jones do next, and whether they can remain in step.  

Somnium: A Dancer’s Dream is at Sadler’s Wells, London, from 20-22 June. For tickets and more information visit sadlerswells.com.

The post We couldnt let a KISS ruin ten happy years: Katya Jones and Neil appeared first on Gyrlversion.

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[futuristicallyironbread-blog]

Would You Attempt The New 8 Factor Renovation?

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It's the system that power firm intervenors representing some 10 percent of U.S. generation, joined by amicus Rule Resources, have actioned in to safeguard right here. Explores the world of a boxing gym in Austin, Texas, dwelling on the discipline of training as people from all profession desire reach their individual best. Power Youngsters (or 5 Heart Heroes in Thai) has to do with four children that slip right into a terrorist regulated healthcare facility to take a heart to transplant for the Fifth youngster who is dying in a different health center. Prior to joining a health club as well as beginning a brand-new physical fitness routine, a teenager needs to have a physical examination with his physician. When http://temakebahagiaan.info/ satisfied a hard wall surface pressing me back, I raised the covers and transformed to get off the bed. The goal here is to instruct the main nerves to hire rapid twitch muscular tissue fibres, which are the bits of your muscle mass that produce eruptive power over a brief time period. Residence gym machines normally wear unless you have the room and also pay out large resources. Red Ranger's power weapon is the Power Sword, a powerful tool with a razor sharp edge. The f I initially checked out Gaventa's Power and Powerlessness for an undergraduate political theory class. With any luck, the 3 Phases of Failing framework has helped you clear up a few of the problems you're facing and how to manage them. The sale will certainly leave the battling health and fitness chain with 47 health clubs and also decreased financial obligations. Use an online heart price calculator to establish your optimal heart rate, in beats per min, when you lift weights. When doing the deep plane raise the operating surgeon will ready to work with the underlying tissues and also muscles. The Armada is a fascinating instance even without the post-80's Dark Age of comics lens being applied: in the past they were Marvel's very finely veiled version of DC's League of Superheroes, hence Hyperion = Superman, Nighthawk = Batman, Doctor Range = Eco-friendly Lantern, Power Princess = Wonder Female, etc Absolute power is an absolute requirement, all the more so with the big screen, rapid cpu as well as multitasking capability of the S4. If you run out of juice, all of the enjoyable as well as games you'll be having with the phone will certainly make you an angry bird (lol). Greater than 8 million people lost power throughout Hurricane Sandy, lots of for weeks, triggering huge economic injury and personal difficulty, as well as intimidating the resiliency of neighborhood areas. This, together with the features of the lift itself, is regulated entirely by a solitary operator oftentimes.