#the uniforms and now branding its just so much more tragic

[good-beanswrites]

@apoplecticgalaxy Ahh thank you! Sua's is on her neck too... rip Mizi And the neck brands :( And Ivan's on his wrist is really cool!! Thinking of common character swaps I've seen, that would give Fuuta and Yuno ones on their neck, and Mahiru's would be on her shoulder. Kotoko with one on her chest, ough...

And @kyanako5972 I really liked the idea of it lining up with their prisoner tags! Many cool ones on wrists and hips, though Amane would have a unique one right at the base of her throat :0

I was trying to come up with murder-blow locations as a cool spot but I realized most don't have a specific injury location?? The ones that work the best are Muu with a specific placing on her abdomen and Mahiru/Haruka with somewhere around their neck. For more of a symbolic route, I like the idea of Kazui’s being over his heart and Mikoto's being on his back where he can't see it

Talking with a friend (as I'm typing this I'm deciding not to tag them in case this is a reveal in their upcoming story, but I can tag you if you want :3) about the milgram prisoners having tattoos of their numbers and does anyone know where all the alien stage brands are because I need to picture this and go crazy

[thewidowsghost]

The Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 9

(Y/n)'s POV

It doesn't take me long to pack. I decide to leave the Minotaur horn in the cabin, which leaves me only an extra change of clothes and a toothbrush to stuff in a backpack Grover had found for me.

The camp store loans me one hundred dollars in mortal money and twenty golden drachmas. The coins are as big as Girl Scout cookies and have images of various Greek Gods stamped on one side and the Empire State Building on the other. The ancient mortal drachmas had been silver, Chiron had told us, but Olympins never used less than pure gold. Chiron said the coins might come in for non-mortal transactions - whatever that might mean. He gives Annabeth, Percy, and me canteens of nectar and Ziploc bags full of ambrosia squares, to be used only in emergencies, if we were seriously hurt. It is god food, Chiron reminds us. It would cure us of almost any injury, but it is lethal to mortals. Too much of it would make a half-blood very, very feverish. An overdose would burn us up, literally, Fun.

Annabeth is bringing her magic Yankees cap, which she tells me had been a twelfth-birthday present from her mom. She is also bringing a book on famous classical architecture, written in Ancient Greek, to read when she gets bored, and a long bronze knife, hidden in her shirt sleeve. I'm sure the knife is going to get us busted the first time we go through a metal detector.

Grover is wearing his fake feet and his pants to pass as a human. He wears a green rasta-style cap, because when it rains his curly hair flattened and you can just see the tips of his horns. Grover's bright orange backpack is full of scrap metal and apples to snack on. In his pocket is a set of reed pipes his daddy goat had carved for him, even though he only knows two songs: Mozart's Piano Concerto Number 12 and Hilary Duff's 'So Yesterday,' both of which sound pretty bad on reed pipes.

We wave good-bye to the other campers, take one last look at eh strawberry fields, the ocean, and the Big House, then hike up the Half-Blood Hill to the tall pine tree that used to be Thalia, the Daughter of Zeus.

Chiron is waiting for us in his wheelchair. Next to him stands the surfer dude I'd seen when I was recovering in the sick room. According to Grover, the guy is the camp's head of security. He supposedly had eyes all over his body so he could never be surprised. Today, though, he's wearing a chauffeur's uniform, so I can only see the extra eyes on his hands, face, and neck.

"This is Argus," Chiron tells me. "He'll drive you into the city, and, er, well, keep an eye on things."

I hear footsteps behind us.

Luke comes running up the hill, carrying a pair of basketball shoes. "Hey!" he pants. "Glad I caught you."

Annabeth blushes, the way she always does when Luke is around.

"Just wanted to say good luck," Luke tells us. "And I thought . . . um, maybe you could use these."

He hands Percy a pair of sneakers, which look pretty normal.

Then, Luke says, "Maia!"

White bird's wings sprouted out of the heels. The shoes flap around on the ground until the wings fold up and disappear.

"Awesome!" Grover exclaims.

Luke smiles. "Those served me well when I was on my quest. Gift from Dad. Of course, I don't use them much these days...." His expression turns sad.

Annabeth stomps down the other side of the hill, after arguing with Percy, where a white SUV waits on the shoulder of the road. Argus follows, jingling his car kees.

Percy picks up the flying shoes and then looks up at Chiron. "I won't be able to use these, will I?"

Chiron shakes his head. "Luke meant well, Percy. But taking to the air...that would not be wise for you."

I nod, getting an idea, "Hey, Grover. You want a magic item?"

His eyes light up. "Me?"

Pretty soon, we'd laced the sneakers over his fake feet, and the world's first flying goat boy is ready for launch.

"Maia!" Grover shouts. He gets off the ground, okay, but then falls over sideways so his backpack drags through the grass. The winged shoes keep bucking up and down like tiny broncos.

"Practice," Chiron calls after him. "You just need practice."

"Aaaaa!" Grover goes flying sideways down the hill like a possessed lawnmower, heading towards the can.

But before I can follow, Chiron catches my arm. "I should have trained you two better, Percy, (Y/n)," he says. "If only I had more time. Hercules, Jason - they all got more training."

"That's okay. I just -" I stop myself.

"What am I thinking?" Chiron cries. "I can't let the two of you get away without these." He pulls two pens out of his coat pocket and hands one to me and one to Percy.

Looking down at it, I see a teal-colored gel pen. Maybe cost thirty cents.

"Gee," Percy says. "Thanks."

"Percy, those are gifts from your father. I've been keeping them for years, not knowing you two were the ones I was waiting for. But the prophecy is clear to me now. You two are the ones."

Instinctively I take off the cap, and the pen grows longer and heavier in my hand. In half a second, I am holding a shimmering bronze sword with a double-edged blade, a teal and silver leather-wrapped grip. This is the first weapon that feels balanced in my hand.

"That sword has a long and tragic history that we need not go into," Chiron tells Percy. "Its name is Anaklusmos."

"Riptide," Percy translates.

"I have never seen anyone use that sword that I'm aware of," Chiron says, turning to me. "Yours is named Τυφώνας."

"Hurricane," I translate, surprised that the Ancient Greek came so easily to me.

"Use them only for emergencies," Chiron says, "and only against monsters. No hero should harm mortals unless absolutely necessary, of course, but neither sword would hurt them in any case."

I look down at the wickedly sharp blade. "What do you mean it wouldn't harm mortals? How could it not?"

"Those swords are celestial bronze. Forged by the Cyclopes, tempered in the heart of Mount Etna, cooled in the River Lethe. It's deadly to monsters, to any creature from the Underworld, provided they don't kill you first. But the blades will pass through morals like an illusion. They simply are not important for the blade to kill. And I should warn you two: as demigods, you can be killed by either celestial or normal weapons. You are twice as vulnerable."

"Good to know," Percy says.

"Now recap the pens," Chiron says.

Percy and I touch the pen cap to the sword tips and instantly Riptide and Hurricane shrink to ballpoint pens again. I tuck it in my pocket, a little nervous because it's pretty easy to lose a pen.

"You can't," Chiron says.

"Can't what?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Lose the pens," he says. "They're enchanted. They'll always reappear in your pockets. Try it."

Warily, I throw the pen as far as I can down the hill and watch it disappear in the grass.

"It may take a few moments," Chiron tells us. "Now check your pocket."

Sure enough, the pen is there.

"Okay, that is extremely cool," I admit.

"But what if a mortal sees one of us pulling out a sword?" Percy asks.

Chiron smiles. "Mist is a powerful thing, Percy."

"Mist?" I ask.

"Yes. Read The Iliad. It's full of references to the stuff. Whatever divine or monstrous elements mix with the mortal world, they generate Mist, which obscures the vision of humans. You will see things just as they are, being a half-blood, but humans will interpret things quite differently. Remarkable, really, the lengths to which humans will go fit things into their version of reality.

I put Hurricane back into my pocket.

For the first time, the quest feels real. I'm leaving Half-Blood Hill. I'm heading west with no adult supervision, no backup plan, not even a cell phone - Chiron said cell phones were traceable by monsters; if we used one, it would be no worse than sending up a flare. I have no weapon stronger than a sword to fight off monsters and reach the Land of the Dead.

"Chiron . . ." Percy says. "When you say the gods are immortal . . . I mean, there was a time before them, right?"

"Four ages before them, actually. The Time of the Titans was the Fourth Age, sometimes called the Golden Age, which is definitely a misnomer. This, the time of Western civilization and the rule of Zeus, is the Fifth Age."

"So what was it like...before the gods?"

Chiron purses his lips. "Even I am not old enough to remember that, child, but I know it was a time of darkness and savagery for mortals. Kronos, the lord of the Titans, called his reign the Golden Age because men lived innocent and free of all knowledge. But that was mere propaganda. The Titan king cared nothing for your kind except as appetizers or a source of cheap entertainment. It was only in the early reign of Lord Zeus, when Prometheus the good Titan brought fire to mankind, that your species began to progress, and even then Prometheus was branded a radical thinker. Zeus punished him severely, as you may recall. Of course, eventually, the gods warmed to humans, and Western civilization was born."

"But the gods can't die now, right? I mean, as long as Western civilization is alive, they're alive. So...even if I failed, nothing could happen so bad it would mess up everything, right?" I ask, feeling rather uncertain.

Chiron gives me a melancholy smile. "No one knows how long the Age of the West will last, (Y/n). The gods are immortal, yes. But then, so were the Titans. They still exist, locked away in their various prisons, forced to endure endless pain and punishment, reduced in power, but still very much alive. May the Fates forbid that the gods should ever suffer such a doom, or that we should ever return to the darkness and chaos of the past. All we can do, child, is follow our destiny."

"Our destiny...assuming we know what that is," I say grimly.

"Relax," Chiron tells me. "Keep a clear head. And remember, the two of you may be about to prevent the biggest war in human history."

"Relax," I say. "I'm very relaxed."

When Percy and I get to the bottom of the hill, I look back. Under the pine tree that used to be Thalia, daughter of Zeus, Chiron is now standing in full horse-man form, holding his bow high in salute. Just your typical summer-camp send-off by your typical centaur."

Argus drives us out of the countryside and into western Long Island, It feels weird to be on a highway again, Annabeth and Grover sitting next to me, Percy on the other side of Grover, as if we were normal carpoolers. After two weeks at Half-Blood Hill, the real world seems like a fantasy. I find myself staring at every McDonald's, every kid in the back of his parent's car, every billboard and shopping mall.

"So far so good," Percy tells Annabeth. "Ten miles and not a single monster."

She gives Percy an irritated loo. "It's bad luck to talk that way."

"Remind me again - why do you hate us so much?" Percy asks.

"I don't hate you two."

"Could've fooled me."

Annabeth folds her cap of invisibility. "Look...we're just not supposed to get along, okay? Our parents are rivals."

"Why?" Percy asks.

Annabeth sighs. "How many reasons do you want? One time my mom caught Poseidon with his girlfriend in Athena's temple, which is hugely disrespectful. Another time, Athena and Poseidon competed to be the patron god for the city of Athens. Your dad created some stupid saltwater spring for his gift. My mom created the olive tree. The people saw that her gift was better, so they named the city after her."

"They must really like olives," Percy comments, and I stifle a snort of laughter.

"Oh, forget it," Annabeth grumbles.

"Now, if she invented pizza - that I could understand," I add, in a slightly teasing tone.

"I said, forget it!" Annabeth says, hitting me lightly on the arm.

In the front seat, Argus smiles. He doesn't say anything, but one blue eye on the back of his neck winks at me.

Traffic slows down in Queens. By the time we get into Manhattan, it is sunset and starting to rain.

Argus drops us at the greyhound Station on the Upper East Side, not far from my mom and Gabe's apartment. Taped to a mailbox is a soggy flyer with mine and Percy's picture on it: Have you seen these children?

Percy rips it down before Annabeth and Grover can notice.

Argus unloads our bags, makes sure we get our bus tickets, then drives away, the eye on the back of his hand opening to watch us as he pulls out of the parking lot.

I think about how close I am to the apartment. On a normal day, Mom would be home from the candy store by now. Smelly Gabe is probably up there right now, playing poker, not even missing her.

Grover shoulders his backpack. He gazes down the street in the direction I am looking. "You want to know why she married him, (Y/n)?"

I stare at him. "Were you reading my mind?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Just your emotions," Grover shrugs. "You were thinking about your mom and your stepdad, right?"

I nod.

"Your mom married Gabe for you and Percy," Grover tells me. "You call him 'Smelly,' but you've got no idea. This guy has this aura . . . Yuck. I can smell him from here. I can smell traces of him o you, and you haven't been near him in a week."

"Thanks," Percy grimaces from Grover's other side. "Where's the nearest shower?"

"You should be grateful, Percy. Your stepfather smells so repulsively human he could mask the presence of any demigod. As soon as I took a whiff inside his Camaro, I knew: Gabe has been covering your scent for years. If you hadn't lived with him every summer, you probably would've been found by monsters a long time ago. Your mom stayed with him to protect you. She was a smart lady. She must've loved you a lot to put up with that guy—if that makes you feel any better."

I soften, looking down a the ground. I'll see her again, I think. She isn't gone.

You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend, the Oracle whispers in my mind. You will fail to save what matters most in the end.

The rain keeps coming down.

We get restless waiting for the bus and decide to play some Hacky Sack with one of Groer's apples. Annabeth was unbelievable at it. She could bounce the apple off her knee, her elbow, her shoulder, whatever. Percy wasn't too bad either, but I found that I wasn't that great at it.

The game ends when I toss the apple towards Grover and it gets too close to his mouth. In one mega goat bite, our Hacky Sack disappears - core, stem, and all.

Grover blushes. He tries to apologize, but Annabeth, Percy, and I are too busy cracking up.

Finally, the bus comes.

I am relieved when we finally get on board and find seats together in the back of the bus, Me and Annabeth in one row, and Percy and Grover across from us. The four of us stow our backpacks.

I glance over at Annabeth beside me, who keeps slapping her Yankees cap nervously against her thigh.

As the last passengers get on, Annabeth claps her hand onto my knee. "Look!"

An old lady had just boarded the bus. She is wearing a crumpled velvet dress, lace gloves, and a shapeless orange-knit hat that shadows her face and she is carrying a big paisley purse. When she tilts her head up, her black eyes glitter.

I see Percy slump down in his seat.

Behind her comes two more old ladies: one in a green hat, one in a purple hat. Otherwise, they look exactly like Mrs. Dodds - same gnarled hands, paisley handbags, wrinkled velvet dress. Triple demon grandmothers.

They sit in the front row, right behind the driver. The two on the aisle cross their legs over the walkway, making an X. It is casual enough, but it sends a clear message: Nobody leaves.

The bus pulls out of the station, and we head through the slick streets of Manhattan.

"She didn't stay dead long," Percy says, his voice quavering a little. "I thought you said they could be dispelled for a lifetime."

"I said if you're lucky," Annabeth murmurs. "You're obviously not."

"All three of them," Grover whimpers. "Di immortales!"

"It's okay," Annabeth says, obviously thinking hard. "The Furies. The worst monsters from the Underworld. No problem. No problem. We'll just slip out the windows."

"They don't open," Grover moans.

"A back exit?" she suggests.

There isn't one. Even if there had been, it wouldn't have helped. By that time, we are on Ninth Avenue heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.

"They won't attack us with witnesses around," I say. "Will they?"

"Mortals don't have good eyes," Annabeth reminds me. "Their brains can only process what they see through the Mist."

"They'll see three old ladies killing us, won't they?" Percy asks.

She thinks about it. "Hard to say. But we can't count on mortals for help. Maybe an emergency exit in the roof . . . ?"

We hit the Lincoln Tunnel, and the bus goes dark except for the running lights down teh aisle. It is eerily quiet without the sound of the rain.

"I need to use the rest-room."

"So do I."

"So do I."

All three demons start coming down the aisle.

"I've got it," Annabeth says. "Percy, take my hat."

"What?" he says with disbelief.

"You're the one they want. You killed one of them. Turn invisible and go up the aisle. Let them pass you. Maybe you can get to the front and get away."

"But you guys -"

"There's an outside chance they might not notice us," Annabeth says as she glances over at me. "You're a son of the Big Three. Your smell might be overpowering."

"I can't just leave you," Percy says, looking desperately at me.

"Go," I say, frowning and Annabeth hands him the cap.

The old ladies are not old ladies anymore. Their faces are still the same - I guessed they couldn't get any uglier - but their bodies had shriveled into leathery brown hag bodies with bat's wings and hands and feet like gargoyle claws; their handbags had turned into fiery whips.

The Furies surround me, Grover, and Annabeth, lashing their whips, hissing: "Where is it? Where?"

The other people on the bus are screaming, cowering in their seats. They see something, all right.

"He's not here!" Annabeth yells. "He's gone!"

The Furies raise their whips.

Annabeth draws her bronze knife. Grover grabs a tin can from his snack bag and prepares to throw it.

Word Count: 3222 words

[isolaween]

Party Preparations!

October 4th and 5th are dates of utmost importance for the Ushiromiya family. They were fateful days when all of their collective sins came to a tragic conclusion. They were the days when the Golden Witch Beatrice revived. They were the days when a little girl lost her whole family. They were the days when said little girl managed to see her family once again and become a grown woman.

But none of those things are happening at October 4th and 5th in Spirale City. The past must not be forgotten, but a truth of the future supercedes a truth of the past. If these days come to be associated with a joyful party at the city’s consciousness instead, then the hosts will be satisfied. There is no need of a massacre for them to reach the Golden Land tonight.

Work began at the mansion early in the morning. King Knight (@gildedusurper) was busy decorating the main hall, which actually benefitted from his perchant to add golden details to everything (the hosts are Golden Witches, after all). Lothric and Lorian (@ashes-of-omelas) arrived with their decorated pumpkins to be put at the main hall too, alongside others Beato made the goats carve for the main hall and the outside. ...At least the goats’ pumpkins have heart to them. On the second floor, Jon Kent (@smallblueboyscout) flew non stop to prepare props that’d make a hide-and-seek game the most interesting. Harley Quinn (@harliquinn) delighted herself at adding little pranks here and there at the escape room. Well, I guess that as long as she follows the plan laid out by the activity’s overseer, it should be alright. Riruka Dokugamine (@shouyoku) miiiight be going a bit overboard with the ‘cute’ factor at the parlor. This looks like the sort of place that’d please Lambdadelta a lot. Lastly for the decoration crew, Yomiel (@hosttrick) sure knows how to prepare an environment with just the perfect touch of ‘spooky’ for a room where ghost stories will occur. All of these people were assisted by either one of the Stakes, a Chiester or a goat butler, depending on their availability.

Things were just as agitated at the kitchen. Travis Touchdown (@suplex51) was ready to show off his skills with a couple kitchen knives and a wooden spoon! Burritos, pasta and smaller salty snacks are just some of the things he pulled masterfully. Meanwhile, on another bench, Balbok (@tallorc) was carefully decorating a portion of bru-mill that he couldn’t wait to present to everyone in party. Let’s just hope that the strong smell that and his other meaty dishes emit won’t startle the sensitive nose of one Toriel (@baaternal), who was facing the oven to get another batch of cookies out of it. The previous batches, plus other baked goods she had prepared, were being checked by Jet (@blackvwatch), who was also giving them final decorating touches, besides moving left and right to assist anyone in need. Leading them all was, of course, the Ushiromiya family’s head butler, Ronove.

Food and drinks also gently catered by some sponsored partners, as goats waited at the entrance to bring them in. Hansol Yi (@fcxrcin) was proud to provide her matcha and matcha based treats, specialties of her restaurant, NokNok Cafe. For those with a more Western taste, Reines El-Melloi Archisorte (@princesselmelloi), owner of The London Fog, was ready to cover you, for she brought classic teas like Earl Grey, coffee and some desserts she usually serves at her store. Those of legal age can also be satisfied, for even the so called Emperor of the Universe, Lord Freeza (@coldcessor) was willing to assist with the party, his role being of catering alcoholic drinks - especially the ones from wine variety. And of course, this can’t be a Halloween Party worth its name without the most important component of all: candies! Thankfully, we can count on Nicholas St. North (@odetotoys) to bring those.

And there were more things being brought to the mansion besides that!  GANG☆STAR, the ever growing clothing brand on Spirale City, was gentle enough to provide some extra costumes to any partygoer who either doesn’t bring any or wishes to change their current ones; all negotiated with Shaundi (@adrenalxna), as her boss is currently out of commission. Riruka was here not only to assist with decorations, but also to bring costumes from her own shop, Atelier Softcoeur! Assisting the arrangement of the clothing space was Kanji Tatsumi (@ziodie), who will later assist with fixing those poor costumes that get themselves into accidents. Oh, and speaking of Riruka, she and Rantaro Amami (@seizonka) still have to handle makeup assistance to guests later tonight! Good thing Rantaro can help organizing the space for that right now. Last but no less important, the famous horror writer and owner of Owl’s Books, Sen Tatatsuki (@bubonem), was more than happy to provide some books from her horror collection to serve as reading material for the ghost stories section to happen tonight.

It’s important to assure the wellbeing and health of people in a party, especially one with so many guests. Thankfully, there is a medical team ready to tend to any injuries or malaise folks can experience here! Right now, the designated medical room is being filled with tablets, medicine bottles, gauze and other medical tools by Litchi Faye-Ling (@kuyuzhishi), Angela Thompson (@caducenurse), Moira O’Deorain (@bitterscience) and Jean-Baptiste Augustin (@imotel). .....Hopefully there will be no conflict between them tonight.

The technical aspect of a high production event like this is also very important to be properly checked beforehand. Peridot (@kindergardening), owner of Facet Five, is currently busy checking each spotlight one by one. I hope she doesn’t mind some light harrassing by Gaap, one of the demons under the hosts’ service. Back in the escape room, Maggie (@tragiclittlebonbon) is having lots of fun setting up the devices that must go up during the game sessions. She needs to make sure they are replayable many times. Leo Valdez (@vldeztm) is checking every nook and cranny on the musical stage set up at the main hall, so that no screw is left out of place. The computer that will play accompanying audio for the musical presentations (and overall play sound effects during the party) is being checked by one Dirk Strider (@failedprince). If he were his relative, maybe he’d even be giving his opinion on what songs to play tonight.

At last, night arrives. People begin arriving to the Ushiromiya mansion even before the alloted time. Once one enters the rose garden, they’d be able to see a couple creatures roaming around the area. Some are ‘normal’ animals. Others are fantastical looking creatures belonging to Battler Ushiromiya. Two people tend to the garden and the creatures in it: Rey (@dawnarose) and Doomguy (@painsawd). The duo is not physically similar at all, but both carry the same passion at making sure the creatures are well cared for, besides inviting arriving guests to leave their own pets at the garden during the party’s duration.

A figure waits for those who arrive at the main entrance. The Witch of Finite, Publius Virgilia Maro (@thefinitewitch), receives everyone with a warm smile, making sure to direct everyone to a seat. She gives off an elegant vibe, even though she is wearing 80′s styled clothing that only Beatrice could have convinced her of putting. Passing by her, one would be faced directly with the main hall, which is covered in decorations and tables and chairs and a stage and, of course, a painting of Beatrice herself. Every table on the main hall has a gift basket full of homemade Halloween snacks over it, which guests can take home. Those who leave the party to go home without one can receive a basket from Virgilia as they pass by her again.

Security is tight tonight. Besides the presence of the hosts’ faithful furniture in every room, some citizens of Spirale are working tonight to keep the festivities safe for everyone. Enkidu (@lancerofclay) is standing by the entrance alongside Virgilia, much like they did at the last party. New to the city and to these parties as general, Mike Chiton (@motorcitymutt) is taking his time to admire the main hall’s visual - without forgetting his duty, of course. As the owner of Sanctuary Moon Security, Murderbot (@yoursecunit) is ever vigilant, his focus being at the parlor and dinner room areas. ...I’m not sure how Ludwig the Holy Blade (@holyequine) has managed to squeeze at the corridors leading to the costume and medical rooms, but he seems to be doing his job well, so why complain?

Waiters are already serving people left and right with treats fresh from the kitchen and drinks. Koku (@looking-for-four) seems to be more focused on the main door entrance than the guests he tends to. Perhaps he is expecting someone in particular to arrive, even if in vain. Ooops, looks like one of the waiters left a drink drop - ah, it was Touma Kamijou (@illusiionbreaker). Poor guy doesn’t get a break for his bad luck even here. As for Giselle (@angelicqualia), she seems to be enjoying the chance to socialize with people and learn more about the holiday. Don’t worry, your salary for this service will be way more than enough to compensate for your uniform. Somehow, Rantaro has chosen to work as both a makeup artist and a waiter during the party. I guess only an Ultimate Survivor could pull that off without dying...

...At last, the clocks hits 7PM. The lights go out, as they’re substituted by the arrival of golden butterflies who gently fly around the whole manor. It seems like the party will officially begin at any moment...

[wristwatchjournal]

Omega Partners With Undersea Exploration Nonprofit Nekton On New Seamaster Diver 300M

Brave explorers. Meaningful partnerships. Classic, purposeful tool watches with interesting design flourishes. These were the core values that first endeared me to Omega as a brand many years ago, so I’ll be the first to admit it’s pretty cool to see the new Seamaster Diver 300m Nekton Edition adopt a similar nostalgic ethos, despite being quite modern and dripping with all the latest Omega technologies. It’s a return to form of sorts for the Biel manufacture — one that’s practical, charitable, and admittedly much less flashy than last summer’s record-breaking Planet Ocean Ultra Deep, though no less impactful, as the Nekton organization’s mission is to achieve protected status for at least 30% of the world’s oceans by 2030. For context, only 8% of the ocean is in any kind of marine-protected area, which means this is a bold vision but one that benefits directly from Omega’s involvement in the project, providing funding through sales of these Seamaster watches and driving general awareness from its own platform — a noble cause, indeed.

If your nostalgia bone is tingling, your instincts aren’t wrong — this new Seamaster looks a lot like several relief-bezel variants from Omega’s catalog in the mid-90s and early aughts, most notably, the original Seamaster 300 ref. 2533.50 “America’s Cup” with its textured white-gold relief bezel. What made that reference, in particular, special was that it was produced in 1995 for legendary yachtsman and explorer Peter Blake, a two-time America’s Cup champion, a passionate advocate of ocean conservation, and a longtime friend of Omega. But the hat-tip to Blake’s legacy of exploration (the skipper tragically perished in 2001 while on an environmental exploration trip in Brazil) in this new reference is twofold — more on that in a moment.

Skipper Peter Blake on the deck of his research vessel Seamaster

The new Nekton Edition joins current 8800-series Seamaster Diver 300m stablemates that have enjoyed immense success since their release at Baselworld in 2018. Just like those references, this new stainless steel edition exhibits the Seamaster 300’s “maxi-sized” hour markers, skeletonized sword hands, a conical helium release valve at 10 o’clock, and a laser-engraved ceramic dial. Unique to this reference is its unidirectional rotating bezel, which is now rendered in grade 5 titanium and finished with a laser-ablated diving scale, lending a neat high-tech twist to the traditional engraved dive bezel that we’ve seen before from Rolex, Blancpain, Chopard, and more recently, Oris.

Specifications:

Brand: Omega Model: Seamaster Diver 300M Nekton Edition Dimensions: 42mm Water Resistance: 300 meters Case Material: stainless Steel Crystal/Lens: sapphire Movement: Omega Calibre 8806 (Co-Axial automatic, time-only / no-date) Frequency: 25,200 VpH Power Reserve: 55 hours Strap/Bracelet: stainless steel bracelet or integrated rubber strap Price & Availability: $5,850 USD on strap, $6,150 USD on bracelet

Partnership story aside, dive watch fans ought to really appreciate this Seamaster for three key reasons: Not only is it a pared-back no-date reference (powered by Omega’s Co-Axial 8806 movement), it’s also built around a 42mm case — a modern combination that had previously only been done in a pair of considerably more expensive references: 2018’s Sedna-titanium-tantalum Limited Edition (a veritable menage trois of exotic metals), and this year’s No Time to Die Seamaster, a watch built for the latest Bond film, which has still sadly not yet hit theaters. Lastly, and perhaps most importantly for classic Seamaster purists, this new reference has a closed caseback with a richly detailed engraving of the Seamaster 2 submersible (whose uniform orientation is preserved by the caseback’s Naiad lock), a detail that to me, feels in-line with all the Seamasters of the 90s and early aughts, which usually bore the Seamaster’s now-iconic hippocampus engraving.

But it’s not just any submarine on the caseback: This is the Seamaster 2 (a name paying homage to the late Peter Blake’s research vessel, also called the Seamaster), a nimble, two-person research submersible manufactured by Triton Submarines — the same firm that built Victor Vescovo’s record-breaking Limiting Factor for last year’s historic stroll along the Marianas Trench. Like the Seamaster Diver watch which bears its engraving, the Seamaster 2 submersible has a maximum working depth of 300 meters and is characterized by a large front claw and its acrylic cockpit dome, granting its occupants an impressive field of view while underwater. What’s less apparent from the engraving on the caseback is the submersible’s array of high-definition cameras and sensors, enabling the team to take photos, collect soil and water samples, and even livestream their expeditions straight from the ocean floor, thanks to a state-of-the-art wireless underwater optical communications system. What a time to be alive, indeed.

You’ve probably heard the fact before, but it bears repeating: We know more about the surface of the moon than we do about our own oceans. In fact, more than 80% of the world’s oceans are entirely unmapped and unexplored, but revolutionary new submersible designs from manufacturers like Triton are helping usher in an entirely new wave of undersea exploration and, consequently, conservation as well. What’s unique about Nekton’s mission is that the organization is working on behalf of oceanic nations to launch “first-descent” expeditions (the current expedition nation is India, and the surrounding Indian Ocean) which aim to improve the prosperity and sustainable governance of these respective oceanic zones. Throughout 2019 and 2020, each Nekton mission is developed in collaboration with respective host nations that will ultimately own, vest, and then share any findings. The more we can understand about our own oceans and the more knowledge that can be shared between nations, the more we stand a chance at preserving our planet’s most vital resource. After all, “No blue, no green.” “No water, no life.” 

With delivery slated for Fall of this year, dive watch fans and ocean explorers, alike, won’t have to wait too long for this new Seamaster Diver 300m Nekton Edition to land in-store and online. Pricing for the rubber strap variant begins at $5,850 and jumps to $6,150 for the bracelet. Learn more about all of Omega’s current Seamaster offerings at omegawatches.com.

The post Omega Partners With Undersea Exploration Nonprofit Nekton On New Seamaster Diver 300M appeared first on Wristwatch Journal.

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[ladybub]

The next chapter is here! I got on a roll last night, I wanted to get the next chapter out ASAP so that we could get that sweet, sweet action going.

Enjoy!

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire/Nino Lahiffe Characters: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Sabine Cheng, Tom Dupain, Chloé Bourgeois, Alya Césaire, Nino Lahiffe, Lila Rossi, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth, Nathalie Sancoeur Additional Tags: Overboard AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Miraculous, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst, Fluff, Fake Marriage, I have literally got nothing planned, i am winging this, most likely smut Summary:

Overboard AU. Marinette Dupain-Cheng hasn't had the best of luck in her life, not only has her husband Luka passed away tragically three years ago, she's one failed test away from losing her scholarship, and also already lost her job at the cafe. With three children to take care of, she doesn't have the time to dawdle and needs to find another job, or a miracle, stat! Meanwhile, on his own personal yacht, Adrien Agreste - the heir to the Gabriel fashion line - hasn't a care in the world and women on his arms at all times. He's living the life of a Bachelor with no problems whatsoever, other than the hangovers he gets the morning after. However both their luck changes after a chance meeting, and when the son of the rich designer has an accident which causes him to lose his memory...

So... Marinette didn't end up with a job at the end of the day.

It seemed word got out about a clumsy waitress that was rumoured to have recently broken over half the mugs in the Le Blanc café - her old workplace - in one fell swoop, and had gotten fired. So when Marinette rocked up, resume in hand, it seemed that the managers were all too eager to turn her away, saying that they had no positions available and that they were very sorry - no matter how much she insisted.

She knew her luck was bad, but come on! She figured she wasn't going to get a job straight away, but she couldn't believe not one place would give her any hopeful indication that she had a chance. Even the ones that did take her resume didn't seem like they were interested. She felt the fuzz of anxiety in her mind, as her fear of losing the apartment loomed overhead.

Marinette shook her head and slapped her cheeks. She didn't have time to dwell on that right now, she had to get on the game! She opened the van door; she had just parked near the dock, right next to the hugest yacht she'd ever seen. Like, seriously, this thing was practically a cruise ship. It had multiple rooms and levels, and was absolutely spotless. She already knew that they had a kitchen on board, a fully-functional chef's kitchen nonetheless! More staff ran around on the board, and there were people on the deck, setting up for the party. It looked like it would be a long night.

She started packing the containers in the van onto a collapsible trolley that was tucked in the back. It wasn't even dusk yet and they needed to have everything ready by 9pm. She was so happy that her parents had opened the store to catering. Since they got the extra business, Tom and Sabine had extra time on their hands. They had taken a small step back now that they were older and the business was pretty self sufficient. They loved to babysit their grandchildren regularly for Marinette, and she was so happy that they were so involved in the kids lives, but mostly happy that they could take the time to enjoy themselves.

Marinette immediately felt out of place when she took a step onto the boat, just to her right was a giant spa! As she continued through the yacht, she walked past exquisitely décored rooms, each with their own ensuite. When she reached the kitchen, it was brilliantly polished and sparkling. As if it was brand new and untouched.

She finished depositing all the containers of food into the kitchen and already had completed the preparation, so all that was left was to stick them in the oven when the client wanted the appetisers shared around, and she was currently waiting for the first batch to come out. All the cold appetisers were plated and ready to go.

Marinette sat and watched the other staff scamper around in the meantime. She knew at 9pm, Tikki - the other server who was rostered for the night - would arrive, but that wasn't for ages away. She knew no one else here.

It seemed like the client wasn't here either, since no one bothered to greet her when she arrived. She couldn't help but feel curious about the many rooms in the boat, and quickly checked to see if anyone was paying any attention to her. Nope, coast seemed clear. It couldn't hurt to have a quick look around the yacht, right? She wasn't a thief, she just wanted to have a peek at exactly how big it was.

It was huge.

There was one kitchen, with in-built pantry the size of a room, two bathrooms - one with a bathtub, three master bedrooms and the forth one had its own balcony over the first floor. The fourth bedroom was the one she was in now, and it seemed to belong to someone, considering all the blankets were mussed up and there was more personal decorations around the room.

She quickly called Alya, she just had to know where she was. It didn't take long for Alya to answer.

"Hey Marinette, what's up?"

Marinette held in her giddiness, "Alya, you won't believe where I am right now. I'm doing a catering job for the bakery, and the place we're serving is a freakin' 5-star mini cruise ship!" She walked into the en suite, and eyed off a bottle of Gabriel cologne on the bathroom bench. Look's like the client is a guy... She thought.

"Really?! Who is hosting the party?" Alya asked excitedly, "Someone famous you think?"

Marinette quickly popped Alya onto speaker as she opened her emails, "Hmm, let's see... A guy named Adrien Agreste..." Her mind went blank, as it stuttered over the last name. "Wait, as in Gabriel Agreste's son?!" Marinette almost shouted.

Alya gasped on the other side of the phone, "You've got to be kidding me! Model for the Gabriel fashion line, mega hottie, Adrien Agreste?" Marinette knew the exact face Alya was pulling right now, and she was already dreading her next words. "Get in girl! This could make your career if you manage to get a contact with Adrien. Plus, have you seen him?" Alya made a noise that Marinette didn't want to put too much thought into.

"No way, Alya. I mean, you know that I used to have photos of him in Collège... But that was just a... Celebrity crush on a 14 year old boy. I haven't really been paying attention to social media, so I have no clue what he looks like now. Besides, I don't want to use some poor guy. I want to achieve success on my own merit."

"Mari, if you saw him you might change your mind." Alya encouraged, "You HAVE to open up Instagram right now, his handle is-"

"Do you mind keeping it down?" The voice came from the bed. Alya went silent and Marinette's blood went cold. No way.

Marinette's turned around, words of apology on her lips but then froze. It was like she was watching a magazine shoot in real life - on the bed was Adrien Agreste, sex hair from sleeping, and completely naked. Luckily (or, unluckily, depending who you asked) the sheet covered the important parts, but as he stood up, unbothered by her presence, and she got a full glimpse of his ass.

Notably, she noticed that on his left cheek, there was a cute little paw print, with the words 'Chat Noir' written below it.

Her face went beet red and she quickly looked away, she finally spluttered the words that she meant to say before. "I'm so sorry, I had no clue anyone was here. I was just looking around but I-It was rude of me to intrude, I'll leave now." She quickly turned to leave, hoping that if she walked off fast enough, he'd not notice her face and she could not die of embarrassment.

Before she'd managed to get out the door she heard his reply, and paused. "Don't worry about it, I'm not shy." Said Adrien, wrapping the sheet around him, and gave her a charming smile. "I mean, the world has seen most of it anyway." He shrugged, moving past her and into the walk-in wardrobe. As he dropped the sheet behind him onto the floor again, he gave Marinette a wink before walking out of view to get dressed.

After Marinette started thinking straight again, she began for the door once more. "Still I'll get out of your hair." Right as she reached the door, she saw Adrien's blonde head pop out of the wardrobe.

"Oh, wait!" He called, causing Marinette's heart to skip a beat. He walked out the wardrobe, buttoning up his perfectly pressed white shirt. "While you're here, do you mind getting me a..." He pursed his lips in thought, "A bloody mary. Yes."

Marinette's brain froze. Again. But this time, it wasn't because she was getting lost in his emerald eyes. "O-Oh, sorry, I'm not a bartender, I'm one of the servers of the catering company you hired, Tom and Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie. We're here to serve the appetizers."

Adrien looked at her for a long moment. Shit. So much for leaving before he saw you properly. Marinette scolded herself. She then felt her skin prickle as his eyes dragged over her body. She suddenly felt self conscious. "Is there something on my uniform?" She looked to check.

"No, no. You're fine, it's just..." Adrien let out an over dramatic sigh, "You're a bit flat, princess. I prefer my girls with bigger breasts, what a shame, since your face so cute." Adrien gave her a very fiendish smile. "But still, I wouldn't mind if you crawled into my bed at the end of the night." He winked at her.

Marinette felt herself flush in embarrassment, but also felt like she had a bucket of ice water dump on her head. That was no way to talk to someone! Who did he think he was? "I-I have to go. To serve the food." She bit out. "You'll have to get your own drink." She stormed off.

Marinette reached the kitchen and opened the oven to peek inside. She closed the oven door, making a new timer for the next 5 minutes. She was barely containing the growing anger inside. If she wasn't representing her parent's bakery, she would've clocked the guy. Well, probably not. But she wish she could! Right in his smug face, maybe break his nose. Okay, that's excessive. She sighed, frustration now mingling with a bit of sadness. At least now she'd be able to distract herself with serving, and she'll just ignore him. She'll treat him like any customer, and the moment that the kitchen closes, she's out of here!

She groaned. Except that she had to come back in the morning and collect all the equipment. She couldn't be packing away everything and transporting it into the van so late at night. Guess she'll just have to take it as it comes, she didn't want to let her parents down.

Finally, right as the timer went off, Tikki arrived in the kitchen, a cute little ladybug pin on her apron.

"Tikki! Just on time, as always." Marinette was relieved to have someone else with her now. "I love your haircut! Short hair looks really cute on you."

Tikki touched the short red locks on her head, "You think? I was worried it'd look weird, but..." Her smile shined brightly. "I really love it! My head feels so light."

"Its super adorable." Marinette began filling the trays with the first round of appetisers, and set the first tray on Tikki's open hands. "Now we're just serving in the open areas," Marinette instructed, "I'll be keeping an eye on the ovens and get the new trays ready as they are needed. When you want a break, let me know."

"Got it, ma'am!" Tikki smiled playfully, before shooting an excited eye beyond Marinette and towards the music, which had just begun blazing throughout the yacht. "I can't believe that we're here, I feel like I'm on one of those party boats for celebrities."

"Well, considering the host, it pretty much is..." Marinette laughed weakly, she really didn't want to ruin Tikki's fun by being a wet blanket, but she knew she should tell her what happened the moment before. "Our client is Adrien Agreste, and unfortunately the only nice thing about him is his face." She scowled.

"Adrien Agreste?!" Tikki exclaimed, "Wait." Her excitement turned into a look of concern. "What happened? Did you meet him or something?"

Marinette sighed as she finished preparing the remaining trays and walked out the kitchen with Tikki, "He called me flat, and then invited me to his bed! I've head of negging but," She huffed, "he really seemed like he didn't care about hurting my feelings at all. Trust me, avoid him if you can. Adrien is a entitled brat."

Tikki gave Marinette a pitying look, "I'm so sorry, Marinette. You didn't deserve it, but," Tikki stopped and smiled at two guests who took a few quiches of her tray, "What do you expect? I mean, he's had beautiful girls throwing themselves at him all his life, and people sucking up to him for his wealth. He probably has some sort of God-complex."

"Ugh, you're probably right." Marinette's nose crinkled up, but she gave Tikki a reassuring smile, "I won't let it get to me, don't worry. I have bigger problems to think about."

Tikki reached up to Marinette and pinched her cheek, "That's my girl!"

It was an exhausting night, but Marinette was glad it was finally over. Lucky for her, Adrien was distracted the rest of the night and seemed to forget about her existence entirely - which, she admitted made her bristle slightly. What happened was so insignificant to him that he didn't even notice when she served him multiple times, whilst she had anger coursing through her the entire night every time she looked at him.

She parked the van in the same spot she had last time, and unpacked the trolley from the back. She'll be in and out, before anyone knew she was there. She brought along a cap this time which she pulled far down her face and wheeled the trolley up onto the deck and into the kitchen with no issues.

Just has she finished putting the last container into the van, the trays were the last things she needed to get. She sneaked onto the yacht one last time, and was just ready to leave the kitchen after collecting the trays when she heard the sound of two set of feet coming down the hall. She quickly ducked behind the wall, not wanting to be seen.

"Adrien, this has been going long enough. I won't tolerate any more of your abhorrent behaviour." A pang of familiarity hit Marinette. This voice, no, it couldn't be...

"Or what, Dad?" Adrien's voice spat out, "You'll cut me off? Your heir?" Marinette heard Adrien scoff, and she could tell that they both moved into one of the spare bedrooms just outside the kitchen. Adrien's words confirmed her suspicions, right in the room across from her had to be Gabriel Agreste. The same Gabriel who hasn't been seen out in public in years - and here he was, on Adrien's yacht.

"Perhaps I will!" Gabriel snapped, and Adrien seemed to go silent for a while, probably shocked to hear his father raise his normally reserved voice. "I will not have some brainless, alcoholic bachelor as the face of Gabriel. If you don't fix up your act soon, son..." A pause. "You won't be an Agreste anymore."

Marinette sucked in a shocked breath, was he going to disown Adrien? She couldn't believe what she was hearing, and she couldn't hear anything from Adrien either. A long moment passed before she heard someone leaving the room.

"You have one month. The week before the Spring Gala, if you don't come back to the estate with the intention on apologising and becoming an heir worthy of the Agreste name... Don't bother coming back at all."

With that, Gabriel Agreste left the boat. Marinette couldn't help but feel bad for Adrien, she couldn't imagine having that sort of relationship with her father.

She waited a few minutes before peeking out into the hallway, she couldn't hear anyone anymore. Perhaps now was the time to get out of here.

But before she could get away completely, a voice called out.

"Hey! Server girl." Adrien stood at the door to the bedroom, his eyes were red and when he walked up to her, she smelt the distinct scent of alcohol coming from him. "Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you for a drink." He shot her a entertained look as he stumbled a little when he made his way towards her. "Instead, how about some more of those little..." He gestured with his hands, "cheesy, bacon... Egg things. Hm?"

All sense of sympathy Marinette felt was gone as she remembered the night before, but she couldn't bring herself to get angry at him after what she just heard. Not to mention, she was in uniform. Ugh, she hated the hospitality industry sometimes. "Sorry, the contract was only for yesterday evening. Besides, there's no more food and all the equipment is packed away."

Adrien plucked out his wallet and then grabbed a wad of cash, dumping it on the trays she was holding. "Go get me something to eat then. I'm feeling something..." He thought for a moment, "sweet. Maybe fruit? What's in season right now?"

Marinette balked at the money, but still, grabbed the cash and shoved it into Adrien's chest. "I'm not doing anything for you. The contract is over. I'm going home."

Adrien grabbed her arm before she could leave, "Aw, come on. I don't bite." He winked, "Unless you ask."

"Ugh!" Marinette yanked her arm from his grip, "I don't want to spend one more moment with a sleeze like you."

"Me-owch. This girl has claws." Adrien didn't seem perturbed by her comment, "Did I hurt your feelings last night, princess? I was wondering why I didn't see that cute ass of yours in my bed."

Marinette felt the disgust curl in her stomach, "No. I just would never sleep with someone who didn't respect anyone but himself." She turned on her heel to leave, only to feel herself begin to pitch to the side - falling right into the spa!

Or, well, she almost did. Then two muscular arms wrapped around her and stopped her from falling. Marinette became very aware of that fact that she was pulled towards Adrien's bare chest. Did this guy ever have any clothes on?! She couldn't stop the blush that made its way to her cheeks. Adrien was a prick, but, even she had to admit was he fit.

She pushed his arms away hurriedly, "Get off of me!"

"Is that anyway to thank your saviour?" Adrien chuckled, the sound deep and sardonic.

"I don't need your help." Marinette straightened up and smoothed down her clothes. "It's just a little water anyway, I would've been fine."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

"Alright then..." Then Marinette felt his hands on her again, but this time instead of pulling - he pushed her!

Marinette fell into the jacuzzi with a large splash, the trays clattering to the floor loudly, some of them denting as they fell down the steps beside the jacuzzi, down into the entertainment area below. When she resurfaced, she gasped loudly, "What the fuck! I could have seriously injured myself if I hit my head." She spluttered, and wiped the water from her face, "You really are a dick, you know?" She didn't care anymore, she couldn't hold in the anger.

Her only answer was Adrien's entertained laughter.

So she got out of the jacuzzi, slapping away Adrien's offered hand while he snickered. When she began collecting the trays, she noticed three of them had huge dents in them, making them unusable. Her heart sank. These were her father's favourite silver trays that they saved for the high-class events, like the one last night.

She stomped up to Adrien and waved them around in his face, "You need to pay for the damage on these, look!" She pointed at the dents, "These are custom silver trays that my father ordered for the business! They cost hundreds of dollars, and that's just for one of them!"

Adrien shrugged, "Not my problem, you dropped them."

Marinette seethed, "You pushed me!"

Adrien bent to her level, "What you gonna do, sue me? With what proof?" He laughed as he walked away, "Since you're not going to stay and suck me off, you can leave." He looked into the distance, waving someone over.

"W-What?!" Marinette spluttered, "You can't do that, you- you damaged our property!" Suddenly, the sun that was warming her back disappeared as a large shadow blocked the heat.

"Gorilla, escort her out. If she struggles, just throw her into the Seine." Adrien plastered on the fakest, sweetest smile she'd ever seen. "Bye bye, server girl."

Marinette didn't want to satisfy him with a response. She turned towards the Gorilla, a frown deeply set on her face. "I can see myself out. This isn't the last you'll hear from me."

She left the yacht in a huff, trying to ignore the burn of Adrien's stare on the back of her head.

Oooh, she was going to make him pay her family back, one way or another.

Notes:

Yes. Adrien is a huge dick in the beginning. I promise that he'll get his just desserts, and also that he'll get better.

Chloe and Lila will be back in later chapters, I promise there's more to them than being the bikini girls who hang off him.

I hope this chapter was more entertaining than the last! I really want to get to the good, juicy stuff. It'll come, eventually.

[mojoflower]

Teen Wolf mpreg fic recs (99% Sterek, 1% Steter)

I know that you love me, even when I lose my head by LunaCanisLupus 22 E, 136k, Complete.  “We’re not mates, Cora,” he insists. “I mean look at him-“  //  “Ouch,” the kid says, no longer pushing that shit eating grin.  //  “He’s- he’s,” Derek tries, at a loss of how to explain why this can’t be possible. Why it shouldn’t be possible.  //  Or the one where Derek gets attacked by hunters, ends up with amnesia and forgets Stiles is his mate.

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Stiles, Alpha Derek, but Stiles is a BAMF, BAMF Stiles, presumably Actual Derek is also a bamf, but College Derek is pretty useless, Heh heh

Wow, this story just grabbed me and didn't let me go and now it's the end of a full day and I have no excuse for abandoning everything except that I was really involved and enjoying the plot.  //  Stiles is such a fucking badass, I love this, he's super-smart and strategizes and handles everything that comes up like a pro and it's totally easy to see why they have such a large and powerful pack. 'College Derek', meanwhile, is a complete sexist asshole (with the whole Alpha/omega thing) who says some super hurtful things in the first half out of sheer ignorance mostly -- although occasionally it's spite. Stiles handles it as well as he can, trying to hide that it hurts and striking back because he has backbone for god's sake... but his bondmark is slowly fading and that's terrifying and tragic.  //  Meanwhile, the Silva pack is due to arrive with some manifest bad intentions, and Peter is lurking around stirring up trouble, and it's a really fucking bad time for Derek to not remember who he is, because it makes their pack vulnerable.  //  Great story.

The Lighthouse Keeper by tugela54 E, 75k, Complete.  On a rural island just off Alaska’s northern Inside Passage, stands a centuries old lighthouse - the perfect sanctuary for its keeper to hide when the moon is full, to burn and rage through its cycle with the townsfolk being none the wiser.  //  But then a new resident comes to Beacon Harbour – a bright-eyed young student chasing an elusive whale species – and all of a sudden those thick stone walls seem paper thin…

Bottom Stiles, Like Whoa,  

 Whoa, that was an intense climax, I'm kinda breathless. Great story. Stiles is earnest and funny (and sooo hot for the giant, hairy, handsome man -- when author says size difference they are not messing around and it's mentioned frequently) and Derek is monosyllabic and awkward. They figure it out eventually, and there is hot sex (did I say size difference and hirsuteness?). Laura's a great werewolf-sister (Derek is the only werewolf) and her son Seth is a cutie. The cast of characters (Chris, Jordon, Finstock, Angus, Gladys and the two First People Miriam and Jonah) are interesting and fleshed-out. Love the plot, and the take on Derek's werewolf (not Teen Wolf style), love the First People lore and rituals, love the setting waaay up in Alaska on this tiny island.  //  (Don't let Major Character Death tag scare you, you're gonna be just fine.)

Hey Lover, I Got a Sugarcane by pibroch (littleblackdog) Steter, E, 17k, Complete.  [References to Mpreg rather than straight-up #mpreg]  “Put Peter on the phone,” Stiles says, too sharp to be polite.  //  “What?” Derek sounds completely thrown. “Stiles, I don’t think— Okay, you’re obviously not understanding what’s happening here. Peter isn’t talking. He’s basically just growling at this point, and he’s rounding on anyone that gets too close. He actually bit me when I tried to take back my pillow. I nearly lost a thumb.”  //  “Derek.” The reality of this shitshow of a situation is finally kicking in, undeniably, and Stiles needs to hear Peter’s voice. “Just trust the omega, okay? Tell him it’s me, and give him the damn phone.”  //  ---"Wrangling Rut-Drunk Alpha Boyfriends 101" by Stiles Stilinski, omega and responsible adult person.

I've loved other things I've read by this author

Delicious. And also funny.

I've Got A Sure Thing by skoosiepants  T, 11k, Complete.  Stiles's water breaks ten miles outside of Beacon Hills.

Fox Stiles, Werefox Stiles, Daddy Stiles

Precious: I love the style, it tumbles and tumbles over itself. Stiles is himself. Derek keeps hanging around, and he loves little Princess Leia. Cora keeps laughing at them. Stiles might be a little confused.

******

He calls Derek and says, “I think your entire family is here, dude,” and Derek roars, “What?” and, “Don't call me dude, “ and, “Fuck, I'll be right over.”

Derek shows up in his EMT uniform and with his partner Boyd, stoic and amused, and the wild look in Derek's eyes is probably as close to a panic as Stiles will ever see him in.

Derek says, “Oh my god, Laura,” and grabs for Prin just as Prin launches herself out of Laura's arms toward him. He swings her up in a practiced movement and settles her on his hip and Laura grins so wide her fangs are showing.

“The pack wanted to meet her, even Mom's here,” she says, gesturing toward a big black wolf that looks almost exactly like Derek in wolf form – the wolf lifts her head and sneezes at them, then goes back to nosing through Stiles's DVD collection.

“Mom,” Derek says, and holds Prin up so she hides his face. Prin tugs at his hair and knees him in the eye and giggles when he shoves her up so her tummy is balanced on the top of his head, it's so cute Stiles can hardly stand it, his life is insane.

“Okay,” Stiles says, clapping his hands together, “I'll make tea.”

I don't think that means what you think it means by ThroughTheTulips  M, 21k, 7 works, Complete.  Ever notice how aliens have mostly similar customs to humans in Stargate? There never seem to be words or concepts that just don't translate. For the most part that makes sense given how they were spread deliberately across the universe, but there should be more weird stuff.  //  So I made some. This is very fluffy and ridiculous. Enjoy.

I simply can't with this. What an unanticipated, hysterical delight.

 I Know Where Babies Come From, Derek by DiscontentedWinter  E, 52k, Complete (series is 132k of deliciousness)  [Implied Mpreg, rather than actual #mpreg].  Stiles finds a baby on the porch.  //  It looks exactly like him.  //  Well, this is awkward.

Favorite, read again, still a favorite

Funny and unique and gripping (and there's one part that's simply fucking heartbreaking, god every.time. I bawl like a baby). I love this so much. It's totally one of my return-again-and-again-comfort-fics (even though there's very little that's slow-paced and domestic about it).

 monday i can fall apart but by friday i'm in love by tryslora  M, 6k, Complete.  It's just past five in the morning and Stiles is barely awake, wearing only sleep pants that hang low below his pregnant belly, and he can't get the damned brand new jar of decaf coffee open. But he has a neighbor, and he's too tired to think that waking someone else up at this hour might not be the best (or politest) of ideas.

Alpha Derek, Omega Stiles, Caretaking,  

lol.  short and funny and sweet and Alpha!Derek is a caretaker (and pregnant omega!Stiles is a sass-spewing dork)

 finger on the trigger and all fired up by tryslora  E, 6k, Complete  [Implied Potential Mpreg rather than #mpreg].  Derek goes undercover to expose a drug trafficking ring running inside of a porn studio. What he finds is Stiles.

Hot and funny.

 I'm Not Immune by moodwriter  E, 24k, Complete.  “Did they inject anything into you? You can hold me back. You can stop me. I can’t stop you.” Stiles is in full blown panic mode now.  //  The one where Stiles and Derek get kidnapped, and sex needs to happen for reasons.

Great story, grows as it's written. Follows a lot of emotional development, tangled in the godawfulfucking situation they're trapped in.

Fire, Fury, and Flame by IAmAVeronica  E, 125k, Complete.  Stiles Stilinski was never going to be the omega who got knocked up right after high school, and then he's accidentally artificially inseminated with a stranger's sperm.  //  Awesome.  //  And the father of Stiles's baby just so happens to be Derek Hale. Half-feral, quite possibly a murderer, and pursued by a gleefully sadistic band of hunters who are only too eager to use Stiles and his baby to hit Derek right where it hurts.  //  Joy.

Omega Stiles, Alpha Derek, Mpreg, Kidnapping, Stalking, cultural ramifications of a/b/o

So, Stiles, the omega-rights activist who never wants anything to do with an Alpha and wants to avoid any of that biological imperative bullshit, winds up pregnant a la Jane the Virgin. BUT. Derek is unwilling to commit, or even to have Stiles tell anyone who the baby-Daddy is. This could be because a complete psychopath has him in her targets.

Kate is one fuck-scary villain, just, crazy as a bag of cats and vicious with it, and the filth that comes out of her mouth is truly chilling.

Stiles gets kidnapped pretty early on, which is frightening enough, and then she's back for another try. At that point, he's kidnapped again, this time by Derek, who whisks him across the country to the Preserve, a werewolf compound in Maine. Here, Stiles is the only human, pregnant and vulnerable and trying to make a temporary life until the baby is born. But will it only be temporary?

There's love, sociopolitical musings, lots of angst, lots of danger. The baby is born about 3/4 of the way through the story, and then Kate comes around to terrorize everyone again. Even though Derek and Stiles are living in a house that's reinforced with bars and a panic room, she still manages to nearly burn Stiles and the baby…

 Rescue Me (& Take Me In Your Arms) by tumtatumtum  E, 34k, Complete (series is 37k so far).  Just when Stiles is starting to reach panic-attack levels of stress, a leather jacket and firm thigh are pressed right up next to him, and an arm is casually thrown over his shoulder. Stiles looks up to thank this kind person who is saving his life, and suddenly forgets what air is.  //  Because HOT. DAMN. Call the police and the fire-man, this guy is smoking.  //  Or the AU where Derek helps save Stiles from an ex, and a steamy BDSM relationship ensues- with feelings all over the place.

Fake/Pretend Relationship, Sub Stiles, Dom Derek

Whoooaa, Nellie. Strap in for a ride, folks. Hot and also hilarious, which is a difficult combo to achieve. Loads of D/s sexy times. Stiles is precious. Derek is possessive and a wee bit insecure. They're awful fun to watch together.  ***The one where Stiles is Alpha Mate which magically means he starts leaking slick outta his ass, even tho he's human.

*******

[Kept trying to find this fic using key words bar and boyfriend and ex-boyfriend... which finally got me there. It's SO worth a re-read or ten.] I also tagged it with fake/pretend relationships, since it's fake for about the first 5 minutes, until Derek puts his hand on the back of Stiles' neck and Stiles moans and MELTS and lo, romantic and sexual interest is born.)

 It's a mad, mad world by ElisAttack  E, 74k, Complete [No #mpreg]  "They call him the Feral Wolf." The man laughs hysterically as Stiles backs away from him, fear coursing through his veins. "Feral Hale. Do you know why? Huh?" The man creeps closer, testing the restraint of his chains, white talcum falling from his skin, swirling in the air like the dust devils plaguing the wasteland. "Because he's fucking mad."  //  Or the one where Stiles is a prisoner looking to return home, but to do so, he may have to rely on a questionable drifter.

Really enjoyed this. Very interesting take on alpha/omega, haven't seen it before. And yay for apocalyptic mad max-type world. Scary as fuck.

a little advice for aspiring fires by The Byger (Byacolate)  E, 42k, Complete.  Regardless of his sadly lacking social circle, Stiles was going to have to get some physical contact or he was going to explode. Seriously. It’d be messy and Derek would probably become even more emotionally constipated having to clean up little bits of Stiles from his pristine walls and furniture.

Touch-Starved, Skin Hunger, Omega Stiles, Sassy Stiles, stiles talks CONSTANTLY, Mpreg, Kidfic

But We're Still Sleeping Like We're Lovers by CharWright5  E, 110k, Complete  [No #mpreg].  There are several things Stiles Stilinski knows to be facts: he's a werecoyote like his parents; his twin sister Malia could use a filter more than him; he's an Omega and terrified of his upcoming heat; and Derek Hale-McCall will never see him as anything more than his kid brother's best friend. Doesn't stop Stiles from asking the Alpha to help him during his heat. Or from developing some serious feelings that go beyond the bedroom. Basically, he's totally screwed, in more ways than one.

Fox Stiles, Creature Stiles, he's not a fox, but when I'm cruising that tag, I'll like to read this story

Idiot boys. Hot sex. More idiot boys. Angst. Fluff.

Jurisdiction by elisera  M, 7k, Complete (series complete at 20k).  John is a pretty level-headed guy. He wasn’t always, back during his own Sturm und Drang period, but he married a firecracker of a woman and got a kid with an affinity for trouble like he got payed for ending up in it, so someone had to level out or they would’ve ended up living in a treehouse or Lapland doing god knows what. Anyway, getting a hold of his temper is one of John’s better life achievements. It makes him a good sheriff and it kept him from blowing his lid too badly those last two years when Stiles started acting out in a way that John had never seen before.  //  But the temper is still there.  //  He’s reminded of it when he comes home on a random Saturday in March after spilling his milkshake all over his uniform shirt only to notice he didn’t have a spare in the station and finds Stiles bend over the kitchen sink with hunched shoulders.

Papa Stilinski is a total badass and mmm mmmm mmmm, so is Derek. Stiles has got some awesome muscle looking out for his best interests.

Into Something New by marguerite_26  E, 9k, Complete.  [Implied Mpreg rather than #mpreg].  Something is happening to Stiles. He’s losing time. Something is messing with his head, with his body. Maybe if he felt better he’d think to be worried.

 Nowhere Man by 1lostone  E, 76k, Complete.  [Mpreg (off screen)]  When Stiles leaves Beacon Hills, he does it without a backwards glance. For two years he is happy on the other side of the country- until someone targets not only him, but his daughter.  //  Unfortunately, the asshole bodyguard his dad hired to make sure he gets back home is none other than Derek Hale. And that's really not very good for either of them.

1lostone is, as always, the goddess of the lengthy, painful, disturbing, angsty, violent, sexy story. God, I love it.

The Second Coming (of Werewolf Jesus) by lupinus, uraneia  E, 40k, Complete.  Stiles was enjoying his senior year until his crazy English teacher decided he made the best candidate to gestate Derek's kid. Now Stiles is a seventeen-year-old pregnant dude and he and Derek have to figure their shit out, because in nine months they are going to be tied together for the rest of their lives.

Sweet: very fluffy and domestic.

Pride and Place by DarkAthena (seraphim_grace)  E, 63k, Complete.  (Part of series A/B/O bodice rippers) [Mpreg, Discussion of mpreg, no men were pregnant in the making of this fic].  Derek Hale, Earl of Osterbrook, has inherited, following the death of Lord Montfort, a run down house in Yorkshire he neither needs nor wants, convinced his staff are robbing him, and with the mystery of a missing ward, he manages to get himself talked into a ridiculous bet, that he cannot pass as a steward until Midwinter, nearly two months away. So can he maintain the charade? Find the missing child? and manage to turn the shambles of a house around, or will he give up and let Peter take the thousand pounds he bet.  //  now with explicit epilogue - the rest of the story is teen rated though, so if you don't like the idea of explicit sex in your bodice rippers - just don't read that bit.

Great story.

The Well of Living Waters by kalpurna  E, 30k, Complete.  King Derek takes a consort.

 Within His Power by NoBezel  E, 69k, Complete.  [Discussion of mpreg]  Derek is a wolfish cyborg, brother of the Governor of California, heir to the Hale fortune. Stiles is a un-sequenced human in a world of designer DNA. When Derek is forced to choose a mate, no one expects him to choose Stiles. To be fair, Derek doesn't expect him to say no.

Pretty fucking phenomenal. Lots of world-building and political intrigue. If you're in it for the tropes, you'll be disappointed, but otherwise it's intense and dense and lovely.

The Threat of Human Sacrifice by vampireisthenewblack  E, 45k, Complete.  The sheriff bought a crib and made Derek help him put it together. Stiles thought of Hemingway and the shortest, most heartbreaking story ever told, and dismantled it on his own while Derek was out.  //  [The one where Stiles getting knocked up is the least of his worries.]

So excellent and intense.

The Honey and the Sting by the_ragnarok  M, 19k, Complete (series still wip)  Derek didn't remember what happened when he went into heat. He could only assume the worst. The truth may be stranger than that.

Beautiful.

Tiny Houses by ohmyjetsabel  E, 77k, Complete.  "So this is what Stiles does. He lies in Scott’s bed and waits for Melissa to say she’s found someone to get it out of him, to cure him of the wrongness and the bad, and he dreams.  //  God, he dreams.  //  He dreams of fire and swollen bellies and that scene in Alien, of giving birth to jackals through his urethra, the whole horrific nine yards. His head is a terrible place to be, he can’t imagine his stomach is much better, why anyone would want to put a thing inside of it."

Fuck.

 Shifts by gryvon  E, 15k, Complete.  Stiles has what he's always secretly wanted - he's in a relationship with Derek and he's one of Derek's betas - but all that gets turned upside down when Gerard kidnaps him and his unexpected baby.

Who doesn't want Stiles having emotionally confusing sex with Derek, getting knocked up unbeknownst to either of them, and then kidnapped for the future baby? I mean, really. It's classic.

A Mating Moon by unpossible  E, 37k, Complete.  (Series 55k so far.) [this is not mpreg, just to be clear]  “Hey, Scott, so, I uh, there’s this amazingly hot guy and I’m uh, gonna spend the weekend with him but, you know, just to be careful, I’m sending you his picture, so if by some terrible chance my bloated corpse shows up sometime Monday, just, y’know pass this along to the authorities.” He pauses. “Uh. Kidding?” and then hangs up with a rush of air.  //  “That is the worst voicemail in the history of voicemails,” Derek says.

fucking fantastic

 (Once in a) Blue Moon by clarkoholic, skywardsmiles  E, 60k, Complete.  (Series 63k so far.)  Stiles and Derek are getting along, but they’re not a family, and they’re sure as hell not mates. Christ, they’re basically just two stupid guys who happened to get pregnant because of a full moon and sheer dumb luck.

Oh, the angst, the pining, the guilt, the blame, the anger. Total pain-fest while we watch Stiles nearly die from the burden of the pregnancy. Lovely sweet ending, of course.

Tried and Tested Series by dancinbutterfly  E, 53k, 12 works, Complete.  In which Derek has a sex emergency with unplanned results, Stiles could be the baby daddy on one of those horrible MTV pregnancy shows, Sheriff Stilinski takes in strays and life in Beacon Hills never has a dull moment, not even when things are calm.

Really wonderful series. Stopped at Part 11, so am waiting for updates. A good investment of time, even incomplete. ;D  //  [Huh, evidently I missed an update somewhere along the line!]

In the Solstice of our Hearts by ravingrevolution  E, 73k, Complete.  "You're not putting that up your butt," Scott told him flatly and Stiles couldn't stop the pissed off whine he made, but his friend continued. "Stiles, you can't put that up your butt, you know that. Your butt won't be ready for anything to go in it until-"  //  "Okay, okay!" he said, flailing his hands to stop his friend's lecture. "Message received, no butt stuff until I'm pounced on by some freaking animal in the forest and ravished to within an inch of my life. Got it. Thanks, Scotty, I mean heaven forbid I actually try to take control of my life and give myself a fighting chance or anything."  //  "Not all alphas are animals," Scott said quietly.  //  Maybe he was right, but Stiles wasn't holding his breath.

Omega Stiles, Berserk Stiles, omega beast, everyone's a virgin, Hurt/Comfort, care taking

The one where there's a Mate Run in the woods, and Derek with his pack manage to frighten Stiles up a tree from whence he falls and is impaled on a branch (ouch!) and then they spend a week in a cave while Stiles heals. Meanwhile, Kate and her cronies are sneaking into the month-long Mate Run with the intent to a)finally kill Derek and b) sneakily bond with some omegas. So Stiles goes berserk, which is the omega form of a hulking violence monster, to protect Derek. (Story could have stopped there, but carries on for another 1/3.)

[kainosite]

Les Misérables 2018, Episode 4

If I post the review before the next episode airs in the US that counts as “timely”, right?

The Good

• Extremely South London Éponine is the best thing in this series.  From the moment she steps into Marius’ room, their interactions are absolutely perfect.  Her crass attempt to offer herself to him and her delighted wonder when it fails, Marius’ appalled, half-paralyzed bewilderment at the whole situation and his awkward charity, Davies’ made-up slang for the écu, “You’re a star, are you sure!?”,  Éponine code-switching at the end and then grabbing the bread on her way out, even the noncanonical, nonconsensual kiss – the whole scene is spot-on from start to finish.

As is her reunion with the rest of the Thénardier clan.  The coarse sisterly banter and Azelma’s look of joy when Éponine hands her the stale bread, Thénardier’s petulant ranting, his violence towards Éponine and Mme. Thénardier’s weary indifference to it, his immediate attempt to crush Éponine into submission when she shows any sign of independence or self-worth – it all paints a vivid picture of Éponine’s world, and the juxtaposition to the scene with Marius makes it very clear that her infatuation with him is not about a crush on a boy but rather about getting the hell away from all this.  And I love that she grabbed her five francs back at the end.

• It’s interesting that the miniseries with the most graphically awful Toulon also has the most determinedly reclusive Valjean, and it’s consistent with his experience in Montreuil-sur-Mer as well.  In the novel Madeleine’s fall is precipitated by his carelessness towards his subordinates, first with regard to the consequences of his factory’s morality policy and then with regard to Javert’s feelings.  But that’s all pretty indirect, and Brick Valjean could reasonably feel that he was the victim of an arbitrary misfortune and that if he’d been a bit luckier everything would have worked out fine.  Westjean, on the other hand, was hunted from the moment Javert showed up in town and was personally responsible for Fantine’s downfall.  From his perspective, his attempt to participate in society must seem like a catastrophe.  He might well wonder whether it’s possible for someone in his position to do any good at all, given the debacle in Montreuil.  Both guilt and prudence suggest it might be better to just give up and become a hermit.

• Cosette’s little convent friends.  This miniseries has consistently gone out of its way to place the female leads in community with other women, and it’s nice to see.

• Rivette continues to be excellent even with a silly moustache.

• The Mabeuf + Marius timeline continues to be nonsensical, but I enjoyed their meet-cute and Marius was charmingly obtuse.  I also enjoyed Davies’ commitment to Georges Pontmercy/Mabeuf, which is the only explanation I can think of for why Mabeuf might keep a collection of old newspaper clippings about Georges in his attic.

• Gillenormand is still pitch-perfect.

• This episode was not Quinjolras’s finest hour, but he was extremely done with Marius’ shit, which though not particularly Brick-accurate is a quality I always appreciate in an Enjolras.  Giving him Combeferre’s “To be free” line was inspired.  I’m also impressed by his ability to adjust his rhetoric to match his audience – “Think of the poor veterans living in poverty!” is the way to win Marius to the side of revolution, if anything will.

• The juxtaposition of Javert’s lonely, cheerless bedtime routine and Valjean broodingly watching Cosette at the piano could have been filmed by a Valvert shipper (Look!  They’ll never be complete without each other!), which in a way I suppose it was.

• The police patrolling the Luxembourg Gardens while Cosette is looking around in raptures was a nice subtle touch.  This series plays up the Valjean vs. Cosette conflict more than I might like, but it does a very good job of showing you where they both are coming from.

• THE HANDKERCHIEF SCENE!

• I do appreciate Westjean’s ongoing commitment to self-branding.  Also the fact that they included the chisel scene makes the Coin of Shame a nice piece of foreshadowing.

The Meh

• I suppose it makes sense for a Cosette raised by Shouty Valjean to shout a lot herself.  This Valjean + Cosette pair actually articulate their needs and desires and communicate them to each other, instead of repressing everything and sinking into silent depression.

On the one hand, that’s healthy.  Good for them.  I know people are concerned about the tenor of their relationship, but frankly Westjean has done a better job than Brick Valjean of raising Cosette out of the unquestioning silence of her abuse.  They both adopted a kid who “had suffered so much that she feared everything – even to speak, even to breathe”.  Only Westjean has a kid who doesn’t exhibit the exact same trauma symptoms six years later.

On the other hand, who are these people?

• I do not appreciate Javert’s medal, but I very much appreciate Javert’s resentment of his medal while there’s still a Valjean on the loose.  If we’ve gotta go Bread Crimes let’s really commit to it.

• Sister Simplice is convinced the outside world has become more dangerous.  Sure, I guess?  1823-25 when they came into the convent was a relatively calm period, and there has just been a successful revolution.  Still, this seems like a good time for the show to mention that.

• “Wow,” I thought, “What a perfect choice for the Rue de l’Homme Armé!”  Oh wait, it’s the Rue Plumet which is still mostly orchards at this point.  That said, the garden is fantastic.

• Marius’ wet dream was actually okay.  After the Éponine Peep Show Incident I feared the worst, but there was nothing terribly wrong with it.  Marius had vaguely sexual thoughts about Cosette, his subconscious pulled a bait-and-switch and transformed her into Éponine, at which point he went “Nope nope nope DNW!” and awoke in a cold sweat.  This is not at all an unreasonable thing for Marius to dream, especially in an adaptation that’s dangling Éponine’s sexuality in front of him as aggressively as this one is.  The key theme of Marius/Éponine from Marius’ end, which is that he’s not attracted to her because he understands it’s immoral to fuck starving child prostitutes, comes through loud and clear.

• What a weird way to do the Chaîne scene.  I can see it happening: most Valjeans would never intentionally expose Cosette to a sight like this, but because Westjean is stuck with a Cosette who actually asserts her needs, he has to push back much harder than usual in order to maintain their secrecy.  He doesn’t show her the Chaîne to punish her or upset her – it’s clearly an ill-judged attempt to convince her The World Is Bad and win their argument from the day before, and perhaps also to start a conversation about his own past which will explain why he’s a paranoid recluse.  A bit manipulative perhaps, but that’s well within Valjean’s repertoire, and he’s thoroughly punished for it by the narrative since the whole scheme ends up backfiring horribly on him.  Cosette is not just appalled by this glimpse into the brutality of their society but repulsed by the convicts themselves, and the viewers get an explanation for why Valjean will be so adamant later that Cosette must never learn his true history.

I do think the Chaîne scene is important for explaining Valjean’s Cosette Issues so I’m always glad when an adaptation decides to include it, but on balance I think it works better when they stumble across it by accident.

• The attempted kidnapping at the Gorbeau tenement was fine.  Points for including the chisel and all the “neighbors” slipping into the room, minus points for Valjean punching everyone.  I’m not sure why Valjean thought paying off Thénardier would help anything, but then Valjean has never been the king of good decisions and this Valjean less than most.

The Bad

• I appreciate Valjean’s aspiration to spend the rest of his life hiding in a hole.  I do not appreciate the hard sell on Cosette taking the veil.  It just makes him seem selfish and inconsiderate of her needs, to a degree that he isn’t in the novel.  His “I thought we’d found a home here together where you could grow up and I could grow old, and you could grow old, and I could die, and you could die, and we’d be buried and we’d be together forever! :D :D :D” line is hilarious and adorable in the way it expresses the tragic limits of his aspirations, but I would sacrifice it in order to lose this scene.

• After holding down the fort on costumes and set design for two episodes, the Prefecture of Police sadly let us down this episode.  You guys were doing so well!  No uniforms, no illegal tricolors in 1823 like some adaptations we could mention *cough2012cough*, but now it’s 1832 and suddenly everyone is dressed like an officier de paix and Javert has a medal and they’ve still got the fleur-de-lys up.  Also that blah jacket of navy serge is not what the Prefect of Police’s uniform looked like in the 1830s, lmao.  I mean, for fuck’s sake, it’s fancier than that now.  That thing Chabouillet was wearing in the 1978 movie is also not remotely what the Prefect’s uniform looks like, but at least they bothered to slap some gold braid on it.

I will grudgingly accept the uniforms as a visual representation of the increasing professionalization of the police, Not!Gisquet’s Légion d’honneur is a reasonable reward for him apparently allowing the July Revolution to happen, and I do appreciate them swapping the portrait of Louis XVIII for Louis-Philippe inside, but there’s no excuse for Javert’s medal or the flag.

• Surely the entire purpose of casting Josh O'Connor as Marius is so Marius can be shy and stiff and awkward, and emphasize these qualities by having a face that consists primarily of nose and ears?  Otherwise you could cast someone who actually looks like Marius.

I know everyone shouts a lot in this and he probably needs to be able to shout back to keep up with Cosette, but from his very first words to Gillenormand he’s far too assertive and confrontational.  Part of the charm of Marius/Cosette is how isolated and naive they both are, and how these victims of childhood abuse are able to find in each other a safety they might not find in anyone else.  (Marius’ damage is obvious, and while Cosette’s is more subtle her tendency towards unquestioning acceptance would leave her incredibly vulnerable to the Tholomyèses of the world.)  This adaptation portrayed this kind of mutual refuge very well with Valjean/Fantine, of all things, so it’s weird they didn’t think to do it here.

Of course, Bambersette is healthier than Brick Cosette in some ways so maybe she doesn’t need it so much, but they still need to sell us on the pairing somehow.  Meet-cutes in the Luxembourg are all very well, but handkerchief sniffing can only get you so far.

• I see Fantine’s inability to put her hair up like a respectable woman is hereditary.

• If we have to see this much of the principal-tenant of the Gorbeau House I want to see some parrots, dammit.

• Éponine has a job and we have no reason to assume she’s bad at it, so I’m not going to say she wouldn’t do a sexy peephole dance for her new neighbor the law student.  At this point she knows nothing of Marius’ virtuous chastity; all she knows is that he’s young, male, richer than her, and she’s probably going to be forced to sleep with him for money at some point.  This scene could happen.

But we sure as fuck didn’t need to see it.  Stop sexualizing the starving child prostitute, Davies.  It’s disgusting.

• Speaking of things not to sexualize, why the hell does the dressmaker assume Valjean is Cosette’s sugar daddy and not her actual relative?  It made sense that everyone thought so last week because Valjean was being super shady.  It makes sense for Thénardier still to think so, because Thénardier is Thénardier.  It makes absolutely no sense for random strangers to assume it.  It’s the nineteenth century!  People die in childbirth!  There’s a cholera epidemic!  Teenage girls need their fathers to take them clothes shopping because all their female relatives are dead.  This is not such an unusual scenario that anyone would remark on it, or make highly offensive insinuations about a customer.  And why doesn’t Valjean just introduce himself to people as her father???

Mild, mild Valjean/Cosette is Brick canon and I don’t think we can justly criticize an adaption for including it, but every random passerby shouldn’t be remarking on it.

• On my first viewing of this episode, I assumed that its portrayal of the Amis as tiresome drunken louts could be explained by the fact that Andrew Davies simply didn’t like Enjolras, and probably not the other Amis or the June Rebellion very much either.  The superb barricade sequence in the subsequent episodes demolishes that theory.  Never has it been portrayed so well, and certainly not in any English language adaptation.  But that leaves me at an absolute loss to explain what Davies was doing here.  This is our first introduction to the Amis: they should be likable, so that we will like them.  They are not.

The irony is that it’s not particularly hard to prosecute a case against Enjolras, if you want to complicate his heroism a bit.  Enjolras is ridiculous and slightly insufferable!  Enjolras is a guy who thinks “Citizen, my mother is the Republic,” is a coherent and comforting response when his best friend musically drags your Napoleon eulogy.  I mean, just look at these twats in hats in the Théâtre de la Jeunesse adaptation.  They are highly mockable!  And on a more somber note, Enjolras led a revolutionary cell that misjudged the public mood so badly it got a hundred people killed to no useful purpose.

But Enjolras is not deliberately trying to orchestrate a battle to the death over France’s system of government.  Enjolras had the chance to battle to the death only two years ago, and he’s still here.  What Enjolras wants is to jump up on Lamarque’s casket and have all the National Guards and the troops of the line wave their muskets in the air and say “Yeah, fuck that pear-faced buffoon!  Down with the king!  Vive la république!”  That’s why his side have been quietly trying to propagandize and subvert every military unit in Paris for months, which Davies knows, because Enjolras mentions it himself in Episode 5!  If the monarchy could be overthrown without any bloodshed at all, that would be ideal.

And Enjolras has too much dignity to throw food at anyone, even Grantaire.  If we must take a swipe at Enjolras through the medium of food fights, Courfeyrac should throw food at Grantaire and Enjolras should give him a pious lecture about wasting food when so many are starving.  That wouldn’t be in character either, but it’s at least within shooting distance of proper characterization and it highlights annoying qualities the characters actually have.

• Speaking of annoying qualities characters don’t have, when Courfeyrac is coming off as sleazier than Tholomyès you are doing it wrong.  Courfeyrac knows girls you don’t have to pay, beyond the usual ‘showing them a good time’ expenses.  He does not have to take his dorky virgin friend to a brothel to get him laid!

• Grantaire is a drunk, but he’s a grandiloquent drunk.  That is... his entire characterization.  How could anyone get this wrong?

• That fucking brothel scene.  WHY.

If you must do a Sexual Awakening of Marius plotline, and evidently Andrew Davies must, I think the correct sequence is this: Courfeyrac and Grantaire take him out beyond the barrières and try to set him up with cute girls.  Marius is having none of it, of course; he’s too shy and awkward, girls are scary, he doesn’t want a fling.  Then he sees Cosette in the park and he’s smitten.

A visit to a brothel Courfeyrac is too classy ever to patronize is not in the cards.  The sole redeeming feature of this scene was the fact that Enjolras declined to attend.

This episode was a return to form, and by form I mean the Thénardiers were fantastic and everything else was incredibly fucking uneven.  While I can’t say that this Gavroche will make fun of Enjolras’ rubbish beard, I can say this Gavroche would make fun of Enjoras’ rubbish beard, and that’s what really counts.

[mayuzumi-yukino]

LITTLE CHARACTER THINGS

just a fun little character game. fill in the below categories with 3-5 things that your character can be identified by. repost & tag away !

TAGGED BY: @aragakisan, on technicality. TAGGING: Whomever reads it, presumably!

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

Concern; often worry for the disenfranchised.

Rationality and reason.

Anger; bull-headed and stubborn.

Humor, often sardonic with a touch of observational wit.

Protectiveness. Yukino is defined if nothing else by her compulsive need to keep those around her safe.

GREETINGS:

"Hey!” Familiarity, often spoken loudly and accompanied by a wide grin.

A smile, tender and crinkling on strong features. Those she’s closest to get to see the softest sides of her.

“What’s up?” Casual and intrigued, a means to strike up a conversation and show interest in the other party.

COLORS:

Slate gray. The color of her St. Hermelin uniform and the color of her favorite hat and armored coat -- Yukino isn’t much of one for fashion, and utility often comes before style. The color of metal, iron resolves and unbreakable walls.

Orange. The color is warm and welcoming, reflected often in the forms of both her Personae and portraying the fire in her spirit. Open arms and the rising sun on the horizon.

Brown. Dark like her eyes, lighter like the coffee complexion of her skin. Earthy and rugged, not unlike her own rough disposition, and far from flashy as it gets. It’s a humble, unassuming tone.

Mustard yellow. Yukino’s lack of fashion sense reflects the most firmly in her gaudy yellow jeans, hugging her muscled legs more tightly than they should.

Crimson. A hue often associated with anger and malign -- her temper is short and her vengeance is quick, just as easy to smile and open her arms for an embrace as she is to scowl and swing her fists.

SCENTS:

Smoke. Compulsive need to be a good role model be damned, Yukino smokes and the stench clings to her clothing like a bad reputation. As much as she tries to keep her habit a secret, the scent is damning as catching her in the act.

Chemicals. When not out documenting the world around her, Yukino often retreats into the darkroom to develop her film. The stench of Kodak D-76 is burned into her nostrils by now.

Snow on grass and concrete. Wispy nights on the streets of Mikage-cho with only the flame of a cigarette lighter to warm her; the hours spent under St Hermelin’s occupation of frost and ice.

Blood. Others’ blood on her knuckles or on the ends of her knives, her own blood dripping down her chin and running down her throat from a broken nose.

Burnt ozone. Yukino’s Personae specialize in the power of nuclear fusion, and as such any time they make themselves known the very atmosphere around her is sure to burn.

CLOTHING:

An armored jacket, grey with prominent shoulder blades. Ever since Yukino got jumped by who she thought were her best friends she’s always come prepared, and the armor helps to accentuate her bulky frame. It sends a message: not to be fucked with.

A black turtleneck tank top; sleeveless and cut off above her abdomen. Odd a choice of garment as it is, it’s a matter of vanity: it shows off her musculature, Yukino’s physique something she’s grown quite proud of.

A grey beanie, branded Ostrich with the appropriate brand insignia above it. Yukino is rarely seen without this on account of her mess of hair: without it it’d be all over the place and in her face, black curls snugly restrained under the cover of her favorite hat.

Yellow jeans, with a black stripe down either outside seam. Tacky, garish and questionable, it says all you need to know about Yukino’s fashion sense.

OBJECTS:

Four throwing knives, finish tarnished and blades nicked from constant use and frequent throws. She’s owned these knives since high school, and they’re one of the last remaining relics of her Yanki years. They’re never far from reach, Yukino constantly paranoid that she’ll encounter a situation where she needs to use them.

A vintage analog camera. This is Yukino’s prized possession: it was passed down to her from her mentor and idol Shunsuke Fuuji upon his tragic death. The stories this camera could tell, the things its lens has seen are unspeakable; Yukino can only hope to one day be of worthy skill and passion to be able to use it.

Yukino’s scrapbook, filled to the brim with memories of the past and present, with room to grow for the future. Yukino began taking pictures compulsively in high school as an extracurricular credit, and she’s made a habit of tucking away her memories in the old, worn-out scrapbook for safekeeping. She’s always made a habit of remembering where she’s came from and where she’s going, and the scrapbook reflects that.

A set of bisonskin drums, a relic from the St. Hermelin incident. The rhythms played upon these drums are what first enabled her to awaken to Durga, her true self and Ultimate Persona -- she swears that the resonance of the drum heads are identical to that of her own heartbeat.

A letter from Mrs. Saeko, written as congratulations when she finally graduated from St. Hermelin. Mrs. Saeko is... important to Yukino, to say the least, and beyond this sentimental reasoning it’s a source of pride that Yukino was recognized for her strive and success.

VICES & BAD HABITS:

Reacting with anger and hostility at the first sign of strife. Yukino’s old habits as a yanki die hard, and she’s unable to escape the frustration and violent thoughts her former life of crime was born of. Like her compatriot Tatsuya, she prefers to speak with her fists before asking questions.

Cigarettes. No good street gangster is without her smokes, and Yukino fit the image perfectly. When she left that life behind, this is one vice she was unable to shake: the comfort of nicotine often provides her a much-needed dulling of the edge her nerves right on, a moment of calm in overflowing rage.

Unshakable insecurity and uncertainty. While comfortable and confident enough in her own skin, traumas and internalized negativity often rears its ugly head. Yukino has a chip on her shoulder regarding her homosexuality and is pensively self-conscious of her sapphic preferences, and questions whether or not she has a future at all in any of her passions.

Yukino can often come across as patronizing or overbearing when her “big sister” instincts come into play, self-righteously believing she knows what’s best for all those around her. Even if her intentions are pure and benevolent, she can often stick her nose in business that isn’t her own and find herself in over her head.

Misanthropy and vengeful, spiteful envy. Yukino subconciously hates those who has what she wants but can’t have, as she considers them reminders of her failures. She secretly yearns for the demise of those who have it better off than she does, and  takes a secret joy in seeing others knocked down a peg.

BODY LANGUAGE:

Confident, self-assured posture. The woman stands fairly tall for her gender and age, augmented by a prideful swagger in her step and a dense musculature.

One hand often clutching her camera, the other usually planted firmly upon a hip. Gotta be prepared in case you get a great shot at a moment’s notice...!

Observant, analytical eyes. Yukino isn’t the most book-smart in the world, but her street smarts have taught her how to read a room and get a grasp on what any given opposing party might be up to.

Frequent head-and-neck gestures, more animated with tilts and turns of her head than anywhere else. Her black curls often wave and follow her head as she speaks and reacts.

Strong, almost exaggerated facial expressions and bodily gestures. Yukino’s smiles are warm and wide, her scowls are full of raw malign and hatred, her laughs are loud and from the belly, and her sadness is raw and from the heart. Her arms and body often contort and move errantly as if at the whim of her emotions.

AESTHETIC:

Utilitarian - Yukino is more liable to favor the practical and reliable over the frivolous. Hand tools, simple leather jackets, function over form.

Inner city streets. They’re like home to Yukino -- they’re where she spent her youth, and where she often spends her young adulthood as a photographer.

Sapphism. She’s gay, folks, and it’s a pretty big part of her identity and vested interest -- more butch-leaning with a stated interest in more traditionally feminine women.

Magazines, photo albums, art installations. Inspiration for her half-hearted passion, constant fuel to get better and do better.

Family structures and dynamics. For one reason or another Yukino often finds herself in found families and alternate group situations, and usually takes a socially dominant role with that in mind be it a “big sis” or a matronly figure.

SONGS:

A Perfect Circle - ...keeping me from killing you // and from pulling you down with me //  in here, i can almost hear you scream // give me one more medicated peaceful moment // because i don’t want to feel this overwhelming hostility

Smashing Pumpkins - what moon songs do you sing your babies? //  what sunshine do you bring? // who belongs? who decides what’s crazy? //  who rights wrongs where others cling? // i’ll sing for you // if you want me to // i’ll give for you // it’s a chance i’ll have to take, it’s a chance i’ll have to break //  i go along just because I’m lazy // i go along to be with you //  [...] // i’ll hear your song // if you want me to // i’ll sing along // [...] // i’m in love with you

Bjork - i follow with my eyes ‘til they crash // imagine what my body would sound like // slamming against those rocks // and when it lands, will my eyes be closed? // i go through all this // before you wake up // so i can feel happier // to be safe again with you

Pianos Become The Teeth - because i say it all // when i say nothing at all // so let’s say nothing some more

Touche Amore: i swear there’s nothing innocent in these eyes // because i’ve seen dead friends // and i’ve seen murder // and i’ve done things i wish i hadn’t done // but that’s not to say i’m not afraid // of long nights dwelling on past mistakes // because with life moving as fast as it does // i’ll still have stories to fucking tell

[mayuzumi-yukinoo]

LITTLE CHARACTER THINGS

just a fun little character game. fill in the below categories with 3-5 things that your character can be identified by. repost & tag away !

TAGGED BY: @aragakisan, on technicality. TAGGING: Whomever reads it, presumably!

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

Concern; often worry for the disenfranchised.

Rationality and reason.

Anger; bull-headed and stubborn.

Humor, often sardonic with a touch of observational wit.

Protectiveness. Yukino is defined if nothing else by her compulsive need to keep those around her safe.

GREETINGS:

"Hey!” Familiarity, often spoken loudly and accompanied by a wide grin.

A smile, tender and crinkling on strong features. Those she’s closest to get to see the softest sides of her.

“What’s up?” Casual and intrigued, a means to strike up a conversation and show interest in the other party.

COLORS:

Slate gray. The color of her St. Hermelin uniform and the color of her favorite hat and armored coat -- Yukino isn’t much of one for fashion, and utility often comes before style. The color of metal, iron resolves and unbreakable walls.

Orange. The color is warm and welcoming, reflected often in the forms of both her Personae and portraying the fire in her spirit. Open arms and the rising sun on the horizon.

Brown. Dark like her eyes, lighter like the coffee complexion of her skin. Earthy and rugged, not unlike her own rough disposition, and far from flashy as it gets. It’s a humble, unassuming tone.

Mustard yellow. Yukino’s lack of fashion sense reflects the most firmly in her gaudy yellow jeans, hugging her muscled legs more tightly than they should.

Crimson. A hue often associated with anger and malign -- her temper is short and her vengeance is quick, just as easy to smile and open her arms for an embrace as she is to scowl and swing her fists.

SCENTS:

Smoke. Compulsive need to be a good role model be damned, Yukino smokes and the stench clings to her clothing like a bad reputation. As much as she tries to keep her habit a secret, the scent is damning as catching her in the act. 

Chemicals. When not out documenting the world around her, Yukino often retreats into the darkroom to develop her film. The stench of Kodak D-76 is burned into her nostrils by now.

Snow on grass and concrete. Wispy nights on the streets of Mikage-cho with only the flame of a cigarette lighter to warm her; the hours spent under St Hermelin’s occupation of frost and ice.

Blood. Others’ blood on her knuckles or on the ends of her knives, her own blood dripping down her chin and running down her throat from a broken nose.

Burnt ozone. Yukino’s Personae specialize in the power of nuclear fusion, and as such any time they make themselves known the very atmosphere around her is sure to burn.

CLOTHING:

An armored jacket, grey with prominent shoulder blades. Ever since Yukino got jumped by who she thought were her best friends she’s always come prepared, and the armor helps to accentuate her bulky frame. It sends a message: not to be fucked with.

A black turtleneck tank top; sleeveless and cut off above her abdomen. Odd a choice of garment as it is, it’s a matter of vanity: it shows off her musculature, Yukino’s physique something she’s grown quite proud of.

A grey beanie, branded Ostrich with the appropriate brand insignia above it. Yukino is rarely seen without this on account of her mess of hair: without it it’d be all over the place and in her face, black curls snugly restrained under the cover of her favorite hat.

Yellow jeans, with a black stripe down either outside seam. Tacky, garish and questionable, it says all you need to know about Yukino’s fashion sense.

OBJECTS:

Four throwing knives, finish tarnished and blades nicked from constant use and frequent throws. She’s owned these knives since high school, and they’re one of the last remaining relics of her Yanki years. They’re never far from reach, Yukino constantly paranoid that she’ll encounter a situation where she needs to use them.

A vintage analog camera. This is Yukino’s prized possession: it was passed down to her from her mentor and idol Shunsuke Fuuji upon his tragic death. The stories this camera could tell, the things its lens has seen are unspeakable; Yukino can only hope to one day be of worthy skill and passion to be able to use it.

Yukino’s scrapbook, filled to the brim with memories of the past and present, with room to grow for the future. Yukino began taking pictures compulsively in high school as an extracurricular credit, and she’s made a habit of tucking away her memories in the old, worn-out scrapbook for safekeeping. She’s always made a habit of remembering where she’s came from and where she’s going, and the scrapbook reflects that.

A set of bisonskin drums, a relic from the St. Hermelin incident. The rhythms played upon these drums are what first enabled her to awaken to Durga, her true self and Ultimate Persona -- she swears that the resonance of the drum heads are identical to that of her own heartbeat.

A letter from Mrs. Saeko, written as congratulations when she finally graduated from St. Hermelin. Mrs. Saeko is... important to Yukino, to say the least, and beyond this sentimental reasoning it’s a source of pride that Yukino was recognized for her strive and success.

VICES & BAD HABITS:

Reacting with anger and hostility at the first sign of strife. Yukino’s old habits as a yanki die hard, and she’s unable to escape the frustration and violent thoughts her former life of crime was born of. Like her compatriot Tatsuya, she prefers to speak with her fists before asking questions.

Cigarettes. No good street gangster is without her smokes, and Yukino fit the image perfectly. When she left that life behind, this is one vice she was unable to shake: the comfort of nicotine often provides her a much-needed dulling of the edge her nerves right on, a moment of calm in overflowing rage.

Unshakable insecurity and uncertainty. While comfortable and confident enough in her own skin, traumas and internalized negativity often rears its ugly head. Yukino has a chip on her shoulder regarding her homosexuality and is pensively self-conscious of her sapphic preferences, and questions whether or not she has a future at all in any of her passions.

Yukino can often come across as patronizing or overbearing when her “big sister” instincts come into play, self-righteously believing she knows what’s best for all those around her. Even if her intentions are pure and benevolent, she can often stick her nose in business that isn’t her own and find herself in over her head.

Misanthropy and vengeful, spiteful envy. Yukino subconciously hates those who has what she wants but can’t have, as she considers them reminders of her failures. She secretly yearns for the demise of those who have it better off than she does, and  takes a secret joy in seeing others knocked down a peg.

BODY LANGUAGE:

Confident, self-assured posture. The woman stands fairly tall for her gender and age, augmented by a prideful swagger in her step and a dense musculature.

One hand often clutching her camera, the other usually planted firmly upon a hip. Gotta be prepared in case you get a great shot at a moment’s notice...!

Observant, analytical eyes. Yukino isn’t the most book-smart in the world, but her street smarts have taught her how to read a room and get a grasp on what any given opposing party might be up to.

Frequent head-and-neck gestures, more animated with tilts and turns of her head than anywhere else. Her black curls often wave and follow her head as she speaks and reacts.

Strong, almost exaggerated facial expressions and bodily gestures. Yukino’s smiles are warm and wide, her scowls are full of raw malign and hatred, her laughs are loud and from the belly, and her sadness is raw and from the heart. Her arms and body often contort and move errantly as if at the whim of her emotions.

AESTHETIC:

Utilitarian - Yukino is more liable to favor the practical and reliable over the frivolous. Hand tools, simple leather jackets, function over form.

Inner city streets. They’re like home to Yukino -- they’re where she spent her youth, and where she often spends her young adulthood as a photographer.

Sapphism. She’s gay, folks, and it’s a pretty big part of her identity and vested interest -- more butch-leaning with a stated interest in more traditionally feminine women.

Magazines, photo albums, art installations. Inspiration for her half-hearted passion, constant fuel to get better and do better.

Family structures and dynamics. For one reason or another Yukino often finds herself in found families and alternate group situations, and usually takes a socially dominant role with that in mind be it a “big sis” or a matronly figure.

SONGS:

A Perfect Circle - ...keeping me from killing you // and from pulling you down with me //  in here, i can almost hear you scream // give me one more medicated peaceful moment // because i don’t want to feel this overwhelming hostility

Smashing Pumpkins - what moon songs do you sing your babies? //  what sunshine do you bring? // who belongs? who decides what’s crazy? //  who rights wrongs where others cling? // i’ll sing for you // if you want me to // i’ll give for you // it’s a chance i’ll have to take, it’s a chance i’ll have to break //  i go along just because I’m lazy // i go along to be with you //  [...] // i’ll hear your song // if you want me to // i’ll sing along // [...] // i’m in love with you

Bjork - i follow with my eyes ‘til they crash // imagine what my body would sound like // slamming against those rocks // and when it lands, will my eyes be closed? // i go through all this // before you wake up // so i can feel happier // to be safe again with you

Pianos Become The Teeth - because i say it all // when i say nothing at all // so let’s say nothing some more

Touche Amore: i swear there’s nothing innocent in these eyes // because i’ve seen dead friends // and i’ve seen murder // and i’ve done things i wish i hadn’t done // but that’s not to say i’m not afraid // of long nights dwelling on past mistakes // because with life moving as fast as it does // i’ll still have stories to fucking tell

[bet4causes]

Complete Cannabis Grow Tent Packages: Everything You Need to Get Started

Developing tent packs make it simple to develop lovely buds in a little space. The development tent assists you with saving money on power, water, and supplements — also work out costs. In any case, in the event that you purchase everything independently, it's convoluted: Which Drove develop lights will work best? How much ventilation does a little development tent truly need?

A development tent unit wipes out these inquiries, since everything is incorporated. Prepare to begin your home development today.

1. AC Limitlessness Advance Develop Framework Coordinated Pack (2 x 2 Ft.)

Geniuses:

Shrewd computerised programming

240W full-range develop light

Samsung LEDS

Sensors and applications have some control over lights and fans separately

Accompanies both inline fan and clasp fan

Cons:

Costly

This size is intended to develop just three plants

Not great for a laid out cultivator who as of now has one more favoured Drove light brand

The Air conditioner Limitlessness Coordinated Develop Framework stands apart in light of the fact that it has a savvy regulator that screens light and environment conditions. This implies you can screen your development room from a distance.

Your shrewd regulator can be attached to four gadgets after you mount it on the mounting plate in your tent, so your accomplice or flat mates can watch out for the plants from a distance from their telephones, as well.

The astute programming will screen each fan and light independently. You might actually develop timetables and intensity triggers, so the Bluetooth application will caution you when you want it to.

We love the coordinated Bluetooth-viable methodology of AC Limitlessness items, which is the reason we incorporated an air conditioner Vastness develop tent in our manual for the best mushroom develop tents, as well.

The 240W full-range develop light purposes Samsung LM301B LEDs, which are normally utilised on Driven develop light sheets. Samsung diodes are really a similar kind utilised on the well known Insect Rancher Drove develop lights.

AC Boundlessness likewise sells its coordinated pack framework in different sizes, including 2×2 (intended to grow one plant), a 4×2 (intended to grow two plants), and a 4×4 (intended to grow four plants).

2. Insect Rancher Develop Tent Pack (2.3 x 2.3 Ft.)

Aces:

Solid tent development

Intelligent mylar inside boosts light conveyance

Tent intended to keep away from light spillage

Light accompanies dimmer

Great client support

Consumes 100 Watts

Removable base plate makes it simple to wipe and keep out standing water

Cons:

Fan is clearly

Fan utilises 50 watts

To stay away from scent spillage, fan and channel should be introduced INSIDE the tent

Insect Rancher develop tents are a touch more costly than equivalent sizes from different brands

The Insect Rancher Develop Tent Unit stands apart on the grounds that it accompanies the SF-1000 develop light, which is dimmable and incorporates every one of the frequencies for each developing stage.

Bug Ranchers develop lights that give the absolute best worth in the business. They use Samsung diodes, which are viewed as the highest quality level. (Diodes are the main piece of your develop light — they're answerable for light result, proficiency, heat obstruction, and the drawn out viability of your develop light.)

The Insect Rancher Drove develops light and offers uniform shade infiltration, and the 100% intelligent mylar inside of the tent amplifies the light entrance considerably further. Your plants will be exceptionally content with this arrangement.

This tent would be perfect for veg as well as blossoming. It's five feet tall, with an impression of 27 crawls by 27 inches. On account of this level, you can develop your plants pretty tall in veg prior to flipping them to blossom.

The main things that are excluded from this pack are your clones (or seeds), your supplements, and a developing medium.

Tragically, the fan is clear, so assuming you're searching for the most potential attentive tent, this one probably won't be appropriate for you.

3. VIVOSUN Develop Tent Total Framework with VS4000 Light (4 x 4 Ft.)

Aces:

Incorporates inline fan, temperature and moistness screen, programmable clock

Likewise incorporates mesh and shears

VS4000 light is full range and advances solid development

Thick rock solid material and lined zippers forestall light spillage

Cons:

Ratchet holders included to hang lights might fizzle

You might need to independently arrange ratchet holders

Takes two individuals to set up

Costly

The VIVOSUN Develop Tent Total Framework with the VS4000 Light stands apart as a result of the included VS4000 Drove develop light. This is a significantly more impressive development light than the one that accompanies their more reasonable packs (the VS1000).

The light will infiltrate your overhang, giving every one of the important frequencies, and the mylar inside of the tent will boost light entrance considerably further. You could develop somewhere around four, likely five plants in this tent.

The lights have five settings, and you'll have the option to arrange the ideal separation from the highest point of your plants, because of the level of this tent. (It's around 80 inches tall.)

The VIVOSUN tent units likewise stand apart as a result of how much additional stuff accompanies a pack. You'll try and get shears for managing, which will prove to be useful, in the event that you don't put resources into a bud managing machine. (We prescribe a machine — to save your hands from the carpal passage that influences certain individuals in the wake of managing an excess of pot!)

Assuming you're keen on developing more plants, and becoming the greatest conceivable nugs, this is the VIVOSUN development pack for you.

4. MARS HYDRO Develop Tent Total Unit (2 x 2 Ft.)

Geniuses:

600W full range Drove develop light included

Five feet tall

Accompanies four inch inline fan with speed regulator

Four inch carbon channel

A lot of flex ducting and pipe braces

Mugginess thermometer included

Reasonable

The fan and channel fit well in the tent

Cons:

Light isn't dimmable

600W is less wattage than a few different units give

Fan might make crying commotion

Mugginess metre isn't simply useful

The MARS HYDRO Develop Tent Total Unit is more reasonable than a few practically identical models.

MARS HYDRO makes a few models in various sizes. This one has an impression of two feet by two feet, yet they likewise made one that is three feet by three feet, and one that is four feet by four feet. These bigger sizes are somewhat taller, as well.

Be that as it may, the little one would be perfect on the off chance that you're searching for a develop tent to place in a more modest space, similar to a wardrobe. It's as yet five feet tall, so there's a lot of space to develop your young ladies tall prior to flipping them to bloom.

The Drove developed light remembered for this unit is 600 watts (however, as most LEDs, it's proficient — it just consumes 100 watts). It's full range, yet it isn't dimmable.

Notwithstanding, this develop tent arrangement is additionally more reasonable than equivalent models that accompany dimmable (and higher-wattage) lights. Assuming that you're hoping to set aside cash, and you're not excessively stressed over darkening your develop lights to best copy the sun, this could be the most ideal pack for you. It's ideally suited for fledglings.

5. VIVOSUN Develop Tent Total Framework with VS1000 Light (4 x 2 Ft.)

Aces:

Various sizes accessible

Accompanies VS1000 Drove light

Reasonable contrasted with similar models

Intelligent mylar lining

Calm (under 50 decibels)

Cons:

A few clients have difficulties setting up carbon channel

Some experience difficulty setting up fan

On the off chance that you purchase enormous rendition, the included VS1000 light may not give sufficient inclusion to however many plants as you need to develop

Difficult to set up alone

This VIVOSUN Develop Tent Total Framework accompanies a VS1000 Drove develop light.

You can purchase this unit in a few unique sizes. This one accompanies a tent that has an impression of 4 feet by 2 feet, and it's five feet tall.

VIVOSUN likewise makes one that is two feet by two feet. Their in pairs foot tent is somewhat more limited than the other brands' 2×2 models. (It's just four feet tall.) So their more modest tent could work best as a veg tent, or an incredible spot to keep a mother plant for cutting clones.

In any case, assuming you're hoping to develop considerably more plants (and develop them much taller), VIVOSUN likewise makes a total unit with a develop tent that is four feet by four feet. What's more, their four-by-four-foot form is 80 inches tall, so you can develop some beast plants there.

This pack accompanies the VS1000 light. The light is full-range and ought to give sufficient light to your plants. Assuming that you figure your plants will require all the more light infiltration, you can buy an additional light to introduce, or look at the VIVOSUN packs that accompany a VS4000 light.

This pack accompanies all the getting everything rolling fundamentals that are incorporated by most brands, alongside some develop room glasses to safeguard your eyes while you're working in the developing room.

[the-formerone]

how the music can free her whenever it starts (and it’s magic) Pairing: InoSaku Word Count: 3133 Summary: Yule Ball doesn't go the way Sakura expects it to.

Sakura doesn't have a date to Yule Ball. And it's fine. At least, that's what she keeps telling everyone.

Between keeping Naruto alive during the Triwizard Tournament to making sure Sasuke doesn't actually set that stunning Haku person from Beauxbatons on fire for looking at Naruto, she's kind of had a lot to deal with.

She doesn't even have a dress, not really. She has some nice things that she could probably transfigure into a gown of some sort, but that would take too much work, and brain power that Sakura is sorely lacking at the moment. She's exhausted.

The tournament didn't mean that classes had just suddenly stopped, despite the way that Naruto was behaving. And while Sakura was eternally grateful for the fact that Professor Senju's healing classes had helped Sakura stabilize Naruto after the situation with the kitsune in the Forest of Death (and fucking Sasuke when his stasis charm winked out when he was in the Lake and Naruto dragged him from the grindylows grasp, sobbing because he thought Sasuke was dead. Honestly, they needed more healers on staff. Sakura was still a student, and even though she won fifty house points to Ravenclaw for snatching Sasuke out of the jaws of death, she really wasn't qualified), Professor Senju's homework load was legendary for its difficulty.

So when Sakura hasn't been busy narrowly avoiding her bullies or saving the lives of her best (read: idiot) friends, she's been making sure she's passing her classes with top marks so that when she applies to be a Hit Witch with a specialization in combat healing, she'll get the damn job.

Which means she hasn't had time to find a date for Yule Ball. Which makes her a loser.

ecause Naruto is the Hogwarts Champion. Or, he's one of them. Hinata's name was the one that was pulled out of the Goblet first, and she was doing her level best all things considered. Nobody thought she had it in her to even put her name in for consideration. But when she stood up before her name was called, the hairs on the back of Sakura's neck had stood up. The Hyūga were a long line of oracles, and it was clear that Hinata had something to prove to her pureblood family.

And she had a date to Yule Ball. Unlike Sakura.

Even Naruto and Sasuke managed to get dates, despite the absolute mortification that came with realizing that they were each other's 'precious people' as per the second task's parameters. And yeah, Sasuke was going with Karin because he told her he would when the damn tournament began, and maybe Naruto was going with Sai's weird ass because he was just bold enough to ask Naruto immediately after saying something rude about the size of his dick.

Sakura was left in the dust. She didn't even know if she wanted to go. She kind of just - She hadn't really thought about it. And now it's the night of the Yule Ball, and she's in the library trying to start a research paper on speculative theories about how the tenketsu system came to be so tightly bound to the respiratory system in certain pureblood families, giving rise to the corvustongued, fire breathing Uchiha.

Honestly, it was a miracle Senju even let Sakura use the topic considering Sasuke was one of her closest friends. It had given her an in with the Uchiha; Mikoto was a breathlessly stunning woman who led the family quietly behind her husband's performative iron fist. And she made really, really good scones. And she liked Sakura, which meant Sakura could have access to the family history tomes of the Uchiha, all the way back to Uchiha Madara, himself.

She's just about to scribble down something along the lines of the contract Madara made with the crows, a magical contract which literally altered the DNA of his descendants thereafter, when a slim wand taps on the parchment beneath her quill.

Sakura's eyes snap up. It isn't a threatening gesture, but it wasn't a benign one either. You didn't just put your wand in someone's face like that unless you wanted a fight. Sakura's own wand is tucked into her sleeve, but the offending instrument on her paper could fire off six curses before she could even get her own wand in her hand.

She could always throw a punch. That tended to throw most off their guard. Sakura was muggleborn, and it was an advantage when it came to dueling. She had knocked more blood purists on their asses with her fists than with her wand in DADA. Kakashi always gave her full marks for her 'inventive fighting style'. He'd made her his TA, too, insisting that modern witches and wizards needed to be able to fight wandless and without magic if they wanted to survive the coming war. The war that no one was really supposed to be talking about.

Sakura's got what Senju calls a 'natural aptitude' for wandless magic. Especially when she fights with her fists. Sakura discovered this entirely by accident the summer before the school year started, when Naruto had survived a seventh attempted kidnapping when he was visiting Sakura. She had been backed into a corner by Akatsuki members, Naruto bleeding just behind her, so she did the only thing her mind could tell her to do.

She punched the ground.

Her magic sung a strange song to her, thrumming in her fingers, making a crater so large that Ministry officials were still erasing muggle memories of it afterward. That and her incredible intelligence was why Senju had let her into her healing classes.

And now, Sakura can feel her magic twitch again inside of her at the threat. But when she closes the fingers on her left hand into a fist, she finds that she can't follow through.

Yamanaka Ino is looking down at her, looking as unfairly stunning as she always does.

After that first incident several months ago, Sakura's been studying with Ino. Her marks in Divination have gone up, and Ino's wand work in Charms has received special praise from Professor Umino.

They aren't friends per se, but they are acquaintances. They talk to each other every once in a while. Wave at each other in the hallway. They actually talk a lot more than Sakura expected them to. Sometimes they had meals together, or studied in each other's common rooms even though it was against the rules. Sasuke liked to ask her if she and the blonde were attached at the hip. Sakura would cut her eyes to Naruto, then back to Sasuke, and ask him if he really thought that joke was as funny as he thought it was. Sakura's bullies bother her much less now, which is nice. She already has the Uchiha and the Uzumaki on her side. Having a clan heir like the Yamanaka as a study buddy only increases Sakura's street cred.

And also that time she used wandless magic outside Hogwarts grounds and didn't get thrown in prison because of it.

"You realize there's a party going on tonight," Ino asks, drawing her wand back to herself, "right?"

Sakura snorts and scratches the side of her head.

"You realize I have a paper due on Monday, right?"

Ino rolls her eyes, and waves her wand. She's unnervingly good at unspoken magic, hardly needs to call out the name of her spell before it begins its work. Sakura's parchment and her books all slip into the air just above her head, and organize themselves as they hang in the air.

"I'm not letting you sit in the library on the night of Yule Ball like some kind of tragic peasant."

Sakura barely lifts an eyebrow, by now well accustomed to Ino's particular brand of snide.

"I don't want to go."

Ino scoffs, and the library books Sakura was reading assort themselves onto a nice pile, while Sakura's notes slip inside of her bag, along with the Uchiha family histories.

"That's what everyone who doesn't have a date says."

Sakura puts her elbow on the table, and cups her chin in her hand.

"So where's your date?"

Ino slips her wand into the bodice of her dark purple gown. There are no frills, or any excessive fabric; Ino's gown is straight, dark purple, with shoulder less sleeves that are just as severe. The only thing soft about her outfit is the bush clover of her family crest, hanging on a fine black chain around her throat.

"I don't need a date," Ino says, arching an eyebrow. "I'm a Yamanaka."

"And I'm a Haruno," Sakura quips. "And I need to study."

She goes to grab her bag, but Ino snatches it out of her reach.

"Are you serious?"

"Come on, Sakura," Ino says, "when was the last time you actually had fun instead of making craters or doing homework?"

Sakura opens her mouth, then closes it again.

"I have fun," she says, sheepishly.

But not lately. Lately, she's been stressed, and she knows it's beginning to show. Her schoolwork will be the last thing to suffer, and so will Naruto and Sasuke. But she hasn't been sleeping very well, her dreams plagued with the red clouded cloaks of the men who attacked Naruto, and there are things in the stories about Uchiha Madara that make her stare at the moon with a mix of longing and apprehension.

There is something very strange going on in the world around her. It's something she wants to understand, needs to understand, but doesn't know why exactly.

"Come with me," Ino says. "Stay for a dance. For some punch. The Demon Brothers are playing."

Sakura purses her lips. Ino waggles her eyebrows.

"I don't even have anything to wear," Sakura insists.

Ino clucks her tongue at that, and walks around the table. When she offers her hand, Sakura reluctantly takes it, and Ino helps her stand. She tries not to feel uncomfortable under Ino's assessing gaze. When Ino spins her finger in a slow circle, Sakura purses her lips and turns.

She isn't wearing much. A comfy pair of black sweatpants and a red tank top, all of it under her uniform cloak, which is absurdly comfortable all things considered. She had been wearing it as a blanket over her legs until Ino had arrived.

"Not too bad," she murmurs. "I can work with this."

The Ravenclaw cracks her knuckles and tugs her wand out of the side of her dress. Sakura stares down at the ground, trying not to see the way the wood of her wand just barely pushes against Ino's breast, and tries not to feel like a pervert for staring.

"Arms out," Ino instructs, "and keep spinning."

Sakura does as she's told, and she feels rather like Cinderella as she does.

Magic courses from Ino's wand in a faint blue light the same color of her eyes. Ino's magic is softer than Sakura expected it to be. She's worked with it before, has been near it, but it's never touched her, never has altered something as intimate as her clothes. The magic even moves into her hair, tugging it out of its lazy ponytail and curling it up into the air.

Sakura shuts her eyes to let the feeling wash over her, and wonders if Ino's hands are as soft as her magic.

"Alright, Haruno," Ino says. "Open your eyes, and tell me what you think."

As Sakura opens her eyes, Ino clears her throat and looks away. She pulls out a compact from her little clutch and transfigures it into a full size mirror. Sakura - Sakura is shocked at what she sees.

Her sweats have been transfigured into a terribly elegant looking pair of harem pants, overlaid with a startling pattern of bright red interlocking circles that crest over her right hip and flow down over both her thighs towards her left ankle.

Her red tank top is a long sleeve now, with a square neckline, and her cloak is much more fashionable, all gauzy and transparent, with sleeves that wrap primly around her wrists and around her waist in a thick black line. Her hair has been pulled back into an artfully curled ponytail. Her black flats are the same, but they look almost three times as fashionable as they did before in her current get up.

"Wow," she says, a little breathless.

Ino smirks at the word, but there's a vague dusting of pink on her cheeks that makes Sakura a little self conscious. Does Ino think she looks good?

"My mother is a fashion designer," Ino says, "this look is all the rage in Uzushio."

Sakura nods as if that information means anything to her. She knows Naruto's mom is from Uzushio. Was, before she went into hiding. And he has a lot of cousins from there, too.

Ino pulls a compact out of her purse, and pops a hand on Sakura's shoulder.

"I'm not finished yet," she says. "Sit down."

Sakura does. And the fabric on her cloak is so thin now that she can tell for sure; Ino's hands are as soft as her magic.

"Just some light coverage," Ino murmurs, dusting powder over Sakura's face. "You've got great skin, so you don't need much."

"Thanks," Sakura replies, trying not to sneeze.

"Open your eyes, and look up."

Sakura obeys, and tries not to blink as Ino applies mascara, and eyeliner. Ino replaces the items in her clutch as quickly as she reveals them, and Sakura has to wonder whether or not there's a Bigger on the Inside charm on the damn thing.

"Now lip gloss," Ino says. "Pucker your lips."

Sakura does it, and feels like a fish. Ino snorts at her as she unscrews the cap to her lip gloss.

"Not like a carp," Ino chuckles. "Softer. Like this."

Ino puckers her lips, and looks nothing like a fish. Sakura is pretty sure she's turned beet red.

She wants to kiss Yamanaka Ino. Desperately.

The urge smacks her in the face, and by the grace of Morgana, she somehow manages to mimic the girl in front of her.

"That's it," Ino says, dabbing the shimmery pink gloss onto Sakura's lips. "Now smack your lips together. I'll make my compact a compact again, and then we can go."

Sakura nods dumbly as Ino rises, and sets to her task. She runs her hands down her front, over the elephant pants and her newly red blouse, and touches her cheek to where Ino's foundation has settled into her skin.

She looks at the back of Ino's neck, at the easy way she holds her wand, uses her magic. At how she literally puts Sakura's entire messenger into her tiny clutch, proving Sakura's earlier theory.

It hits Sakura then, that Ino said that she didn't 'need' a date, not that she didn't have one. 'Come with me,' Ino had said. And was that an invitation? To be her date? To the Yule Ball?

Sakura isn't a Gryffindor. She's not all reckless bravery, and she isn't the careful cunning type of Slytherin. She isn't even a Ravenclaw, using logic and reason to get her in and out of tricky situations.

She's a Hufflepuff. Which means she's all of that, and she's so much more.

"Am I your date?" she asks, voice soft and hesitant.

Ino stills for a moment, then turns her head over her shoulder to look at Sakura. It's the first time Sakura has ever seen her look anything other than self assured and confident. Ino looks nervous.

"I mean," she begins. "I wanted you to come as my friend. I really like you, and I knew you weren't going to come out tonight because you're ridiculous, so I thought I'd ask you to come with me - ,"

"As a friend," Sakura asks. "Or as your date?"

Ino purses her lips, then squares her shoulders. She looks like she's being prepared for rejection. Sakura has no fucking idea what's happening.

"As whatever you're the most comfortable with" Ino says.

Sakura swallows, and this time when she opens her mouth, she doesn't even have to think about being brave enough to say what she's thinking.

"Ino," she says. "May I escort you to the Yule Ball?"

She has a split second to wonder if she's made the wrong decision, because Ino is very clearly hesitating. Decisive, ruthless Ino, who has hexed more people on Sakura's behalf than Naruto and Sasuke combined since they became friends earlier this year. Ino who tells Sakura exactly what she's doing wrong when they study Divination, Ino whose pale blue eyes are sharp and critical when Sakura demonstrates fine wand work.

Sakura holds out her hand. Ino looks at her it, her own hands wrapped nervously around her clutch. Like she didn't plan this far ahead, like she didn't expect Sakura to see through her, to want what she wanted, too.

"Or," Sakura says, cracking a smile. "You could escort me. I think that's what you'd prefer, since you're a Yamanaka and all."

Some color comes back to Ino's pale, nervous face, and she returns Sakura's smile with a cocky little grin of her own.

"Mark my words, Haruno," she says, carefully placing her hand in Sakura's. Her fingernails are painted a paler purple than her gown, and the color slowly changes to black to match Sakura's get up. "You're going to have the time of your life. The Yamanaka know how to have a good time."

With the kind of brass that would make even Naruto splutter in shock, Sakura tugs Ino close to her, so close their noses brush together and says, "I hope you're not all talk."

At the end of the night, Sakura will wonder whether or not she should kiss Ino as she walks her back to the Ravenclaw common room. She'll only half listen to Ino's polite good night, and she'll only really be able to focus on the way she looks in the evening light while other Ravenclaws move past them into their common room.

She'll kiss her, and she'll taste the vanilla and shea of Ino's lip gloss on Ino's mouth and her own, and Ino will turn bright pink. And afterwards, Sakura will walk all the way back to her dorm, arms wrapped around herself as Ino's magic keeps her clothes transfigured until she's safely in her room.

In the morning, when Naruto and Sasuke barge into her empty room underneath Naruto's invisibility cloak and will demand to know how she went from not having a date to Yule Ball to having a girlfriend in the same night.

[trb-reacts]

The Raven Boys, Chapter 1 - 2

So, I have heard lots of raves (ha!) about The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater because people who is into The Foxhole Court & Captive Prince are inevitably also into this series, so I thought I would finally join in. Started this blog because I enjoyed Nicki Reads The Foxhole Court and a blog seems like a cool idea to just dump down my thoughts as I read.

I am going to break these down by chapters, but just for this one, the distribution might be a bit off because I read the first few chapters before deciding to make a blog, so I am just skimming through it real quick to point out stuff.

“Blue never grew tired of feeling particularly needed, but sometimes she wished needed felt less like a synonym for useful.”

What a lovely phrase and very very intriguing. The Human Battery is not an uncommon trope, but I like how it explicitly explores her feeling like she’s being used. 

"There are only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve, Blue. Either you’re his true love," Neeve said, "or you killed him." 

I’m very amused by this because we are told that Blue is destined to kill her One True Love when she kiss him, so chances are the spirit (Gansey) that she saw is her One True Love that She Kissed and Liked It and It Tasted Like His Incoming Doom. Or if not (because I think I know for sure that there’s some lovely gay romance destined to happen between someones (or else tumblr is just very fervent about non-canon ships, which is also definitely a possibility)), then Blue’s death count just definitively went up by one. 

his roommate Ronan Lynch replied, "You missed World Hist. I thought you were dead in a ditch."

He asked, "Did you get notes for me?" "No," Ronan replied. "I thought you were dead in a ditch." 

I’m just... so amused by this exchange. So amused.

Next to an EpiPen, there was a stick of beef jerky, but the jerky had expired two years ago. Possibly it had been there when he’d bought the car.

Maybe I’m interpreting this wrong, but why does it sound like Gansey bought a second-handed car. It just clash so horribly with the image of him being this rich boy, who had this very fake and haughty version of a camping trip.

His heart hurt with the wanting of it, the hurt no less painful for being difficult to explain.

I have no idea what’s going on here, but I love lines like this? I’m curious by what exactly does he want though. 

Ronan hefted a gas can from the trunk, making little effort to keep the greasy container from contacting his clothing. Like Gansey, he wore the Aglionby uniform, but, as always, he managed to make it look as disreputable as possible. His tie was knotted with a method best described as contempt and his shirt-tails were ragged beneath the bottom of his sweater. His smile was thin and sharp. If his BMW was shark-like, it had learned how from him.

What can I say besides I’m liking Ronan more and more. Tie knotted with contempt, his car learning to be shark-like from him. What a description, what a character!

"My dick brother wants us to meet him at Nino’s tonight. With Ashley[...] We’re meant to look pretty for her." Gansey resented having to play nicely with Ronan’s older brother, a senior at Aglionby, but he understood why they had to. Freedom in the Lynch family was a complicated thing, and at the moment, Declan held the keys to it.

"He wants to do it tonight because he knows I have class." 

I’m admittedly baffled by this exchange, or maybe I can’t just fully parse out the subtleties. Why does Ronan’s brother Declan want to show off Ronan’s friends to his girlfriend which he switches every three days, but without Ronan’s presence? Is that a thing? Also, like I know I’m nitpicking, but if Declan does this all the time, then why would Ronan say ‘us’, including himself in the equation, especially when it sounds like the hate has been kinda mutual on all sides for a while now??

Yeah, I don’t get it. Complicated, indeed. Gansey also seems to not like Declan, which I find funny because he seems like the nice guy who likes everyone so far to me. Also what’s a Nino?

Ronan didn’t sound very interested, but that was part of the Ronan Lynch brand. It was impossible to tell how deep his disinterest truly was. Did I mention that I’m liking Ronan more and more?

"Gansey," it said. ...It was still strange to hear himself on the recording, with no memory of saying the words. Then, as if from very far away, a female voice, the words hard to make out: "Is that all?"

Whelp, I think the possibility of One True Love just increased exponentially. Also I forgot to mention, but Gansey is destined to die within a year. Which is just... tragic, especially for his band of friends. 

And a very old British professor had said, The world turns out its pockets for you, boy. The key, Gansey found, was that you had to believe that they existed; you had to realize they were part of something bigger. Some secrets only gave themselves up to those who’d proven themselves worthy

I love the entire concept. Just, I’m always a little fascinated by the power of belief (e.g. gods are powerful because people believe and when they stop, they die)

This last part was directed at Adam as he climbed out of the BMW with Ronan’s phone still in hand. He offered it to Ronan, who shook his head disdainfully. Ronan despised all phones, including his own.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the Raven Boys and their quirks, but like... there’s something such as too much sometimes? Complicated relationship with his brother, freedom to be gained, disdain for all, despises phones, and I’m sure much more is going to pop up. How am I going to ever keep track of all this and not mix one boy’s eccentricity for the other’s?

There’s so much depth for each of them that with each detail, my image of them is just getting murkier. 

"Am I invited?" Adam could be peculiarly polite. When he was uncertain about something, his Southern accent always made an appearance, and it was in evidence now. Adam never needed an invitation. He and Ronan must’ve fought. Unsurprising. If it had a social security number, Ronan had fought with it

I like this because Adam sounded so comfortable and belonging in the group thus far. Then, Am I invited and you can feel the distance stretching endlessly between them again. Don’t want to get burned by assuming, purposely distancing or a stab at Ronan? Why am I so sure it’s the first?

Also, detail number 50 about Ronon.  If it had a social security number, Ronan had fought with it. Once again, love the phrasing, a little too much detail to keep track of and a little... too telling? I coulda waited until a little later to be shown that Ronan fights with everyone. 

Gansey said, "Tell me there’s no sauce on this burger." Dropping the strap from his teeth, Ronan scoffed. "Please." "No pickle, either," Adam said,

I’m offended you’d ever consider that I would forget how you like your burger, is what they’re saying. Sweet, though Gansey, no sauce? Sauce is life for me. 

He’d not only brought two small containers of fuel additive, but also a rag to place between the gas can and his khakis; he made the entire process look commonplace. Adam tried so hard to hide his roots, but they came out in the smallest of gestures.

A thoughtful sweet cinnamon that needs protecting. The commoner trying to hide his roots and fit in, except he gives himself away a little each time he shows how much he cares through his attention to detail, since rich bastards never have to impeccably keep their clothes clean ‘cause they can’t afford to replace it. I feel for Adam. 

[Adam’s] letters always looked like they were running from something.

So much double meaning and hints and no answers anywhere in sight. Sigh. 

[northernwinedregs]

This Is Moaning - Chapter Three

[one] [two]

  Every Saturday for the past year, I've set up a stall in the middle of the market of my home town under a banner that simply reads 'Tell Me About This Place.' Maybe there's something to talking with a seemingly anonymous stranger; people have been more candid with me than they might be with their partners, their friends, their doctors, their therapists. I've had people tell me about their lives, their hopes, their frustrations, their ambitions, their complaints. I now about their secrets, their hates, their fears. They told me about the affairs they were having. I've learned more about the human geography of this place, a town I grew up despising. All the names have been changed, as is only fair. But these are some of the stories from this past year. I listened, I wrote them down, and now I'm sharing them with you.

 Welcome to Moaning.

Chapter Three

 “I've lived here all my life. Born here. Raised here. Thought I died here once, but that turned out just to be a big sneeze.”

Richard Goose, 74

   From the way you come into Moaning, you might incorrectly think it a beautiful place. The early hours of placid morning shield you from the clattering rattle of rage and commuting misery that the nine o'clock news will send chundering through the streets. For now, before the collected munch of plain white toast and slurp of instant butter from improvised napkin/sock, before the buses start wheezing and spluttering and coughing, before the crows carry last night's discarded kebab scraps into the desolate playgrounds for brunch, everything is still and serene, quiet the way morgues are, spread thinly with a domesticated silence broken only by the suicidal neighs of bored horses in fields and the opinionated gossip of collared doves in the salons of the trees. As you walk, one foot before the other, as seven out of ten leading podiatrists recommend, you wonder if it's such a bad place after all. It's sort of greenish, in that nondescript way that so much of England is. It's less fair and pastoral, more the green of sickly moss, of neglected bread that got accidentally kicked under the freezer for an eighteen month-long residency. It's the green that's such friendly neighbours with mud. Green that's spelled 'bilious.' Green that comes in a discontinued paint tin marked 'syphilitic tortoise.'

   To be fair, you picked a bad day to turn a stranger's eye to your hometown. On less queasy-skied days, from your vantage point next to the “Please Slow Down” signs, the view is remarkable (but then again, there is literally nothing that cannot be described as worthy of being remarked upon), a greasy palette of green and brown fields that kaleidoscope into something more beautiful than individual strips of combed mud. A view which, pending an amateurish cataracts diagnosis, could warp and coalesce to picturesque, an adjective that's become less insistent of itself since the widespread availability of phones that can take pictures. These days even eyebrows are picturesque. Still, you can see, if only grudgingly, why someone would come across this rough bowl of God's green soup and decide to found a town, long before it descended to a cardboard caricature set of pubs, discount biscuit shops and betting outlets.

   But come here they did, and the baton of ages has been passed from generation to generation, tumbling over the dust of lifetimes, to arrive at you, walking without thinking, stepping forwards into this town that has shaped and raised you as much as your parents. We all acknowledge ourselves to be a product of our surroundings, but that normally comes down to public admissions of love, or the threat of raised fists, or the ready access to pocket money, or the sorts of newspapers that made it into our homes, or whether the pavements outside were smooth, or whether you get your clothes first or second hand. Those sorts of things do not define us, but they draw a rough outline to start with. How cynically we celebrated Christmas. If you ever saw your parents kiss. If you could trust the police. What we recognise less is the sheer geography of the places we called, or were begrudged to call, home. How the curving spine of roads and mountains shaped the length of our stride, how the concrete warped our feet to meet their cobbled slabs; how we are but part of a production peopled by streets and shops and sirens, clouds and curses and curtains, and whether as a result, we gracefully bow before a rapturous audience, or instead just skulk off to get high in the dressing room.

   We are, in the end, not just what we eat, but what we say, what we pass. What we demolish or refuse to go on funding. Who we ignore and who we celebrate. We are speed limits and local election turnouts. We are what we choose to put on a two-for-one offer. We are the regularity of buses, the time it takes to see a doctor. We are the sum results of home towns all over the world. Part-pork pie, part-park path.

     You have, for the most part, the roads to yourself: the sounds belong to you, staggering breath caught and reeled in by the cold, the industrious slap of shoe against concrete, pavements warped and reconfigured as cooled and once-molten rock, buffed down by an over-enthusiastic pedestrian surgeon. You pass houses, their blank faces silently screaming in the darkness. Occasionally you see a light, a long-shadowing lamp or fluorescent tube pulsing from a kitchen or living-room, where someone inside is resigning themselves to work or school, kneeling before the altar of instant coffee, enduring eighteen seconds of mortifying world news, before siding with the continued health of their soul by turning the channel to lucrative re-runs of some American war crime of a sitcom. The catchphrase here in Moaning is nothing but a long sigh, a beleaguered rubbing of unmoisturised hand over tired face, and a sinking feeling that yet another abysmal-weathered day is beginning. Here, laughter is not canned, but baked beans with little gelatinous sausages are. Here, only grey skies are syndicated.

     Here in Moaning we wake with the awful realisation that not only is this Life, corporately logo'd and aggressively advertised Life, but Our Life, and the one we inexplicably find ourselves having to mercilessly lead. Even the birds sitting in nutrient-starved trees are shivering and thinking about the day's first cigarette. A kingly fox, coming home after a long graveyard shift of sifting through bins to find something other than fried chicken bones (just for a change), stops to stare as you walk past, offering a solemn and slow-blinking nod as if to say, “I know mate, rough night.” As you pass one house, through an open kitchen window you hear what you both hope and assume is a baby crying, its raid siren wail cutting through the morning's quiet like austerity measures through a mental health clinic, and faced with the scant options available in Moaning, you know exactly how that baby feels.

  You walk away from the main road, which is ashamed about the litter acned across its face, the inconsistent pebble-dashing of scrunched fag boxes and crisp packets and parcels that were unable to be delivered in the miniscule estimated window between 6am and 9pm (even now a different fox is pawing tentatively at a dew-darkened brown box, hoping to find something edible with a bit more fibre than it's accustomed to. Its cubs are sick of donner meat scraps and pepperoni pizza crusts. In fact, what's actually in the box is an industrial strength vibrator modelled on the exact dimensions of a newly-famed contestant from a celebrity reality show, who eschewed a traditional catchphrase in favour of repeatedly exposing his exasperatingly large member). You wander aimlessly, away from the main road and into a collapsing warren of cul-de-sacs, residential areas and rows of terraces. There's a man sat smoking on his front step, dressed only in a neon pink child's dressing gown, exposing his rage-swollen testicles for all the world to see. He nods at you. With his face.

   These sunken-shouldered houses squat side to side, industrial red brick smooching year round Christmas decorations, the town as uniformed police force trapped on perpetual work outing. Here, a front garden means weed-freckled patches of concrete, for the most part vagrant, but occasionally populated with black bags of rubbish or an abandoned installation of rust that may once have been a functioning bicycle, or a dejected item of white goods, a chest freezer than now doubles up as a waterlogged submarine to play in, or else an unnecessary doghouse, or a sleeping person whose epic return from the pub was tragically thwarted by an obstinate front door which insisted on opening only to the Chosen Key.

   As you walk, there's occasionally a small shop or supermarket – modernity has not yet fully reached Moaning and so candlestick maker stands beside launderette, bakery next to walking cane store – and it is in the car park of one such little supermarket that you see pigeons, teeming seemingly in their thousands, stripping the ground of discarded crisps and fizzy pop, small birds jacked up on energy drinks and pork scratching crumbs. Your approaching footsteps trigger their caffeinated anxiety, and the flock goes up in a messy riot of dusty wings and chip fragments. They circle in splattered formation, wheeling over the houses to eventually thud on roofs and sagging telephone cables, to jostle and impatiently watch, as though they've picked up a few tricks from vultures on documentaries seen through front room windows. As soon as you'll leave, they'll re-descend to finish off their breakfast of off-brand cola and floor-presented fish batter. You walk in the five o'clock shadow of the regional chain supermarket (“new location in Small Burbridge coming next year!” a sign outside reads), its face orthodontically wired in graffitied white shutters; by day its grubbish entrance welcomes a revolving cast of shoplifters, exhausted parents, exhausting children, bored teenagers and money-shriven shoppers who are jealous of the audaciousness of the shoplifters but too meek or law-conscious to cross the picket line and tuck a thirty-two-bag family-intended compilation of crisps (several flavours: Salted Salt, Salty Vinegar, Salt and Onion, Salt And Salt, Salty Salt Again, Salt and Salt Again, and Plain) under their jackets to claim pregnancy of very rustly twins. “Scab!” protesting thieves yell at those who belittle their community by handing over coins for their hardly earned purchases. “You should be ashamed!”

   Outside the shop, a man sits in the driver's seat of his car, having decided that it was too difficult to successfully do his commute from the more luxurious choice of the back seat. He rubs his face with the weariness that only twenty-seven years doing the same thing for a living can bring. A job for life, he once reasoned, was supposed to be a good thing, a measure of financial security. But know he knows the difference between a job for life and a job for a lifetime, and today he feels the weight and age of it as a judicial sentence.

   It can be easy to think that places like Moaning are where ambition comes to die, and for the majority of its inhabitants, it marks only an insignificant blob on the map that defines the microscopic distance travelled between places of birth and death. When they gratefully collapse into Death's sticky embrace, some can boast, or at least mention, that their deathbed window is within sight of the very room in which they entered this world; Moaning becomes nothing but the dullest of carousels, alighted and rotated for but a minute, a short lifetime, taking in the sights of youth and adulthood and middle age and old age, before stepping off with nothing to show for themselves but the memories of light and sound. “I want to go again,” they may say, but Death, attendant of life's carnival, merely shakes its head and explains that their coupon is only valid for a one-time entry.

   There's almost a perverse pride that people in Moaning cradle, celebrating the tiny exodus from Saint Hopeful's Hospital on Smallot Street to lifelong home on Meek Avenue to soft grave in Knackered Meadows Cemetery. All that the light touches, my son, will one day be yours. But it's looking pretty overcast so I wouldn't get your hopes up.

   So the supermarket manager sits in his car and thinks about what it's all for. Maybe he once dreamed of being a lion tamer, or lion torturer, or porn star, or supermarket regional manager, or professional yoghurt interpreter, or politician, or worm, but he has his bed, made consistently for twenty-seven years, and all he has to show for it is a slightly superior tog of duvet. That, and a delightful wife and two brilliant children, all of whom he adores and is immensely proud, but he isn't about to let something as ordinary as marital bliss and a perfect legacy ruin his carefully constructed bad mood. He's spent almost three decades honing a foul temper for the daily audience of his employees.

   He was born and raised here (in Moaning, not the supermarket itself – they haven't allowed births in there since they lost an entire shipment of frozen peas to the unexpectedly early arrival of Mrs Ferris's twins, one of whom now works in the very same supermarket and is an average member of staff, the other of whom does very little but smoke weed, masturbate to animated cartoon pornography and harass the park's pigeon community) and so he knows what is expected of him: you cannot be seen to be happy in Moaning. It just smacks of showing off, like going to university, or reading a newspaper that has adjectives, or putting a wedge of lime in a larger. Even if people are happy, visual confirmation or verbal admission is the social equivalent of stepping on someone's foot at a funeral to stop their whole 'wah wah wah who would do this to a five year-old' shtick: it's just not polite to do.

   Life in Moaning is to be met with a stiff upper lip, a lip that is ready to converse about the weather and miniscule complaints, grumbles worn as badges of honour. Any life that is seen to be too wholesome or interesting or fulfilling is a sure sign of deceit, guilt, stupidity, homosexuality, Communism, or vegetarianism, all of which are forbidden – not by law, but by unspoken agreement – in Moaning.

[mockmade]

ONE: my blood is singing with your voice, i want to pour it out post-hotel california Abaddon & Cassiel

It’s the closest she’s felt to tears in a long, long while; Abaddon has lived many bitter and tragic eons -- both alone and with a little fleeting, fluttering thing of companionship. It’s a strange feeling, sitting up on the blank floor, her weeping shoulders staining the walls red, the back of her prison jumpsuit torn from where her wings ripped clear through the fabric, the open doorway seemingly miles away.

Gabriel’s just left, looking shaken -- Abaddon would feel smug if she weren’t so completely hollowed out.

Someone should’ve told her that revenge is empty as a pursuit, just a momentary satisfaction before you realize it didn’t solve anything. Her wings lie in front of her, limp and lank, the raven-black feathers losing their luster, soaking in that pool of blood.

She’s never felt so utterly humiliated, so debased and desperate; in a better state of mind, she’d cherish this strange sense of mortality, dissect it with weaponized curiosity and commit it to memory -- it’s everything she’s ever wanted, right? A taste of her vulnerability? The sense that she has something to lose?

She wants to sit in that room forever, but it’s lost its luster as well -- those clinical walls have failed to retain their magic; her blood stains the walls and fails to be absorbed into them, a breeze beckons from the doorway, so she gets up stiffly and forces a laugh every single step she takes.

There’s a faint echo of Lucifer’s voice as she walks toward the door; another of Samyaza’s beckon as she crosses the threshold of the door. She doesn’t look back, because she knows she will see her wings lying there, because the stiff pain of her shoulders isn’t quite enough to push her to tears, but the visual reminder will be. She doesn’t know how she gets into the lobby, but she seeks Kiara out immediately, Kiara who looks bored and unruffled and like a dainty piece of heaven amongst every other sad thing around them.

Abaddon wonders if there’s still a little bit of her coworker left in her, because she just brings her home with minimal teasing, leaves her apathetically to lick her own wounds.

She doesn’t know what possesses her to call Cassiel.

Actually, she does.

She wants to prove to herself some kind of hurt: she watched Lucifer turn his back on her, she endured the stripping of her divinity, she all but begged some ancient apocalyptic being to bring her home. The bruise is there and she wants to sink her fingers in and check how deep the bleeding goes, how much darker it can get, how many more relationships she can snap in as many minutes.

Is it minutes or days or weeks?

Timeless beings have no sense of time.

They meet her outside of White Lies, at the waning of the witching hours, right after her shift has ended.

Her resolve wavers when she comes face to face with them, moonlight glancing off the arch of their cheekbones, tracing over the long, clean lines of their neck and the careful neutrality of their demeanor -- it’s been a relationship she’s coveted through all the years, and she’s not sure she can let go of it, but the scabs beside her shoulder blades feel oppressive and propel her to it.

She smiles -- she’s so accustomed to the motion that it doesn’t even show she’s faking. She says something about Belial, about history, about them; she’s not actually sure what she says, but that seems to be the theme of this century.

Cassiel throws a punch because it was some true vitriol that she just managed; Cassiel throws a punch because they expect her to dodge -- they do it because it’s just another logical step in the dance that Abaddon keeps up.

She doesn’t dodge. She doesn’t have the physical ability to dodge it at the speed it comes for her with, now that she’s been stripped of her wings, and even if she did, she wouldn’t have.

She wants to feel every step of this separation, the prying pain of ripping Cassiel from herself.

The force of it causes her to stagger back, but she laughs.

She doesn’t attempt to hit back. She’s not here to try and hurt them.

The second punch is natural, instinctive, rhythmic -- they probably already had prepared it before the first even landed, and her teeth split the inside of her cheek. She spits the blood from her mouth -- it’s bitter and black and metallic and red; huh, so not all of her is completely infected and rotting just yet. It glints in the moonlight; it’s morbidly pretty.

She says something she doesn’t mean about the French Revolution, because that’s the crowning glory of their entire relationship -- whatever it is -- up until now. She says it because she craves the next punch like a high she’s forgotten about, like the smoke of opium dens in old London.

It blends with the fourth hit, because Cassiel is most beautiful in their own tempo, a vicious tango she’s not complying with -- they play their part, she refuses to step to it. She slams into the brick wall from the sheer force and stumbles until she falls and splits the healing wound on her back, burning like a brand on her skin.

She goads them on, because it’s what she was created for. She shoves them back when they come to investigate, snarling, nails glancing across their skin. She stands, swaying, goading. She goads them on until the blood shows on her back and she continues crooning her cruelties.

The scream she lets out at the next hit rips at the back of her throat, when she slides down the bricks and tears up the length of her wounds.

She’s done here, and she says as much; ignores whatever frustration and hurt and confusion and anger -- whatever it is -- is directed to her; her empathy is a little broken and fractured, sue her, and she limps away, back turned as she plans to struggle back to her apartment, equal parts gleeful and heartbroken. Only she forgets the red lines on her uniform that betray the loss of her divinity, and she forgets that they don’t ever miss a beat when it comes to her.

“What happened to your wings?”

It’s the first real thing she’s heard out of them.

“Don’t worry,” she says, coughing up and spitting the welling blood in her mouth. “It’s nothing, it’s a joke,” she says, dry, crackling laughter pulling at her throat.

She thinks she hears them murmur a profanity under their breath, but it’s covered up by the deep breath she takes to steady herself, before her legs give out and she falls.

She’s tired. She just wants to sleep; and as always, there’s a portion of her that craves Cassiel’s reaction and concern, so she rolls over and laughs a wisp of her good humor up to the stars and moon, pressing her shoulder into the gravel so she can surpass even her pain limit and pass out. She sees their face hovering over her own, blurring, the starlight acting as a halo for them in the absence of one in this mortal world.

It’s a good last image to end on, she figures, an image she can remember them by, bitterly and wistfully, she thinks.

Or so she thinks until she wakes, not in her apartment.

Adhesive shifts as she does, and she freezes -- her back is bandaged, she’s in a shirt that doesn’t belong to her, lying on a couch she doesn’t recognize.

Cassiel has to have been monitoring her very closely, because they hear her shift, hear her breathing change, and are looking down at her as she lies there, processing.

Maybe they expect a jibe at being in their apartment, maybe they expect a thanks, maybe they expect nothing at all.

“Why the fuck are you still here?” she cries angrily, instead, because she’s used to succeeding at everything she attempts, even if it’s self-destruction.

They frown, because it’s not customary to swear at your caretaker, but nothing about Abaddon is remotely customary, anyway.

She gets up: her ribs ache in protest, her back burns as it shifts against the soft bandages, but she gets up all the same.

She throws a weak punch. It barely even stirs Cassiel, and that makes her angrier. She keeps going, until she’s just pressed up against them and knocking, pounding, her fist insistently on their stolid frame, vaguely melancholic in their easy acceptance of it. She goes until her arm aches and her back aches and her lungs and heart and-

She cries, shoving off of them and going to curl up in their couch, shame burning high and hard in her cheeks for the first time in her life. She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes in a futile attempt to stem the tears, presses in hard, until the world flashes warped neon.

“Why are you still here?” Abaddon asks, more serious than she has been in a long time. “No one stays,” she states, devoid of any sort of embellishment and emotion, sounding wholly unlike herself. “So why are you? Why can’t you just leave? Let me end it on my own terms. Aren’t angels supposed to be about compassion? Can’t you just give me this one mercy?

“Aren’t angels supposed to be kind?” She cries. “Couldn’t you just let me push you away so I don’t get to thinking that you’ll stay? What do you think you’re achieving here? Do you think this is some kind of kindness? Because let me tell you, it’s not. If you’d just left after that fucking fight, I could comfort myself knowing that you left because I made it so you had no option not to. If you had just left, I would’ve known that it was because I wanted it -- but now- now, I have to face the fact that the next time you leave for real, it’ll be because you tire of me, or you don’t want me. It won’t be because of something I did, it’ll be because of me.

“Couldn’t you have let me have the peaceful end to us, instead of planting some sort of sick hope you’ll always stay for me so that you can rip it out later?

“I’m dying -- of sin, of despair, of rot, of voracitosis, of whatever you want to call it; couldn’t you let me die with one last shred of dignity to my name? Everyone’s taken everything else away from me already; my titles, my divinity, my bottomless pride. What do you want? What are you trying to do here?”

For all that she monologues, it doesn’t actually matter.

The damage is done.

She’s back to hoping that they’ll be the one to stay, like a broken, starved dog licking up at the first kind hand it’s seen.

She wonders if that’ll be what kills her instead of the infection in her blood, instead of the coming end of the world.

Well, she knows it will be, but she wonders if Cassiel has the capacity for that kind of cruelty, to strike her down after so many close calls over the eons, to exploit the one hope she allows herself to have. Maybe that makes her as vapid and shallow as others think her to be, letting hope creep into her heart, as if creatures of despair will ever know anything besides the dark. She’s known since she wormed an insidious brand of arrogance into the war torn corners of Samyaza’s mind, that he could challenge Lucifer, and betrayed him at the last moment, standing beside her father, breaking his confidence as the first fatal blow: she’s known she’ll be her own end, her own betrayal.

She just didn’t know that she’d use Cassiel to send herself back to from whence she came; to banish herself back into ether, back into cognition and thought, alive until the last thought of her faded from their mind -- guaranteed they would be the last to use her name, to remember her, perhaps bitterly, perhaps fondly.

Death would come for her twice: once as she expires of her own machinations and chaos, eventually, then once again as her memory is recalled for the last time, at Cassiel’s whim -- which are law to her, but nothing to them.

It’s cruel, but it’ll be true to how she lived, she supposes -- always at their mercy; she wonders if they know it too, watching her wretched misery at their feet.

[jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets]

In My Dreams : Chapter 1

HeeeeeY!! So I have decided to let the kpop loving side of me free and unleash one of my (many) kpop fanifcs! This one has been well liked on AFF so I hope you guys like it too!! ^^ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Description: Junhong lead a hard life. Taken in by his abusive acoholic Aunt and Uncle after a tragic accident that lead to his parents death was only just the beginning of his pain. He never fit in at school, bullying had become a daily routine, and being openly gay in a closed minded town didn’t exactly help his current social situation. Junhong lived most of his life with his head down praying that invisibility be his friend. But in the flash of a moment everything changed. Finding himself somehow transported to a foreign land he’s given a second chance at life. A chance to make new friends, new relationships, a brand new beginning he thought he would never have. But it will not be without its ups and downs, the biggest hardship being the handsome face in his new group of friends. In the end Junhong will have to make the biggest decision of his life, does he return to everything he knows to be with his family like he’s expected, or will he stay in this strange new land and give up everything for love?

Pairings: Banglo, Daejong, Himjae

Rating: M (SMUT INVOLVED!!!)

Characters: Yongguk, Zelo, Himchan, Daehyun, Jongup, Youngjae, Oc’s

Master List

Hop you all enjoy!! ^^

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Chapter 1: First Glimpse

      “Junhong, can you grab table five please?”

    A bubblegum pink head turned and nodded to the dark haired lady who spoke. Glancing at the clock he sighed as he realized it was only 7:45 and he still had two hours of his shift left. Working at the diner wasn’t so bad, being a waiter was definitely not his dream job but at the end of the day all Junhong cared about was a pay check.     

    He decided not to look at the clock again as he pushed through the swinging door, taking his pen and notepad from his pocket, and arrived at table five. Without looking up from his paper he said, “Hello, my name is Junhong what can I get for you?”

    “Well if it isn’t our lovely little Junnie! But, Junnie, where is your dress and high heels? You’ll never get any boys dressed like that.” The boy’s heart sank right through his stomach. He knew that voice, knew that sadistic tone, the voice of the boy who made his life at school a living nightmare.

    Junhong took a deep breath in, calming his shaking nerves, “I might be gay, Chun Hee, but that doesn’t mean I have to dress like a girl for your amusement.”

    The three boys sitting at the table laughed but Junhong just closed his eyes and drowned them out with his thoughts. Chun Hee and his two followers, Jae Hwa and Kyubok. The three biggest douche bags in school, the only three people in fact who made sure that everyone knew everyday that Junhong was gay, and the only three who tortured him on a daily basis.

    School sucked for poor Junhong, if it wasn’t those three making a mockery of him it was everything else combined. Being gay was not something the kids in his school widely accepted and because of it he had no friends. The girls made sure to stay far away from him and the boys refused to talk to him because they were afraid of being labelled as gay by association. Not only was that a huge issue but Junhong's terrible home life did not make things any easier.

    When Junhong was three his parents died in a horrible car accident, leaving him to be raised by his only remaining family, his mothers alcoholic sister and her alcoholic husband. They resented Junhong from the moment he was placed in their care for you see, having a child to care for meant having responsibilities, something they never had and never wanted and the moment Junhong could take care of himself old habits returned. Late night parties for his guardians ended in sleepless nights for a young Junhong, some of them leaving a beaten and battered eleven year old whimpering in the dark corner of the closet deep into the night. The bruises that littered his too perfect skin scared the other kids away, eventually he got good at hiding them so teachers would stop asking questions and he could stop blaming them on his own clumsiness.

    Things began to change for the better when Junhong turned 15. His next door neighbour, Mee Yon, opened an 80’s style dinner just minutes from his home and offered him a job as a waiter after school. And quite honestly the diner was the only thing that kept him going. It paid for groceries that his Aunt and Uncle never bought, bills they never paid for, and what little was left he saved for school. When he graduated he planned on finding the furthest school away from his guardians, away from Chun Hee and his minions, and never looking back. That’s why he spent nearly every night after school working until ten at the dinner, every little bit brought him that much closer to his escape.

    After about twenty minutes of gay jokes he finally managed to get an order out of them and swept back through the swinging door into the kitchen. “Table fives order, Won Ho.”

    The head chef took the order from him and placed it on the counter, giving him a stern look as the dark haired lady from earlier took Junhong by the arm. “Junhong, why do you let those boys say such things to you?”

    Junhong turned to face his neighbour. His eyes were fixed on the floor in front of him as he answered, “Mee Yon Noona, I have given up trying to fight them and it wont be long until I graduate and I can go far away from them and everyone like them. But no matter what they say I am not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing that it bothers me. If I do then they win.”

    Mee Yon pulled him in for a squeeze, “that’s my boy,” she whispered into his pink wavy hair before placing a kiss on his cheek.

    Once Chun Hee and the other two left the rest of Junhong’s shift flew by. Soon enough he found himself at home, walking through the same pile of greasy take out containers littering the coffee table, the same maze of beer bottles from one end of the living room to the other, and the same empty house. Hoping that this meant his aunt and uncle would be out partying till all hours of the morning and he could get some real sleep he hurried up the stairs to his room. Junhong didn’t even bother with homework or changing out of his uniform and jumped right into bed, falling asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

***********

    “Please…help me,” a deep raspy voice called out, “I need you to help me.”

    Junhong found himself surrounded in complete darkness, so thick he could almost feel it squishing him from all sides. The voice, a mans voice, came calling out but he couldn’t tell from where. He tried his hardest to search, to reach out and find them, but there was nothing.

    “Where are you?” he called out, “what's wrong?”

    He could feel the surrounding darkness getting deeper as the voice began fading away with every word, “you have to save him, before its too late…he needs you.”

    “Save who?” He cried into the void, “who are you!?”

    “Save him,” came the last words from the voice in the darkness.

    “Come back,” Junhong screamed as loud as his lungs could manage. He ran hard, searching every inch, pushing through the dark but still he found no one. Whoever he was he was gone.

    Junhong woke with a start at the piercing ring of his alarm clock. He sat up and realized he was covered in sweat and panting as if he had just run a marathon. This wasn’t the first time Junhong had woke in such a state, actually this was the fourth time this week. It was the same dream every time, the same voice, and it was coming more and more frequently now. But no matter how many times he had this dream he could never find out who was speaking and who they wanted him to save.

    His mind lingered on the dream as he shuffled around his room getting himself ready for school. He showered, changed, and took up his bag that had been lazily thrown in a corner the night before. Slowly, he padded down stairs, careful not to wake the drunks passed out carelessly over various pieces of furniture and out the front door. His walk to school was a cold one but he paid no attention to that for all he could think about was the voice from the dream.

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Ok! Chapter 1!!! Let me know what you think ^^

[kdinthecity]

Confessions of a Teenage Sugar Queen: Soulmates

Zuko retrieves his laptop bag from his room and heads for the kitchen table. I linger in the hallway, trying to focus long enough to make sense of his mom’s article, but the words are blurring together.

Damn you, tears.

I take a minute to collect myself before joining Zuko in the kitchen. He fishes something out of his pocket and places it on the table while he types in his login password. It’s a tube of chapstick, and I would be lying if I said I haven’t noticed that slight bulge in his pants before. He must carry it with him all the time.

I’m so wrecked. If I don’t kiss Zuko soon, I might die of thirst. I don’t like the taste of his particular brand of chapstick, though.

I figure this moment is yet another lost opportunity when he snaps the cap off, but it isn’t chapstick at all.

It’s a USB drive. Oh, yeah. He was going to show me something. Right.

When it loads, I can’t help but say the name out loud, “Ursa.”

“These are my mother’s files I found on my father’s—“ Zuko presses his lips together like he always does when he’s said too much. His hand is shaking when he double clicks on the disk icon.

I read through the folders, silently this time. “Anthology… Articles… ENG101... ENG110… Grades… Lectures… Notes… Painted Lady…”

“What’s in the Painted Lady folder?” I ask, ignoring the lump that has formed in my throat.

“I can’t open it. I’ve read through everything else on this disk, but that folder is password protected.”

There is only one other folder, “Pictures,” and it piques my curiosity. “What’s in there?” I point at the screen.

A deep sadness passes over his face, making the scar seem more pronounced than ever. He obliges and opens the folder to reveal one single image entitled “Beach.” It’s an artfully composed silhouette of a woman and a child walking along the beach at sunset. I can only assume it is Ursa and Zuko, but the figures are too shadowy to tell.

“That’s it?” Surely he has more photos of his mother somewhere.

“There were at least a hundred photos in that file. But that’s when the data transfer was interrupted. That’s when… I got caught.”

This is the story of the scar. I just know it. But I have no idea what to say next.

I don’t get a chance before he redirects. “Katara, I’ve tried every password I can think of to open this file—my name, Azula’s name, our birthdays, Mom’s nicknames for us, and all of that in every combination. I was wondering… what if the file came from your mom? What if… do you know of a password she might use?”

It is too much. I am suddenly my nine-year-old self sorting through a box of Mom’s stuff that Dad has refused to touch since she died. All I ever wanted was something like this—a collection of her writing, notes, and pictures. Instead, all that came back from the coroner was assorted jewelry, cosmetics, and other typical items from a woman’s handbag.

“Katara? Are you OK?” Zuko breaks through my reverie.

No, I’m not. I can’t do this right now. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

His shoulders drop in disappointment, but when our eyes meet, we come to a silent understanding. It’s the tide pool scene all over again but with our roles reversed. The impact of the triggered memory hits me hard, and it is easier to choose distance and distraction over the pain of pushing through it. I no longer blame Zuko for his reaction that day.

I also acknowledge that he did try to talk about it. And neither of us has to bear our burden alone. We have each other.

I tell myself that only this moment is lost, not everything—not yet. And then I leave.

I refuse dinner and hull up in my room. I can’t exactly describe what I’m feeling—confused, yes, and maybe a little angry. Or perhaps I’m just jealous that Zuko somehow ended up with access to my mother’s work when all I’ve ever gotten is my father’s gruff response, “Katara, just let it go.”

I’ve read all of her articles in back issues of The Modern Times, of course. Gran Gran secretly gifted me with an online subscription last year. Dad makes comments like, “It’s old news anyway, so we need to focus on moving forward.” Sokka says that Mom’s writing will probably always represent suffering and loss for our family.

Sometimes when I feel… like I don’t know what to feel, that is when I write. But that hardly seems like a therapeutic option right now given the circumstances, so I decide to watch Netflix instead. I really should catch up on Crossroads of Destiny because the new season starts later this month. I don’t want to miss out on Uncle Iroh’s premiere party.

When did I start referring to him as Uncle?

This episode is about Phaethon, son of Helios, the sun god. As his tragic story unfolds, I wonder if this is the plotline Zuko had confused with Icarus. The boy certainly tries to prove himself to his father and to the world, but only brings fire and destruction, eventually falling from his chariot in the sky to his untimely death. I can’t handle the images of scorched landscapes and dried-up riverbeds in my fragile state, but before I turn off the show, the earth goddess says something that strikes me.

“Help us, great Zeus! Is this the end of earth? Even the heavens are burning. The past turns to ashes, and the future is fire!”

The future is fire—the slogan for Ozai’s company. I don’t even know what Future Fire Technology does, despite Azula’s constant bragging. She asserts it’s the “way of the future,” whatever it is. So, I look it up on my phone. They make virtual reality components such as headsets, gloves, and even a full exoskeleton for an “immersive experience.” The website is vague on what their products are actually used for, though.

I regret leaving Zuko. I should have tried to help him with the password instead of freaking out. Our mothers are obviously connected somehow, and he put himself at risk just to get those files. Mom took all kinds of risks to get information in her line of work. I never wanted to be a journalist, but I do want to be like her.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m pulling the box of her things out of my closet. I used to look through it nearly every day, but I haven’t now for a few years. I wipe the dust from the lid and carefully lift it to reveal an odd collection of treasures. I hold up a pair of pearl earrings, and a shaky sound escapes my lips, almost like laughter, but not. I remember begging Dad to let me pierce my ears so I could wear them. He said I had to wait until I turn 16. Here I am, almost 16, and I don’t really care about that anymore.

Next, I run the pad of my thumb over a necklace I had also hoped to wear someday. The pendant has a wave carved out of whalebone, attached to a blue velvet ribbon. Dad gave it to Mom when they got married, and I’ve always figured it would be too painful for him to see it again. Maybe I could ask him.

Maybe I could ask him if he knows Mom’s password, too. I will have to explain that I’ve found a file of hers, and he might not like that. I understand if he doesn’t want to dwell on the past, but surely he doesn’t want to forget everything?

Finally, I pull out a tube of bright red lipstick, and this is when I lose it. It was her “power paint,” she called it. When I pretended to be a warrior princess as a young girl, she would paint the Aleut symbols on my face and tell me stories of our people.

“Katara, are you OK, dear?” Gran Gran calls from the doorway.

I sniff and wipe my face with Zuko’s sweatshirt. Yes, I still have it. “I-I-I’m fine, Gran Gran.”

“Can I make you some chamomile tea? Or run you a relaxing lavender jasmine bubble bath? You’ve been working so hard lately.”

“No thanks. I’ll just… go to bed early, I think.”

“OK, dear. Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Gran Gran.”

“Oh… and Katara? Your mother would be very proud you.”

I wait until she leaves before fully releasing the tears I’ve been holding back. I suppose a good cry is long overdue. I throw myself on the bed with Zuko’s sweatshirt balled up like a pillow. I don’t realize that I’m still clutching the lipstick. The cap pops off which means I’m probably making a huge mess on my sheets, but I don’t care. Besides, I’m a laundry expert. Mom even used to call me Moonpeach.

I wake up the next morning drowsy and disoriented. Strands of my hair are stuck to my face and my throat is raw—this is why I hate crying. I stand up and brush the wrinkles out of yesterday’s clothes. Mom’s lipstick falls to the floor with a clank, and I say out load to no one in particular, “OK, I’m awake, I’m awake!”

I groan when I look at my phone. Zuko will be here in thirty minutes to pick me up. I scoop up his sweatshirt and laugh. At this rate, he’s never getting it back. I give it a squeeze, a pathetic part of my morning ritual these days. As I scan the room for my shoes, a glint of silver catches my eye.

No. Fucking. Way.

Mom’s lipstick is a USB drive, too. All this time I never knew.

I am cursing our old school computer for how long it takes to boot up. My stomach churns so violently with nerves that I consider calling in sick today. I even taste bile in the back of my throat when the icon “Kya” shows up on the screen.

I don’t know where to start. The “Pictures” folder? There is one called “Fiction,” too. Did my mom write stories like I do? There is also “Case Files,” and that one scares me a little. My hand hovers over the mouse, paralyzed by indecision.

Then, I see it. “Blue Spirit.”

And after years of wishing I had all the rest of these files and only weeks of knowing Zuko, that is the folder I decide to click on first.

Of course. Its contents are encrypted and require a password.

“Zuko is here, dear!” Gran Gran calls from the entryway.

Shit. I can’t process any of this, so I quickly eject the disk and secure it in the zippered part of my bag. I haven’t even changed clothes, but at least I’m in uniform, so it’ll have to do. Both Gran Gran and Zuko eye my disheveled appearance with some concern, but I simply brush past them and head toward Zuko’s car.

I don’t talk to Zuko right away, and he respectfully heeds the silence. He probably thinks I still need my space after yesterday which is partially true. I’m actually dying to tell him what I found, but I’m also reeling from it. His mom has one of my mom’s files, and my mom has one of his mom’s files. What does this mean?

After I fix my hair into my usual braid for the day, I text Dad to ask him if he knows Mom’s password. He confirms what I already suspect—that it should be derived from my name, nickname, or birthday just like Zuko suggested.

I cast a sideways glance at Zuko who unsurprisingly has a death grip on the steering wheel and laser focus on the road. He always does that when there is something left unspoken between us. Is he this easy to read to everyone… or just me?

“Hey Zuko?”

Predictably, he lets out a huge sigh of relief since I finally broke the tension. “Yeah?”

“Can you come over after work today?” I ask.

“Sure.” He stares straight ahead, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

I look down at his lap to confirm he still has the chapstick in his pocket. No, I am not ashamed of this in the least. “Great. And can you bring your laptop?”

He tilts his head in my direction and nods, but I don’t acknowledge this because I am still groping him with my eyes. OK, I may have a problem.

My problem is that I’m a fucking waterworks these days. I cannot stop crying! The bus driver keeps looking at me like I’m a dam about to bust.

Depending on the outcome of Zuko’s little meeting, I’m gonna bust someone’s ass for sure.

I can’t believe he’d agree to go meet with his sister! Ever since I connected the mysterious Ursa files with Zuko’s scar, I don’t trust the Kasai family at all. Except for Iroh, of course. Wow, how did the apple fall so far from the tree? In my Google search last night, I read an article about corruption within the company when it was an arms dealer under Zuko’s grandfather, Azulon.

Zuko says he will call me later. I text back that he should just come over. To pass the time, I read through a few of my mom’s short stories. Hers are not fantasy like mine, though. More like melodrama… and more than I can take right now. I pace between the kitchen and living room. Gran Gran gives me worried looks. I imagine Azula stabbing Zuko with skewers, and Ozai using him as a punching bag. I cry some more. I double check the freezer to make sure we have icepacks. Of course we do. Sokka lives here after all.

Dammit. I even miss Sokka, the big oaf. When we were younger, I had a stuffed penguin, and he had a stuffed otter. If I were crying at night because I missed Mom, he would put on a show to cheer me up—The Adventures of Otter Penguin!

I’m in the middle of composing a text to Sokka, complete with otter and penguin emojis, when Zuko calls.

“Hey, sorry it’s so late.” He sounds very tired.

“Are you OK?” I sound very motherly.

“Um, yeah. Mostly.”

Hmm, not the answer I wanted to hear. “What did Azula want?” I growl.

“She offered me a job at Future Fire. She said things were… how did she put it? Heating up. She could use the help… or something like that.”

Oh no. “Did you—“

“No, Katara.”

“OK, good.”

“It’s not good. I told her I’m happy at the Marine Center, but Azula doesn’t want me to be happy. I told her I’m already doing what Dad wants, but if she thinks I have his favor for any reason, she’ll fix that. She’ll report some bullshit story back to him. He’ll come by the Marine Center to check up on me. I’m so fucked.”

I can’t stand how defeated he sounds, so I deftly change the subject. “Hey, about that password…”

“Yeah? Did you think of something?” His tone changes completely—thankfully.

“Well, you could try Katara082800 or maybe KataraAugust2000 or something with my name and birthday which is August 28, 2000.”

“OK. Just a minute.”

Soon I hear his furious typing in the background. “No luck.”

“You could try Sokka’s, too. His birthday is September 6, 1998.”

I wait for what seems like forever. His frustration mounts with the continuous beating of the delete key.

“What about a nickname, Katara?”

I was afraid he’d ask this. “Don’t laugh, OK?”

“I won’t.”

“It’s… Moonpeach.”

A pause.

“Shit. Holy shit. Katara! That’s it!”

The silence that follows is deafening.

“Zuko?”

“Sorry.”

“Is it… stuff from my mom? In the file.” Because, dude, I’m dying over here.

“It’s uhhh—“

I have an epiphany. “Zuko, what’s your nickname?”

“What?”

“What. Is. Your. Nickname?”

“Oh, umm. Turtleduck.”

“Turtleduck?” I laugh but only because it sounds like a creature that would fit perfectly in my fictional world.

“Hey, I didn’t laugh at yours!” he whines. “It’s because I loved that Christmas song when I was a kid but called it a turtleduck instead of a turtledove, OK?”

I’m half-listening because I just typed “turtleduck” for the password, and the “Blue Spirit” file on my mom’s disk is now accessible.

Seriously, what does this mean?

“Zuko, if I can access my mom’s files with your mom’s password, and you can access your mom’s files with my mom’s password, do you think… were we supposed to find this together?”

Were we supposed to find each other?

Zuko doesn’t answer.

We should be doing this together.

“Zuko, can you come over?”

“I… I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“What? I think… it was meant to be! How else would you explain it?”

“It could just be a coincidence. Maybe they used each others’ passwords to ensure no one would find out ever. Maybe we’re not supposed to know any of this.”

I don’t know what this is because I haven’t read anything, yet. I realize I want him here with me because I’m scared.

“Zuko, please…”

“Even if our moms wanted us to know, my father absolutely doesn’t. It’s too… dangerous. I shouldn’t… you should stay away from me.”

Another epiphany.

“Zuko, did your dad hit you because of me?”

“No! It was… I broke curfew.”

“You’re lying.”

Zuko lets out a noise of frustration, something I’ve never heard him do before. “ARRRRRRGGGGHHH. He just said it was a reminder. To not dishonor the family. He’s a fucking psychopath, Katara. Just let it go.”

I hate that everyone keeps saying that!

“No! I think… Ozai knew that our mothers were working on something together. Something big. A scandal perhaps… maybe it involved your father. So when he found out you were seeing me, he forbade it. And then beat you as a reminder.”

“Katara, have you read any of your mom’s files, yet?”

“No.”

“OK, so read them. And we’ll talk in the morning.”

Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 | Chpt. 5