#though I suppose it’s more accurate to say they’ve been flowing in a different direction

[kc5rings]

I gotta write something for muzzle Monday again soon but man have the juices have just not been flowing as of late

[some-kindofgnome]

these violent delights, pt. i

In an immersive theme park where cutting-edge technology makes your wildest dreams come true, the line between fantasy and reality begins to blur. enter westworld, where artificially intelligent automatons known as ‘hosts’ are programmed to fulfill your every delight.

(westworld AU, eventual host!dabi x reader, host!keigo takami x reader, eventual shouto todoroki x f!reader)

part one | part two | part three

featuring: hanta sero, denki kaminari, katsuki bakugou, momo yaoyozoru, eijirou kirishima

part one: you prepare to enter the park for the bachelorette party your bridesmaids wanted. meanwhile, westworld’s capable employees prepare to roll out the latest programming update.

wc: 8.7k

pt. i warnings: smut (18+!), sci-fi dystopia, artificial intelligence, medical/surgical procedures, body modification. gun violence, robbery, kidnapping, drinking, death, no beta we die like teddy

notes: this is part one of my entry for The Smut Pile’s Western Collab! this is my very first server collab and I am so thrilled to be kicking it off with this plot monster. this is the first of three parts- it leans a little heavy on the world building, so stay tuned for parts two and three. the action dials up from here, promise! i’m excited to be putting out one of my first plot-heavy stories on this blog!

please note: part one borrows several events from season one, episodes one and two of the series. the story will branch off in its own direction in parts two and three. you do not need to be familiar with Westworld to enjoy this fic- so please give it a try! 💖

(MASTERLIST)

“This doesn’t feel right.”

Livestock Management technician Hanta Sero drifts idly from tool cart to operating table with his raven hair pulled back. He’s clad in a protective latex apron and gloves, approaching the table with a blowtorch in one hand and a long, slim pair of forceps in the other.

“That’s what it says here.” Denki Kaminari stands across the black-tiled room, his back reflected in the glass walls of the operating facility. He scrolls mindfully through a folding datapad with a crease of deep concentration in his golden brow.

Snapping his datapad shut, he lifts his chin to find Sero’s conflicted gaze across the lab.

“The specifications were pretty precise.”

“I know what the briefing said,” Sero retorts. “I just…”

He ignites the blowtorch and takes a deep breath, letting his gaze over slowly over the pale, unmarked flesh of the body stretched out on the table in front of him.

“What?” Kaminari takes in the sight before him. He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh. Well-“

He gets up from his stool, tugging his gloves back over his shirtsleeves and crossing the room toward Sero and the body in question. He picks up a scalpel, making a clean little cut just below the subject’s left nipple without any hesitation.

“Dude, stop!” Sero reaches with the hand still clutching his forceps, blanching as a thin well of blood trickles onto pristine flesh.

“He’s offline,” Denki chuckles. “He can’t feel a thing. You’ve patched these guys up a thousand times, Sero. What’s the problem?”

“I dunno,” Sero muses, drawing the back of one glove nervously over his temple. “I dunno. I think they’re starting to get too real. It’s messing with me.” He shoots Denki a weak chuckle and shakes his head.

“What do they need this guy all burned up for, anyway?”

“Momo told me he’s for the new narrative,” Denki replies, puzzling over the red hair and immaculate pale skin of their unsuspecting victim. “Some kind of grizzly new villain who’s supposed to stir up trouble.”

“Better make him extra fucked up, then.” The blowtorch, extinguished in Sero’s panic, is ignited again, but he’s still hesitating.

“Hey,” Denki prompts. “Why don’t we start with the system update? That’ll kill some time. And then- hey.” He reaches across the tool cart, grabbing for the bottle of black hair dye that came with the host’s modification kit. He shakes it in Sero’s face, letting a smug grin cross his features.

“I’ll do the carpet if you do the drapes.”

Sero and Denki find their rhythm easily enough. Before long, the tension dispels and they’re letting conversation flow smoothly between them, making weekend plans while Sero pushes polished silver staples into the now-scarred flesh of the transformed host.

“This guy’s older than he looks,” Denki quips from the tool cart, where he’s selecting an appropriately sized needle for the delicate work ahead of him. “His systems haven’t been updated in years.”

“I’ve never seen him in the park before,” Sero admits. He’s finishing the clean row of staples that trail from the corner of the host’s mouth to his ear, struggling to push the staple into the skin at the edges of his face. The sharp prongs don’t hold as well in the spots where the muscle and flesh thin to just skin stretched over bone. He looks up in frustration, shaking the spots from his concentrated gaze.

“Whoa,” he starts as he spots the way that Denki’s moved up between the host’s lean thighs. “You’re really gonna-“

“That’s what it says in the briefing,” Denki presses. He’s got the aforementioned needle in one hand and a bowl of curved barbells in the other; he’s gone a little grin about the gills, too.

“Sick fucks,” Sero snorts, shaking his head. “Doesn’t feel very historically accurate, does it?”

“Please,” Denki pushes. “If you think this has ever been about history, you’re in for a nasty surprise.”

“Christ, you wanna talk about nasty surprises,” Sero replies, blanching and averting his eyes while Denki inserts the first piercing. “Just wait’ll the guests get a look at him.”

"Bakugou's outdone himself this time," Denki agrees, brow furrowed with sympathy and panicked concentration as he unscrews the first barbell. "Those idiots won't know what hit 'em.”

“Bring yourself back online.”

Head of Programming Shouto Todoroki sits in front of the park’s newest addition, datapad spread across his lap. Sero and Denki’s work paid off; the new host is looking fiercer than ever.

Not new enough for Shouto’s tastes, though. He can still see the blue glint when “Dabi,” as his new narrative calls him, shifts into wakefulness and lets his eyes flutter open. He shoots Shouto a sinister grin but does not move from his seat.

Shouto doesn’t want to believe what they’ve done to him. He’s still nude, putting all his new modifications on brilliant display. The staples in his flesh look angry and inflamed. The scars, done perfectly to appear long-healed, still make his blood curdle.

He can’t even think about the flashes of silver that catch the light when Dabi crosses his legs.

“And who are you supposed to be?" Dabi growls an opening line that shakes Shouto more than it ought to. He sports a brand new drawl that fits the world he’ll be slotted into soon enough, but it’s too much, bouncing off the pristine glass and shiny tile beneath his bare feet.

“Lose the accent,” Shouto commands. Dabi's expression shifts a little, but he does not drop eye contact.

Shouto can’t help but wonder if they all stare like this. He hasn’t been alone with a host in a very long time. Especially not one with this kind of significance.

“Do you know where you are?” He presses, determined to push forward. The sooner he gets Dabi through analysis, the sooner he can pretend like the unsettling host doesn’t exist.

But Dabi’s voice with no drawl is even more spine-chilling.

“I am in a dream.”

“And… do you want to wake up from this dream?”

Dabi’s eyes drift away in a direction they’re not supposed to. For a moment, he casts his gaze down and to the left, letting it sweep across the edge of the room as his brow creases with terrifying subtlety.

The gesture is minuscule, almost as if he's recalling a distant memory. For a moment, Shouto can only admire its beauty.

Then he realizes it’s not supposed to be there.

“Yes,” Dabi continues, his voice soft and lilting and almost wistful. “I’m terrified.”

“Freeze all motor functions.” Shouto’s heart pounds in his chilled throat. His extremities have gone cold. But Dabi follows his instructions to the letter, freezing before he can even blink. Shouto questions why he expected any differently.

Not two minutes later, Head of Behaviour Momo Yaoyorozu ducks gracefully into Dabi’s glass prison. Shouto is still sitting exactly where he began, perched on a little rolling leather stool. Six feet away, Dabi has not moved, bare and frozen on a stool of his own.

"I got your page," Momo soothes, shutting the door quietly behind her and unfolding her datapad. The hinges go rigid when they sit flat, blending seamlessly into a broad tablet that she taps and scrolls quietly through.

“I checked his programming on the way over. There’s something new here,” she concludes. “But I don’t know who added it. Must have been one of the interns, or-“

“I know who it was,” Shou answers grimly, already scrolling meticulously through the lines of code that make up Dabi’s new personality. Momo freezes, looking up at him with cold surprise.

“You don’t think…”

“I do,” he confirms. He takes a deep breath to quell his racing heart and shoots his closest colleague a shaky look. “You’re going to want to see this.”

“Incredible,” Momo gasps a few moments later when Shouto asks Dabi the same series of questions and gets the same frightening response. He knows why it shakes him as much as it does, but it hasn’t occurred to him that someone like Momo would actually… appreciate them.

“It’s like he’s-“ she starts, then stops herself. The conclusion she’s drawn should be as impossible as it sounds. But it’s staring them both in the face.

“Like he’s remembering something.” She finishes her thought this time, and Shou clenches his jaw.

"He must have slipped the code into the update," he determines. "In the programming, he's calling them Reveries."

“Kind of poetic,” Momo muses, still admiring the way that Dabi’s eyes seem to mist as they stare into the middle-distance. “It makes him look so real.”

“The code pulls memories from his earlier programming,” Shouto continues, looking up at Momo and waiting for her to be as spooked as he is.

He’s almost frightened that she’ll be defensive. But she’s sharper than he’s given her credit for, and that revelation is enough to pull her from her stupor.

“That could cause a lot of problems,” she muses. “Especially if the loops haven’t been closed properly. They’re supposed to be wiped after every cycle, but if there are links pulling them back…”

“I know,” Shouto emphasizes. Momo straightens, planting matter-of-fact hands on matter-of-fact hips.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I can do,” he confesses, turning back to catch another blood-chilling glimpse of the all-too-familiar host. “I can’t just pull the programming out from under him. He’ll know.”

“You can’t send him into the park with it. If it’s slotted in with the update, he could spread it to the other hosts.”

Shouto pushes his datapad aside and leans forward, steepling his fingers as he sighs deeply and descends into even deeper thought.

Momo’s right. With the Reveries included, the update has potentially disastrous consequences. But that’s operating on the assumption that his father makes mistakes, which most people would confirm is simply impossible.

If he clears the programming before letting Dabi go through, however, he’ll be facing the wrath of his father.

Shou purses his lips, lacing his fingers together but leaving the pointers extended and pursing his lips against the smooth joints.

“I think we’re going to have to.”

The glossy, perfect train- the first of many you'll take today, as you're told- pulls into a station that's even whiter than the train itself. Polished white floors and perfect whitewashed columns are the first things you see out the massive panoramic windows as the cars pull to a complete stop. When the doors glide open, your maid of honour touches your sleeve as the other girls filter out of your private compartment and onto the platform.

You’re far from the only ones disembarking the train. The rest of the platform is soon crowded by immaculately-dressed guests from all over the world. They bow and shift like a flock of starlings, moving in stark contrast past the perfectly-still bodies of the white-clad staff waiting to greet them.

A tall, statuesque woman with raven hair steps forward, addressing your maid of honour by name. She gives you an apologetic wave and a see you in there before disappearing amid the writhing sea of people.

You’ve been reading up on this place for weeks, scouring pamphlets and websites and guest reviews for every detail about the induction process you can glean from public knowledge. Details of the park itself are kept very private, but you’ve learned all you can about the way you’ll be introduced to it.

This place was not your first choice for the occasion at hand, but your friends practically insisted. You know it’s for selfish reasons- it’s the only chance they’re ever going to get to see the place for themselves- but you can already think of several places you’d rather celebrate your coming nuptials.

Not exactly your typical bachelorette party fare. But your friends agreed to wear matching dresses in that shade of pale green you couldn’t stay away from, so you’re giving them this.

Before long the platform is nearly cleared. You’re just starting to make your way toward the escalator, wondering what exactly became of the host who was supposed to greet you, when a soft croon of your name over one shoulder nearly shocks you out of your sandals.

Your host has arrived, and he’s even more gorgeous than you feared. Graceful and lithe-looking, he’s clad in a pristine white suit and turtleneck that contrasts the bold flashes of his golden hair perfectly. He shoots you a smooth smile, lit by razor-sharp tawny eyes and as he turns his face to catch the light, you can see that his jaw is grazed by the barest hint of scruff- perfectly groomed, just like the rest of him.

"Hello," you greet, trying not to lose your breath. You clasp the fingers of your right hand around the ring finger on your left- the remnants of your favourite new nervous habit. You've taken to twisting your engagement ring in moments of idleness or anxiety, but for safety's sake, you've left the flashy diamond at home.

You know you’re engaged. That’s what matters most.

“Good,” the host croons. You’re getting quickly used to his honeyed brogue, strong and low and sweet as he takes your hand and drops a suave kiss to your knuckles. “I’m glad you found your way here.” He jerks his head toward the emptying escalator, eyes never leaving yours.

“Follow me.”

As you’re ascending through the polished storeys of the park’s immaculate headquarters, your attendant rattles off a long list of mundane medical questions. He’s tapping away on a datapad as he walks, and you’re sure that whatever information he’s taking down will be swept away for later use.

Finally, he brings you to a plain-looking white door. He tucks away the datapad and slips his hands into his pockets. He’s graceful and perfect- too perfect. You’re starting to suspect that he’s no ordinary employee.

“Go on,” he urges, nodding toward the door. You shoot him a sideways little glance but step forward, hooking your fingers around the polished handle and pushing it open. You step inside.

The interior of the room- or closet, as it would be better described- is lit almost exclusively by glowing strip lights hidden in the crevices of the doorway, racks of clothing, and bordering a large series of mirrors that stud each wall.

It’s the biggest walk-in closet you’ve ever seen. And it’s filled to the brim with racks of clothing, all appropriate to the vague late-19th century setting of the park.

“Everything is bespoke,” pipes your immaculate attendant as he shuts the door behind him, “and exactly your size.” Painfully, you remember being asked for your body measurements in anticipation of this visit. Did they custom-tailor everything for each guest?

Or are you being given special treatment?

“You can pick out anything you’d like,” he continues, moving toward you, “and your other clothes will be waiting for you when you’ve finished your stay.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” you muse, fingering the raspberry-coloured silk of a lavish-looking day dress.

“The clothes you choose will determine the course of your experience.”

Your attendant is right beside you now, so close that you can see the way his golden eyelashes brush his tanned cheeks. He’s leaning in to examine the silk same as you, but his shoulder pushes just a little close to be solely practical. As he grips the material between lithe fingers, he lifts his gaze to yours on purpose. There’s a charming lilt to his smile that you can’t help but admire.

He pauses, dropping the silk and turning to face you head-on. Though the smile has slipped from his features, he still eyes you with interest.

“You want to ask, don’t you?”

Your brain catches up immediately, confusion swelling and fading in the span of a heartbeat. It tightens to thick dread in your chest.

He’s right. You do.

“Are you real?” The words sound even more ridiculous in the air between you than they did in your head. But ever since you boarded the train it felt like you could never be sure. And he’s perfect. Too perfect. Even the way he takes your question seems scripted and rehearsed.

He gives a low chuckle and takes your hands, stroking smooth thumbs over the backs of your knuckles. Then he peeks up at you from beneath flawless dark lashes and flashes a hint of pearly canine as he speaks.

“If you can’t tell, does it really matter?”

You don’t need him to expand.

“Come,” he prompts gently, dropping one hand to pull open a drawer of delicate slips and shifts, sitting in neat, folded piles of undyed linen. Some are plain, others trimmed excessively with lace and ribbons. You’re drawn to the coloured ribbons immediately- pale peach, soft blue, mint green. But the brassy gold of your attendant’s eyes is even more magnetic and you can’t look away for longer than a handful of seconds.

“You know,” he continues, squeezing your fingers gently and moving back in to run his knuckles up the inside of your wrist. Every single one of his touches is delicate, fluttering like a songbird against your skin. But there’s nothing gentle about the way he looks at you.

“Some of these clothes are a little difficult to put on alone.”

He does not explain further, but he watches as you’re drawn to the same conclusion that he is.

You have to roll this one over in your mind for a long while. You left your engagement ring behind, but the engagement itself still stands. Then again, he told you to enjoy yourself here. ‘Make every use of the park’s benefits,’ he’d suggested.

He’s just a computer, you tell yourself. A glorified sex toy. Maybe he walks and talks and flirts like a real human being, but…

There’s something about him that’s making it hard to turn him down.

After a silence long enough for any normal person to question, you look up at your attendant once more. He’s patiently awaiting your response, having gone uncomfortably still. You're not even sure he'd blink if you stare long enough.

You give a tight little nod and he’s smiling again, the same lazy smile as before. His default expression, you’re beginning to gather. He reaches for your coat.

“Wait.” You stop him with one hand on either forearm. He’s touched you before, but it’s still shocking how warm he is. Even though the sleeves of his perfect white jacket, he feels unquestionably alive.

"Don't you have a name or something?"

“Of course I do,” he responds. “Would you like to hear it?”

“Um…” Your brow knits. “Yes.”

He slips around behind you, curling his fingers into the open folds of your jacket and beginning to slide the weighty material off your shoulders. As he does, he leans forward, letting his lips draw close to your ear and making you shiver.

“Call me Keigo.”

“Keigo,” you repeat. It’s pretty and rolls easily from your mouth in a slow purr of desire. You can’t help yourself anymore. Keigo’s been programmed to put you at ease, but he’s doing much more for you now.

He undresses you methodically, pausing only briefly to run a hand down the curve of your waist or dip his fingers under the point of your chin when he catches you looking down. Even when you’re standing completely naked in front of him, he does not move to touch you in any untoward manner.

Whatever unspoken arrangement you thought you had formed is obviously not as unspoken as you’d hoped.

With his help, you select some period-appropriate undergarments. He helps you into your breezy linen shift first, lovingly tying the drawstrings into a neat little bow at the centre front. The corset is not as uncomfortable as you'd anticipated, fitting you devastatingly well. Keigo’s skilled hands pull the laces with precise tension, and the whole time he breathes soft commands and inquiries over your shoulder.

“Too tight?” He whispers, holding the laces taught at your waist. You take a slow, deep breath, then shake your head.

“Good.”

He ties the laces off and helps you into two petticoats- one of plain white cotton, the other of decorative silk and lace. Then he sits you on a cool, leather-covered sofa on one edge of the room and drops to his knees in front of you.

“Uh-“ you start, but he produces a pair of silk stockings from seemingly nowhere, smirking over the tops of your knees.

“Let’s get this out of the way.”

He pushes your airy petticoats up from your ankles, letting the backs of his palms brush the insides of your knees. He shoves the material up to your thighs and your confusion is multiplied now- is this what you think it is?

The way he admires your thighs as you shyly press them together certainly makes it seem so.

"Keigo," you gasp, curling your fingers against the edge of the sofa. The leather is supple and delicate beneath your touch like you could tear it if you wanted to.

He looks up just in time to watch you hook a bare thigh over his shoulder, and his brows shoot into his pointed hairline.

You’ve decided what you want out of this trip.

"Dove," he chides, setting down the stockings and pushing them gently aside. He takes both hands up the backs of your calves, stroking perfectly manicured fingernails into the tender skin at the backs of your knees.

He drops a kiss to the inside of your thigh. His face disappears behind the swath of frothy white petticoats gathered in your lap, but you feel his hot breath on your skin clear as day.

“If you wanted something from me,” he purrs, “all you had to do was ask.”

“I’m asking now,” you hum, letting your head fall back against the back of the couch. He’s easy enough to convince. Somehow, the fact that you didn’t have to work very hard for this almost makes it feel more acceptable.

“Here’s my answer,” he replies, sinking his teeth into the flesh of your inner thigh. You let out a strangled gasp, thigh jolting against his face as he slips his hand under the other leg- still hooked over his shoulder. You let out a low, shaky breath, trying not to think about the mark he’ll leave.

He pushes your leg away after biting it, shoving your knees apart and leaning eagerly forward. His head is fully buried under your gathered petticoats at this point, and you can feel him nosing his way into the crook of your groin, sliding a few free fingers up to prod gently for your hair-dusted folds.

“Wet already, bluebird?” He chuckles into your skin, sending shivers up your spine. “I’m flattered.”

“Stop,” you groan. There’s heat rushing to your cheeks with every word that tumbles out of his pretty mouth. You don’t want any of this to stop, but the heat between your legs is the one quickly growing unbearable.

“Do you want me to?” Keigo sits back almost immediately, ridding you of the delicious tingles his close breath were sending across your skin.

“No, no!” You yelp sharply, indignantly, digging your bare heel into his back to keep him close. He stops as soon as you apply pressure, letting out a quiet little chuckle.

“Keep going,” you pant, curling your toes against his pretty jacket.

“Your wish is my command,” he hums, already leaning into your flesh again. He does not hesitate this time, burying his head between your legs and giving the weeping slit of your cunt a long lick.

His first touch is all it takes to remind you how long it’s been.

“Fuck,” you gasp, low and languid. He doesn’t hesitate to close his lips around your swelling clit and suck. He makes sharp, sloppy noises with his lips and tongue, and the way they resonate in your ears near-doubles your pleasure. He’s eating you out perfectly, with terrifying precision. The strength of his jaw and tongue remains almost painfully consistent.

All the better for drowning him out. Despite his easy-flowing attitude and suave charm, he’s not a person. And it isn’t unfaithful to want him like this.

Even if you know he wouldn’t like it.

Keigo is diligent and careful, plunging his tongue in and out of your needy hole before finding the nub of your clit again, hard and sensitive. When he flicks the tip of his tongue against the tender front of it your legs spasm and you cry out softly as sensitive goosebumps rush across your ribcage.

“Like that,” you plead breathlessly, drawing your foot up between his shoulder blades as the tension builds. “Again, please.”

You’re holding the swells of your petticoats up around your thighs for him, but your fingers are beginning to clench in the delicate material. You’re not going to last long at all beneath a tongue as talented as his.

“Don’t worry, dove,” he purrs into your body, sending thick vibrations through every nerve in your system, “I won’t leave you unsatisfied.”

As he settles into his rhythm again, he plunges two fingers into your messy depths. He curls them tightly inside you, massaging your tender walls with a blunt and careful touch.

It takes little more than a few methodical strokes to make you fall. You cum with a tight little squeal, closing your thighs tightly around his head while you spasm and buck and sigh. He’s attentive enough to keep pumping his fingers through your orgasm, drawing out the pleasure as much as possible and greedily lapping at the wetness that trickles from your clenching pussy.

"That's it," he soothes, easing you down from your high with one calming hand on the column of your twitching thigh. As you settle, sweat-soaked, back into your seat he surfaces, sweat and shiny, sticky fluid sticking in the bristles of his perfect scruff. He licks his lips and you realize you’ve unconsciously mirrored him, doing the same.

In the moments directly following your peak you say nothing, looking down to meet his brassy gaze as deep uncertainty settles into your gut.

What happens now?

Keigo sits back on his haunches, pulling the folded pocket square from his breast and mopping up the mess on his chin and jaw like he'd done nothing more than spill a glass of wine or splash water over his lips.  

“Much better,” he croons, reaching for the discarded stockings from before. “Feeling a little more relaxed?”

You swallow hard.

“I’d say so.”

His smile is surprisingly bright and sunny.

“Good.” He hooks his fingers under your knee again, unhooking your leg from his shoulder. Sliding a palm down to your ankle, he fits one stocking deftly over your foot and slides it up your calf, continuing his work as if uninterrupted. He fits the stockings over your knees and ties them off carefully with slips of silk ribbon, sitting the knots just below your knees so the stockings won't fall. Then, he gets to his feet and offers you a hand.

“Let’s pick out the rest of your clothes, shall we?”

The park is even more immersive than you imagined. The photos do it no justice. When you step off the (genuine steam-powered) train at Sweetwater Station, it’s accompanied by a very real twinge of anxiety. The village is like a scene out of a Clint Eastwood movie. Only there are no cardboard sets here. The saloon doors really swing inward. The shops and businesses that line the main street are built from real, weathered lumber. The dust that’s kicked up by the hosts that go about their daily lives is already beginning to coat your new boots.

You sneeze.

“God bless you,” greets a kind stranger in a rough-hewn grey coat and white hat. He’s got a very apparent drawl to his voice, but the glint in his blue eyes is kind.

Back at the facility, guests and hosts were easy enough to distinguish from one another. Out here, it’s a little more difficult. You’re not sure whether to believe that everyone is real or assume they’re all fake.

Luckily, there are four women beside you whose humanity you are acutely aware of. You’re lucky enough to have found your bridesmaids on the train in- all clustered in the bar car, but together nonetheless.

And they’ve insisted on keeping the party going.

“C’mon, bride-to-be,” your maid of honour chides, grabbing you by the hand and pulling you out of your reverie. “I know exactly where we need to go first.”

“It’s not even noon yet,” you protest, but the others are already miles ahead of you. You’re dragged easily into the broad, dusty street and toward those broad, swinging doors. The saloon stands proudly in the centre of town on a prominent corner with faded signs advertising its wares. And your maid of honour eagerly bats the doors open, striding boldly into the sun-soaked saloon.

The tables are surprisingly crowded for this time of day. It’s most likely a flood of guests, disembarking the train and heading straight for the local watering hole for a real taste of the action.  Beyond their idle chatter tinkles the bright keys of a player piano against one wall. You can see the player scroll turning in the piano’s upright fixture, but that doesn’t change the unsettling way that the keys seem to press themselves.

It’s an eerie fixture in a town populated by walking, talking player pianos.

The man behind the bar bleeds Old West stereotypes from every pore. He’s got a huge, exaggerated greying moustache and a tweed waistcoat with shirtsleeves bound back for work. He’s polishing an empty glass with a cotton rag, but you spot him just in time to watch him politely greet a guest and reach behind him for a frosted bottle of unlabeled whisky.

The only other fixtures in the place are the women patrolling it, clad in colourful, lacy outfits that you’re certain violate some kind of historical convention. But they’re all breathtakingly beautiful, bosoms heaving over tightly laced corsets and fluttering from table to table like songbirds. They seem to provide little more than decoration and, as you settle into a table not far from the door, they fade easily into the background.

Until one of them screams.

You’ve read as many stories as you could scour the internet for before coming here. You know this place can get intense. Details of the park’s narratives and interactive storylines are kept under wraps as much as possible, so you can’t be sure whether this is out of the ordinary or not.

But when you whip around to find the source of the blood-curdling shriek, it doesn’t feel scripted.

It doesn’t feel scripted when the pretty girl in peach lace flings herself to the feet of a brand-new guest, here with his wife and their young son gaping from across the table. It doesn’t feel like she’s supposed to be wracked with sobs having never exchanged a word with this man.

It doesn’t feel like she should be pleading with him.

But the sobs wrack her body anyway, and her rosy little cheeks are flushed deeply now as she sniffles and blubbers.

“My daughter,” she begs hoarsely. “My girl, my daughter, please, I know you have her. Give her back to me, please. I know you took her. Give her back to me, I’ll do anything.”

Whether the father-of-one knows what she's talking about or not he's white as a sheet, stumbling backwards against the edge of his wife's table and pushing his arms forward, trying to keep her away.

The player piano finishes its tune, keys stilling as the saloon’s patrons look on in shock. And for an honest handful of heartbeats, the saloon is silent save for the host’s ragged sobs.

It takes a few moments for the player scroll to re-align itself before the tune restarts, and as the familiar notes cycle back through the saloon the host re-centres herself, climbing to her feet. There's a hardened resolve on her tear-stained face as her target looks around, gathering his wife and son with a this is bullshit and turning to leave.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me-“ the host begins to snarl. She lunches for the man, hands outstretched for the back of his brand new jacket, or maybe the brim of his crisp Stetson.

“Freeze all motor functions!”

A deep voice booms from the door of the saloon, amplified and simultaneously muffled with the use of a megaphone. The girl, and every other host in the saloon, freezes in place as though they’ve been paused. They don’t just stand still- they’re paralyzed. The smiling bartender is stalled with a glass in his hand; he doesn’t even blink.

In the doorway stands a hulking man of at least six and a half feet, seeming nearly as broad across the shoulders as he is tall. He wears a black uniform, armored black vest and heavy combat boots with a head of brilliant red hair spilling over his shoulders. As he lowers the megaphone he’s grinning, the bare flash of a sharp canine catching the low light of the bar.

“Sorry for the intrusion, folks,” he declares, striding across the floorboards toward the frozen host. Her expression is paused in a sneer of sheer horror and aggression, her hand outstretched for the man who has long since stepped aside.

The red-haired guardian angel, who has the name Kirishima stitched neatly onto the breast of his protective gear in white thread, catches your gaze. He shoots you a familiar little wink and a nod, a soft y’alright? escaping his throat in a quiet little growl.

You lick your lips, nodding slowly. Kirishima averts his gaze and reaches for the frozen host. As soon as he touches her skin she goes limp, falling easily into his powerful hold. He hoists her body over one shoulder and surveys the saloon, touching two fingertips to his forehead in a bright little salute.

“Please, don’t let me intrude on your stay any longer,” he continues. “As you were, everybody. Resume.”

The last word seems to be a command for the hosts in the room, as they spin to life again. They resume their rounds as if no time had passed at all; as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever transgressed.

Spooked, but encouraged by Kirishima’s smooth removal of the offending host, the guests around you go hesitantly back to their conversations. The player piano, also halted by Kirishima’s commands, has resumed its delicate play, and slowly the environment returns to the way it was before.

Your friends are among those willing to brush off the incident.

"What happened?" mumbles your maid of honour across the table, as if the host were still around to overhear her. As if the host's friends might be listening in to see if anybody's talking about her.

“No idea,” quips one of the other girls. “Must be some kind of glitch.” She looks over her shoulder, watching the remaining hosts at the bar. “I wonder if it happens often.”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Head of Narrative Katsuki Bakugou slams a stack of papers onto the table in front of him, disrupting the intricate hologram that provides a real-time, scale model of the park to the room’s occupants.

“Katsuki!” Momo scolds, watching the hologram stutter and flicker. It’s not the first table he’s damaged.

“You’re not pulling my fucking narrative. It rolls out today. Do you have any idea how many writers I had busting ass on that thing?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” she retorts, tapping the screen of the datapad she’s got hooked tightly in the crook of her other arm. “You saw the host that Eijirou pulled, didn’t you? The fact that he had to step in at all means things got way out of hand…”

“Bullshit,” Katsuki retorts, sweeping his papers off the holo-table (and shattering the image one more time). “That was a fucking glitch. You don’t even have the results back from Behaviour yet.”

“I already know what they’re going to say,” Momo continues.

“That’s right,” Katsuki snarls. “I forgot you know everything around here.”

“She was carrying the latest update. There must be something wrong with the code.” Momo tries not to remember Dabi and his distant stare. She swallows the part about the extra coding slipped in by the man who could do no wrong.

She flips her datapad shut- it’s doing her any good, since Katsuki’s right. The results from Behaviour regarding the misaligned host won’t be ready for some time.

“You can’t. Pull. That. Narrative.” Katsuki’s squared up now, all the gathered papers tucked under his arm. His jaw is ticked, nostrils flaring as his eyes flash. “An entire trainload of guests is wandering around Sweetwater looking for the stories they fucking paid for. If you pull the plug, there’s nothing left.”

He’s right again.

“Look.” Katsuki crosses to the holo-table one more time, only this time it’s without the murderous intent in his gaze. For once he’s ready to use the table as intended, pin-pointing the broad, dusty street of Sweetwater’s main strip and bringing up a live feed of the bustling little town.

"Dabi is riding through here in less than two hours," he continues. "Dial-up his aggression a little. Make him shoot up the place. If you want to pull the hosts, at least let them go out with a bang.”

Momo isn’t convinced. But it’s the closest thing to a happy medium she can picture at the moment. Katsuki, as prolific as ever, knows how to think on his feet.

“How many d’you think he’ll take out?” She probes quietly, quirking an interested brow.

“Enough to keep the guests AND your Doctor Frankensteins entertained while I find us some more loopholes.”

Her mind races through more questions. But the panic, fluttering high and shallow in her chest, has somehow been replaced by a delicate sort of reassurance.

She flips open the datapad one more time, activating the remote host commands available only to an employee of her standing. Finding Dabi’s program file, she does exactly as Katsuki suggests and dials up the aggression in his behaviour stats by eighty percent.

“This had better work,” she threatens softly, but Katsuki’s already folding his arms across his chest, looking far too satisfied with himself. His ego is insufferable, but his talent is unmatched. Worth suffering for.

His mouth splits into a triumphant grin as he shoots an idle glance at the live Sweetwater feed. The only stage he’s ever needed.

“’Course it will.”

The afternoon sun has nearly dipped behind the tallest rooftops in Sweetwater when your friends stumble out of the saloon. Your friends are already tipsy, giggling and clutching each other as they try not to trip over the hems of their skirts. They’re all a little too eager to pull out the extravagant lace fans that pair perfectly with their colourful dresses and fan at their heaving bosoms.

As you bound down the steps and into the dirt road, you dive seamlessly into the milling crowd of hosts and guests, starting to swim. If you’re about to be caught in the eye of a devastatingly orchestrated narrative maelstrom, you’re blissfully unaware.

“Give me the time,” Katsuki grunts from the Sweetwater side of the holo-table. Momo glances up at the digital clock on the wall.

“Thirteen fifty-eight, forty-two,” she notes. Katsuki’s got the camera feed trained on a lone trio of riders, clad in black and plodding steadily toward Sweetwater. He watches carefully, keeping an eye turned on the clock.

“They’re going to be late,” he grunts bitterly, folding his arms over his chest. Sero, Denki and Kirishima, who have all crowded around the holo-table on their lunch breaks to watch the show, snort in near-unison.

“I don’t think anyone down there’s keeping track,” Denki quips, smoothing his palms down the front of his crisp shirt, apronless for once. Katsuki shoots him a vicious glare.

“You wanna go back to your sewing room or what?”

Denki goes quiet.

Inside the park, the sun passes behind a cloud. The light shifts just enough to draw your gaze, and when you look up, you’re among the first to spot a few dark shapes approaching. They’re close enough that you can make them out as riders, all on horses as black as the wide-brimmed hats on their heads.

There’s something about them, their precise formation and the slow, plodding, deliberate pace of their horses that holds your attention. You can’t quite write them off as guests, no matter how much they stand out from the dully-dressed villagers around you.

You glance across the street just long enough to spot a WANTED poster tacked to a column not far off. You can’t make out any of the writing on it, but the face is distinct- dark, shaded patches covering his jaw, chin and lower lip, carving out two shadowy patches under his eyes.

There’s something about the narrow shape of his cheeks that pulls familiar.

But you don’t have to wonder much longer.

The three riders ride quietly into town, the crowd parting around them with little more than low murmurs and dull, lidded fear. They pull to a stop in front of the saloon, barely twenty feet from you.

The cowboy in the grey tweed coat who caught your eye fresh off the train approaches the riders. He’s got a revolver holstered on one hip, and he draws it slowly out of its pouch as he squares up with the horse at the lead of the pack.

“Haven’t you seen the signs with your mug on ‘em?” He drawls, his face drawn into an expression of tense righteousness. He jerks his chin toward the nearest one, the WANTED sign you’d seen seconds earlier. “You’re not welcome here, Dabi.”

The taller rider in the centre- Dabi- tilts his chin into the sunlight, and that’s when you catch sight of its purplish colour. His face glints with silver, a perfect match for the drawing posted across the street.

He does not hesitate, drawing his own revolver in one smooth motion and shooting the cowboy in the chest. The gun discharges with a crack that’s louder than you ever imagined it could be, punctuated by the screams of bystanders nearby.

As the village descends into panic you stand there dumbstruck, watching the chaos unfold.

“Wait for it,” Katsuki grunts, hiding his satisfied grin as his colleagues watch in rapt fascination. Sero hasn’t blinked since the action began.

“You sure?” Dabi rasps, voice muffled by the feed. He produces a shiny golden badge and flipping it, like a silver dollar, onto the expiring corpse of the righteous host.

“No,” Denki whines. “He killed the sheriff?”

“Shut up and keep watching,” Katsuki growls, quelling the proud adrenaline pumping through his veins. There’s nothing quite like seeing his hard work come to life- supremely worth fighting with Momo over.

Dabi smirks, tipping the brim of his hat.

“Seems like invitation enough to me.”

He swings capably off his horse and you can’t deny your fascination with the mystery surrounding him. You should be terrified, but there’s something about the cool confidence with which he carries himself that you can’t quite put aside.

If the women flocking to the windows on either side of the street are any indication, you’re not the only one who feels that way. In a brief moment of lucidity, you take a glance around you. Your bridesmaids have disappeared, disappearing in the panicked mass of flooding crowds after the scarred rider fired his first shot.

He’s followed by a second rider on his right flank, both quickly disappearing into the bar. The third rider- a petite blonde woman swathed in a heavy coat- gets down off her horse and turns quickly toward her saddlebags. When she comes around the front side of her steed, she’s got a shotgun in her hands.

She’s loading it. The pandemonium amplifies. At her feet, there’s a long, thick coil of rope that’s partially unwound and trailing into the saloon. It’s unwinding slowly, with dull screams and shattering glass echoing from inside.

That’s all you have time to notice before another shot goes off in front of you. The little blonde girl’s levelled her shotgun, emptying her rounds at anyone who raises a weapon against her. You’re barely standing ten feet away. But she passes you clean over.

Is it because you're a guest? The only ones who have fallen at her hand are the hosts, capable of being hurt by her gunshots. The guests who haven't taken off are clustered in the windows of shops or hiding behind broad wooden columns, but there is no fear painted on their faces.

You know the hosts can’t hurt you. But there’s something about the thrill of it all that sends adrenaline pumping through your veins anyway. There’s a cool mystery to all of the black-clad riders.

A part of you wants to join them. If you can be anyone you want in here… why not one of them? Why not swing cooly down from your horse and terrorize, when there are no consequences to your actions?

You take one step backwards, then another. Your senses are finally coming back to you. You should run. Disengage. Maybe you can’t be caught in the crossfire, but you can’t stand dumbly in the empty street, either.

Something has to change.

Before you can make it to the safety of a storefront, a pattern of three gunshots in tight succession from inside the saloon triggers something in the blonde, still picking off hosts. There are bodies littering the street.  

She lowers her shotgun and hops back onto her horse, spurring it on with a sharp whistle. The beast takes off without hesitation, and it’s then that you realize the other end of the coiled rope is wound around her saddlehorn. As the horse strains its haunches and pushes forward the rope goes taut. And as the pair of them take off down the street, the spoils emerge: a heavy wrought iron safe, bursting out of the saloon doors and leaving nothing but splintered remains in its wake.

It bounces and rolls down the steps and slides smoothly as soon as it hits the dirt street. The blonde shooter and her horse disappear, safe in tow.

You wonder what became of the bartender inside and his friendly moustache.

Dabi emerges seconds later, a fresh rifle clutched lazily in one hand. His companion’s lost his hat in the turmoil inside- he’s blonde, too, with a deep scar splitting his forehead from hairline to brow.

"Let today be a lesson for every one of you," Dabi calls, re-cocking his shotgun as he surveys the fresh bodies and fleeing guests. You've stopped dead all over again, drawn to him like a magnet despite your best judgement.

He levels the shotgun, aiming it about five feet to your right. You follow his gaze. In the window over your shoulder, with her hands pressed to the glass, is a little girl no older than five. She’s watching Dabi and his riders with fearful fascination and does not seem to realize that she’s been targeted.

You don’t care if she’s a guest or not. She’s a human girl with big, lively eyes, and your adrenal glands work faster than your sense of logic.

Dabi shuts one eye, tilting his head. The corner of one lip curls ever so slightly as he concentrates, taking aim. “And that lesson is-“

“Stop.” You step in front of the window, spreading your arms and drawing his attention for the first time. When he looks at you over the top of his shotgun, his expression goes slack. He drops the shotgun and his eyes are wide, wider than they’re supposed to be, almost.

You’re close enough to see that they’re a shocking shade of blue. That blue strikes an achingly familiar chord in your heart.

You recognize those eyes.

“What the fuck!”

If the holo-table didn’t weigh half a ton, Katsuki would’ve flipped it on its end. The feed is as smooth as ever, but his face has gone scarlet as he paces away from the table, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“What? What’s wrong?” Kirishima’s well past the end of his lunch break by now, but there’s no way in hell he’s going back to work before seeing the way this plays out.

“He stopped,” Katsuki growls. “He’s not s’posed to fucking stop.”

Dabi’s been stopped on the brink of a speech that took Katsuki days to put together. He’s been waiting to hear it delivered for weeks. It’s the speech that Dabi’s entire narrative was hinged on, forged out of countless sleepless nights and careless notes scribbled idly on coffee breaks.

“Holy shit.” There’s a genuine shock in Denki’s voice that’s enough to make Katsuki turn around. Denki’s gone white, Sero beside him, too.

“You’d better get over here and see this, dude,” Kirishima mutters, jerking his chin toward the feed. Momo’s watching over his shoulder, too, one hand pressed to her pursed lips.

“That’s a guest, isn’t it?” Sero quips. Silence settles over the room.

“I’ll get Shouto,” Momo declares, turning away and opening up her datapad.

“What’s going on?” Shouto bursts into the holo-room not two minutes later, mismatched eyes lit up with urgent concern. “Did I read your message right? I-“

Katsuki’s pacing the room, quieter than ever. Denki, Sero and Kirishima are still gathered around the feed, winding back the stream to replay the events that have sent them all spiralling. Momo’s the only one who even acknowledges his presence.

“Something’s happening in the park,” she explains, hushed and tight as she meets him at the door. “Another updated host is off-script.”

“How bad is it this time?” Shouto asks, hiding the dread that’s spreading in his gut. He had hoped that the girl from the saloon was just an unexpected glitch, but the results from Behaviour told another story.

Still, two deviances in just the first day of the update feels worse than he dreaded.

“You’d better take a look for yourself.”

Momo leads him to the holo-table and the feed, letting the other boys step aside. Shouto steps up to the projection, watching Dabi ride into town. Watching him break into the saloon with Twice and Toga, two other repurposed hosts, by his side.

He watches Toga ride off with the safe behind her and watches Dabi start his speech. And then, from a near-birds-eye view, he watches Dabi spot you of all people. Dabi lowers his rifle and strides toward you.

Shou’s heart leaps into his throat.

With dull horror he watches Dabi slip a leather-gloved hand under your chin. He watches you tilt your jaw into his touch. You’re fascinated by him. Even though the dust and pixels it's painfully obvious.

Dabi seems to notice, too, since he stoops low and hoists you over his shoulder without another word. You struggle, but he holds you fast. He strides across the road to his horse and sets you- still squirming and fighting- in the saddle, climbing on behind you and grabbing you tightly before you can escape.

Just before he spurs his gargantuan black steed forward, he pauses to glance over his shoulder. Shouto can’t be certain, but for a moment it seems like Dabi’s found the camera, staring plainly up at Shouto through its low-quality lens.

A breath passes. He looks away, gives a whistle, and disappears into the wilds beyond the town.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Kirishima presses. “Katsuki, you didn’t program him to kidnap a guest, did you?”

“Of course not,” Katsuki snarls from across the room, his nerves fraying dangerously. “What kind of idiot do you think I am? Do I look like a walking liability to you?”

“Look, it’s fine,” Denki chimes in. “It’s not like he can hurt her or anything. Just chalk it up to the park experience. Tell her Dabi kidnaps random nobodies all the time.”

The room goes quiet as a crypt. Kirishima looks at Shouto. Shouto looks at Katsuki. Katsuki looks at Momo, and Momo takes a slow, deep breath.

“Do you want to tell him, Shouto?” she asks, “or should I?”

Shouto closes his eyes and tries to quell the panic rising in the back of his throat. He shoots Denki a cold look, jaw ticked but eyes blazing.

“That’s my fiancé,” he mutters, low and shaky. “Dabi kidnapped my fiancé.”

[melisa-may-taylor72]

Accolades such as “greatest single long-playing achieve­ment since Sgt. Pepper” and “the most important record album ever made” fall over Queen’s latest album as easily as butter melt­ing on a hot potato—but few realize what a hot potato the album actually was in its pre-release days. It took a bevy of high-powered attorneys, some low-life finagling, and more than the usual amount of wheeler­dealing just to get the album out without its being hacked to death by defamation-of-character suits.

Guitarist Brian May explains: “I’m in real difficulty here because I’ve been threatened with libel because our old management had a good go at stop­ping the album coming out. They thought “Death on Two Legs’’ was about them. They wanted us to take the track off and we nearly had to, and in fact they got a load of money out of our publishing company be­cause it supposedly was libelous, but it’s never been proven. It’s all very stupid—they wanted to sue Freddie, the band, the publishing company, and the record company.”

All very dramatic stuff, but a band like Queen survives not on operatic finesse alone, but on gut-level melo- dramatics in the business department as well. When you produce your rec­ords, write the songs, play all the in­struments, and do everything your­self, chances are you’re going to have to pay some legal dues, too. But ah! the rewards—such as the single, “Bo­hemian Rhapsody,” hanging into the #1 spot in the British charts for seven weeks in a row!

“We’re a bit more in the public eye now, we’re starting to get recognized a lot more,” says Brian May. “We’re carrying on working just as we did before, but obviously we’re very pleas­ed with how the record’s doing. It’s sold more than a million copies in England— can’t believe it.” But it’s true: Queen’s stature in England has risen from that of The #1 teenage hard rock band to that of the-group- that-made-the-single-that-every-house- wife-knows-by-heart”.

What propelled Queen in that di­rection is their Night at the Opera album, a slight departure from what Queen fans know to be the Queen sound. The hard rock screams have temporarily subsided, replaced by ex­perimentation with different voicings of instruments and production tricks. Those who found Queen’s approach overdecibelled can relax to the quiet “ ‘39” or “Good Company” and tap their feet to “Lazing on a Sunday Af­ternoon” without fear of being gui- tarred to death. “It’s just what came out,” says Brian. “They’re offshoots of our main direction. There’s plenty of time for the rock.”

“The album wasn’t really supposed to go in the direction that it did, it was just the songs we had. While we were making it we were thinking, ‘Yeah, it is getting a bit light,’ but rather than fight against it we de­cided to do it properly and then think again afterwards. So instead of try­ing to heavy up the lighter things, we pressed on. We had a few things we didn’t use, but we’re getting more demanding of ourselves. There are a few heavy things kicking around, but we may use them on the next record.”

The two strongest forces in Queen have always been Brian and Freddie. With A Night at the Opera, where experimentation and branching out in new directions are the most obvious characteristics, the personalities of the band are often obscured by the newly emerging elements. “Some­times I feel that Freddie and I are going in different directions, but then he’ll come up with something and I’ll think, ‘My God—we do think alike.’ When I’m working on one of his things I can tune in very easily to what guitar part he wants, and vice-versa. In terms of what we’re trying to do in songs, we are moving in different directions, but I think that could be a good thing.”

QUEEN II: Critical response to the band is now almost unanimous­ly favorable in both Great Britain and the United States, which is quite phe­nomenal when you stop and think of how anxious many critics were to pan them two years ago.“I’m not going to take it too seriously,” Brian says, “because I remember what the critics said about Queen II. It would seem that everybody is beginning to like us. … very much. I can take it at that level, but there’s no doubt in my mind that sometime in the future there’ll come a time when we get slagged for everything. Queen II is still my favorite of the Queen albums, certainly the most daring. Especially for the time. I think we’re still finding our feet now, and the way I feel about the new album is that we’re searching for new directions and most of them are sort of half-formed. We’ve got the Queen II feel in some places, and in others we’ve got the Sheer Heart Attack polish. I don’t think we’re quite sure where we’re going”.

“This album, at the very least, ne­gates all the comparisons to Led Zep­pelin that we’ve been living with for the past three years. I think Physical Graffiti is amazing, by the way. I saw Zeppelin at Earls Court, and I met Pagey afterward, for the first time. It was great, he was very nice and gentle. I respect him a tremendous amount for “Kashmir” and “The Light,” for being able to put his brain on record—- it wouldn’t matter if he couldn’t play a note.”

Economic criticism has been less favorable, however. A Night at the Opera was wide­ly rumored to be “the most expensive album ever made” when it was released, a point which Queen’s management denies. Nevertheless, Queen has been taken to task by quite a few English journalists for spending so much money estimated at £30-40,000—making one record. Brian has a retort: “We wouldn’t have spent so much money if the studios weren’t so bloody expensive!

The album was recorded in seven of them, sometimes three at once.” We weren’t mucking about for any of it, it was four months of solid work. It came down to having the equipment available for four months, and we didn’t begrudge the amount of time spent in the studios, but it comes to a fair amount of money. There’s a lot of things that seem light, like “Good Company,” which actually took a great deal of time and care. All those trumpets and clarinets being fashioned from guitar sounds—I took it quite seriously because I wanted to do it right, even though it was a light­hearted thing. We worked too hard for our own health, we got a bit down and depressed.”

While Queen was laying about England between record and tour, a few of them got going on some independent projects. Brian and Roger produced an R&B group’s single, but there were some record company hassles and it may be some time before the record gets released. And on the eve of the Amer­ican tour, Freddie Mercury went into the studios with a singer/songwriter managed by the Rocket Organization (which manages Queen as well) to try his hand at production. “Eddie How­ells is the guy’s name, and he’s man­aged by David Mead, and they’re do­ing a single for Warners. I’m play­ing some guitar on it.” Brian re­strained himself from going out on any limbs before the American tour in order to get himself physically fit. His health had been a crucial prob­lem on an earlier American tour, and he’s not particularly anxious to spend time in hospitals when he could be on­stage instead. “I actually get more tired offtour than ontour,”he admits. But I am in good health.”

HAIRY LEGS: Once the English leg of the tour did get started, word started to flow very quickly back to the States about Queen’s dramatic stage show—a stage show to end all stage shows, with Mercury donning short-shorts to add a bit of the hairy leg to Queen’s otherwise pristeen pre­sentation. “The show is the same, but different,” Brian says confusedly. “We’ve merely developed what we did before with some new material from the new album. It’s a bit of re­shuffling. Plus we do “Doing All- right” from the first album, which we’ve never done onstage before. And “Seven Seas of Rhye,” which we’d do in England but never in America be­fore. It’s quite a lot different, ac­tually.”

American audiences got their first chance to sample the new presenta­tion on January 27 in Waterbury, Conn., when the first concert of Queen’s scheduled 32-date, 21-city American tour got underway in the Palace Theatre. After arriving in the States at Kennedy International on January 20 and spending a couple of days in New York for interviews, Queen began five days of rehearsals at the Palace to ready their show for American fans across the country.

After Waterbury they dove headfirst into the intensive six-week tour, which featured extended runs in New York, Philadelphia, and Los Angeles before its scheduled end March 12 at the San Diego Sports Arena.

Despite the novel direction of the new album, onstage Queen proved to be the same rocking outfit they’ve always been, letting loose with the same kind of guitar-bass-drums-piano barrage they’ve delivered in the past. “We don’t do “39” or “Lazing on aSunday Afternoon” in our show,“ Brian explains. He seems a bit defensive of Queen’s rock spirit, which is kept intact in the live set by “BohemianRhapsody,” “Sweet Lady,” “Prophet Song” and the deletion of the “experimental tunes” from A Night At the Opera.

By the by, those who missed Queenon earlier tours but want to see how they’ve changed now have the means. Queen bave joined the prestigious ranks of the Zeppelins, the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones whereby sorne illegal entrepreneur has issued a boot­ leg album of one of their American concerts. “I hate those things-they rarely give an accurate picture of the group,” Brian states unequivocally, and in this case he’s right. The Queen bootleg has transistor radio fidelity, and the only truly audible members of the band are Brian and Freddie. Yet the fact that a bootleg exists confirms the fact that Queen is now well on their way to the top.

CIRCUS MAGAZINE, APRIL 1975

@natromanxoff, @mephisto92, @moviestorian, @x5vale, @39-brian, @onegoldenglance, @crosmopolitan, @an-abyss-called-life, @his-majesty-king-mercury, @i-live-for-queen, @brian-39-may, @toomuchlove-willkillyou, @brimaymay, @sail-away-sweet-sister, @drummerqueenrmt, @old-fashioned-roger-boy-deactiv, @briianmaay, @l-over-bo-y, @inui-mycroft, @deacytits, @iminlovewithrogscar, @drowseoftaylor, @brianmayislongaway, @balticlover, @astrophysicist-guitar-god​, @miez-lakatz, @brianmayoucease, @jesus-in-a-life-boat, @roger-taylors-car, @silapril, @sherrifanciesfriskyfreddie, @tenderbri, @brianmydear, @thosequeenboys, @millionairewaltz-carpediem, @painandpleasure86, @bribrifrenchfry, @xlucylennonx, @a-night-at-the-abbey-road, @inthedayswhenlandswerefew, @madformeddowstaylor, @queenrogertaylorfan, @let-roger-get-a-lunch, @queen-for-life, @rethought, @darlinginnuendo, @mymakeupmaybeflaking, @old-but-still-a-child, @let-roger-get-a-lunch, @warriorteam1924, @funnydressesweirdhairanddance, @painkiller80, @thefanhuman13, @yourtieddownmother, @hgmercury39, @brimi-stardust, @thefairyfellermercury, @retroromantics, @foxmonkey, @sophiaintheskywithdiamonds, @holybrianmaywritingbear, @lydiannode, @39-yellow-daffodils , @ure-gonna-loveme-when-u-seeme, @kaykaybeachgirl, @rhysjoejoshtomfarisblog @redspecialandclogsandcurls, @briansrainbowsocks, @delilahmay39, @ohmybribri, @bless-the-queen, @infunitehearbeat, @sketchiesscketches, @everythingaboutfreddie, @doitforthevine67, @recordsoftheseventies, @tenementfunsterwithpurpleshoes, @drummah-in-a-rocknroll-band, @beatlegirl1968, @maylorsqueen, @shearrehartatacc, @gralto, @alittlepeoplemagic, @rainbowsockbrian, @sailawaysweetbrimi

[siryaksalot]

Mink’s thorough and comprehensive list of pros and cons and stuff from the reboot after watching it all! Will contain spoilers. May update as I think of more. By the way, I’m a lifetime fan. I’m 22, so the whole time they’ve been away I’ve been here, loving the original.

PROS:

The animation. It’s great! Maybe the more neon bright colors are jarring after watching the original which is more washed out, but you get used to it. I can’t tell whether it’s Toonboom or Adobe Animate, but there’s a liiiiittle bit of sneaky puppeting of characters if you have an animators eye to look for it. And I do. When something is ESPECIALLY puppeted, I notice it but it doesn’t ruin anything. It doesn’t look cheap, it looks cost efficient. That being said if you HATE this type of animation you won’t be happy. I’m fine with it!

The character design is the big thing here. The Warners look fantastic and super sleek, all the credit to Genevieve Tsai, she’s a genius. Posing of characters is great too. It’s nice having a consistent look. Maybe you’ll miss the variety of the old 8 studios, but it’s okay.

The voices. Despite people saying Tress and Rob are older and sound different I think they sounded just the same. They were obviously well directed. It’s probably not Andrea Romano this time around but that’s okay.

Slapstick. It’s still the same, they didn’t hold back.

The music. Lovely as ever. We miss Richard Stone but it really was good either way.

The songs, lyrically, are all great! Clever songwriting I’ve come to expect.

EVERY PATB segment. I have close to no complaints about their skits. Just one, it’ll be below.

Them saying FUCK the Elmyra spinoff. Brain was busy these 22 years. That show never happened.

GOING HAM on Tucker Carlson. They absolutely tortured the guy. Fuck him.

The Warners still do their regular ol thing, go in on the jerks. I was afraid they’d be knocked around too much but no, they get control and succeed every time. Thank god.

I enjoyed Nils Niedhart coming back for a second round. The Warners have definitely tormented people more than once, it’s cool.

Seeing the inside of the tower more fleshed out! Me likey.

Yakko says sibs a lot. They know I wanted this. He also STILL does his Uhhhh. Good.

He also calls Wakko “baby bro” a few times and I 🥺🥺... gh...

Wakko and Brain saying hell. Wakko ALMOST saying motherfucker.

Yakko trying a few times to sing educational songs and Wakko and Dot having NONE of it. He gets really upset when he can’t do it, which is also hilarious

Yakko actually getting upset when no one is around to laugh at his jokes. I loved it. I’m glad this moment wasn’t dragged out as well.

CHICKEN BOO. CHICKEN FUCKIN BOO. YES IT WAS NICE TO SEE EVERYONE BUT. I LOVE CHICKEN BOO. HE IS TOP OF MY FANLIST.

The old Chubby Baby clown song playing deep and ominously over Nicklewise. LMAO

Like 15 uninterrupted seconds of Wakko without a hat. Baby. Baby boy.

Still got pretty good reference humor. A few I didn’t get, and that’s how you know it’s good LOL

The little Looney Tunes / Loonatics cameo.

CONS:

The “reboot it” song. Seriously, what happened to the voices? Rob sings ONE LINE as Yakko in the song, the rest is someone else??? And you can’t hear Dot for most of it. She’s just mouthing along I guess 🙄🙄

Adding to the previous, about 4 other people besides Jess Tress and Rob are credited for performing that song... so... hm. I don’t know which guy replaced Rob, but it’s one of them for sure.

The first episode in general was weak. Yes yes we get it, you need to be modern now. Just get to the funny skits.

Lack of Scratchy. I liked seeing him when we did but I love him... want more.

Speaking of him, his new long nose is BAD. Gives me Jewish caricature vibes. Bad.

No Slappy. I get why, you’d need Sherri and she might try to get Tom along with her. WB doesn’t want to pay Tom I GUESS.

The Cutening skit. The song sounds bad... it’s just a little weird. Tress isn’t singing it. Without the Warners on screen, you can barely tell it’s Animaniacs at all. The ending is gross. The beginning of it has some great lines, though. Hell I’m using one as my blog title now.

I dunno, the new original stuff didn’t appeal to me. I’m glad it was sparse.

SOME of the “goodnight everybodys” felt forced.

Hm... Dot’s line in the theme being changed. “Dot Has Wit”. I don’t think it was necessary. You can still say she’s cute, we all knew she was way more than her cuteness anyway! The new line throws me off for whatever reason despite being the same amount of syllables. idk, the flow is just odd.

Giving Brain backstory. It’s ... not a bad backstory persay but I feel this is a thing the original writers only have the right to do. I dunno.

The show says on MULTIPLE occasions that it’s “biting satire”. PLEASE... you don’t have to tell us. Over and over. Just make it biting and people will call it that. pointing it out feels SO forced.

Episode 6 having to be pulled because of the fuck up with Brain’s phone number. THAT is unprofessional. Did no one check??

After reflection... there may be TOO much politics. I think it should be toned down. There sure is a lot of Russian collusion jokes. 

NEUTRAL:

The Warners call each other by name a LOT more now. I dig it but maybe it’s a TEEENY bit forced? Idk

Ralph has a brown uniform. Maybe it’s more accurate to the security guards at WB?

Plotz is in a portrait, but no mention of what happened to him. Going to assume he’s dead, LMAO

The new CEO! She’s not THAT interesting but I’ll give her time. She has a name but it’s not even mentioned in the show?? Uh ...

Scratchy saying that Hello Nurse is with Doctors Without Borders now. Good excuse. Good for her.

Saying Yakko can’t do math!! Did y’all see the multiplication song? ok this is a nitpick LMAOOO it’s just silly.

...The anime segment. It’s cool animation, I love Studio Yotta, but idk how to feel. It’s a little much.

The other new lines in the theme. They’re alright, maybe a bit too specific to fit the whole show, but it’s whatever. The conservatives will be mad and THAT makes me happy. 😋😋

The human designs are ugly but they’re definitely supposed to be. The were in the original show quite a bit too.

The reboot gets a solid 7/10 from me! 70% is good, the 30% will be very divsive I feel. It’s a mixed bag, with a majority of the mixture being good. It is NOT on equal footing with the original, but it comes close. If you liked the reboot, haven’t seen the OG? Watch it. I’m serious. Watch it.

[theonceoverthinker]

A Good Night’s Sleeping Snag (Fair Game Week Day 2)

Summary: Clover and Qrow are sent off on a mission that pits them against both ferocious Grimm and the very worst of the elements that Atlas has to offer. When the latter of Qrow’s battles is compromised, he and Clover decide to work together to stay safe through some rather...intimate means.

AO3

A/N: So, apparently this is happening now. I’m making fics out of some of my favorite HC’s, and this was my first pick! I’ll admit that it doesn’t connect to today’s theme that tightly, but I’d argue that as Huntsmen, a mission like this can be kind of normal, and thus does hold some inherent domesticity, so there you go! (...I also realized I had to justify that more to myself than anyone because I am pedantic with no one more than myself! XD ) Also, tagging @fair-game-week !

Before we begin, I want to give a big ole’ thanks to my beta @whipped4qrow. Toko, I’ve been fortunate to have some great betas in the past, and enjoy the pun, but TOKO-ing out all of our thoughts on this fic has provided me with some of my favorite times working with one ever. Your advice and pickups were too helpful for words, and I can’t thank you enough!

-------

Grimm are the easiest part of Qrow’s incredibly complicated life and at the same time, the most annoying pests this side of Remnant. 

The trouble is, despite his and his fellow Huntsmen’s best efforts, they’re always around.

Of all the things to stick around across humanity’s two lifespans...why did it have to be them?

Well, at least their existence means a living for him.

Less than an hour after Qrow’s first cup of coffee, a report comes in. There’s a small pack of Grimm making their way towards the communication’s tower. They’re as ferocious as Grimm tend to come, but it’s apparently not a job that will require more than two skilled Huntsmen to get it done.

That’s where he and Clover come in, according to Ironwood’s soldiers. 

This mission has probably the most pre-departure preparation he’s ever received before a Grimm fight. He’s even given a large backpack of camping essentials to work with. Clover tells him the reason for that. Apparently, the part of the tundra these Grimm are making their way through is prone to strong wind storms and blizzards alike. These conditions are said to be too severe for a transport to get all the way through, and despite the dangers posed by letting even trained Huntsmen whether them, it’s still better to take the Grimm out now than to wait for them to get any closer to the tower -- something about the tower’s wiring. 

Clover says that their mission is expected to run into the next day, and Qrow’s uncertain how he feels about that. 

Qrow’s done overnight missions before, tons of them.

But he’s never done one with Clover before.

Sleep is...it’s personal in a way most things aren’t. He can control how he acts when he’s awake and what he divulges to the world. When he sleeps, who knows what can be told about him? Even to have someone sort of near him while he’s sleeping makes Qrow feel far too vulnerable for comfort.

And now, he and Clover are going to be sleeping in the same vicinity.

It bothers Qrow, both because of that sense of vulnerability, but also because even that threat of subconscious vulnerability doesn’t scare him where Clover is concerned.

Clover’s odd, but he’s someone Qrow likes having around. He makes missions interesting, if nothing else, and he even finds himself opening up to Clover every now and then, too.

Qrow guesses that just makes them both oddballs. Go figure.

But being oddballs along with someone else has proven to not always be a bad thing.

So really, who knows what this mission will bring?

They depart early the next day. Qrow’s decked out in a long thick-ish, black winter coat, and he can barely believe his eyes when he sees Clover enter the transport wearing the exact same thing.

Who knew Clover Ebi would ever be caught dead wearing something with actual sleeves?

Clover’s clearly aware of how much the change of clothes sticks out, shooting Qrow a not-too-serious, yet all the same present warning look while entering the transport, as if daring him to laugh.

Qrow laughs. 

He laughs a lot.

He’s in stitches, though he’s certain the look Clover’s giving him is more to blame for that than anything.

It’s not that Clover looks bad in it -- quite the opposite, really. The coat fits him well, and while Qrow likes it about as much as he likes Clover in his standard uniform -- if not, a little less -- the different clothes are a nice change of pace all the same.

And Qrow -- never a monster -- doesn’t rag on him too much for it, even going so far as to compliment it after he’s gotten a good couple of quips in. Clover’s frown dissolves into a grateful smirk, and their usual banter proceeds as it always has as the transport takes off.

Still, gratefulness for the compliment aside, it’s apparently not enough to stop Clover from hastily removing the coat as soon as the automated transport gets far enough away from their other coworkers at the base to do so without scolding, prompting even more laughter from Qrow. 

The trip between the base and the dropoff point is three hours. Clover tells Qrow they should sleep before they begin their trek, and Qrow honestly tries to, but he finds that he just can’t.

So Clover stays up with him. Qrow tells him he doesn’t have to, but he quickly learns that Clover Ebi may as well have his picture glued next to the dictionary’s definition of ‘persistence.’

If it wasn’t one of the kindest things done for him in recent memory, if not, ever, Qrow might be tempted to gag from the corniness of it all.

 They fill the time with cards, exchanging interests and stories, and rifling through their camping bags. The Atlas military clearly likes to be prepared. They each have a few rations of disgusting-looking food, a steel canteen, an emergency flare, a flashlight, matches, some kindling for a small fire, and a sleeping bag, all adorned with the symbol of Atlas. Qrow teases Clover about it, but with a smirk, he just attributes the abundance of symbols to pride in their country.

Loud clunks grow in frequency and volume, signaling that they’re closing in on their location. Their transport isn’t equipped with a window, so all the two of them have to go off of to get any idea of what’s outside of it are Clover’s past experiences of the relentless frigid air and snow. 

Those experiences turn out to be rather accurate. A harsh gust of wind that nearly blows an unprepared Qrow to the back of the transport greets the two of them once the doors separating them between themselves and the tundra open. 

Qrow revises his stance and footing as to best handle the new expectations of his body. He puts more of his weight onto his feet, stepping harshly. Clover does the same, and within five minutes, they’re well off on their journey into the tundra.

()()()()()()()()()

Hours pass, but unlike previously, they’re impossible to fill with each other’s company. It’s all Qrow’s efforts to safely move step-by-step, and he knows while Clover would never admit it -- and to be fair, he wouldn’t either -- it’s the case for him too. It would be too much to focus on talking while keeping the snow out of their mouths as well, so silence rules them. 

Even still though, there’s something at least a bit reassuring that Clover’s there, even if only his physical presence serves as an indicator of it. Maybe Clover feels the same way about him. He wouldn’t be surprised. 

In fact, scratch that -- he wouldn’t even doubt it for a second.

The sky grows dark as they come upon a small cave that forms a half dome over the tiny piece of the landscape that it covers. They approach, but just as they near the entrance, Qrow feels the ground shake. Then, as if only to stop the question of whether or not that movement was just in Qrow’s head before it is even asked, howl after howl pierces through the winds.

Looks like they’ve finally found those Grimm. 

Qrow grabs Harbinger, and he hears Kingfisher’s string whip as Clover pulls it out.

They take two slow steps towards the Grimm.

The Grimm take three quick steps towards them.

And then the battle begins.

Clover attaches Kingfisher to the top of the cave, swinging into one of the Grimm with a powerful kick. Just like that, it goes down.

Wasn’t this supposed to be hard?

But before Qrow can celebrate Clover’s victory, he’s forced to deal with a battle of his own. 

Harbinger becomes a scythe and slashes two Grimm’s faces with the first swing alone. The second one does both of them in with a transparent slice. 

It’s only as they disappear into nothingness that Qrow realizes that there’s one more left.

He turns and halts his scythe’s momentum mid-swing, but while he does get the Grimm, the Grimm gets its revenge just before it leaves the mortal coil.

Instantly, Qrow feels himself dropping weight by the pounds. 

The only thing is though that he’s not injured. 

With his free hand, Qrow feels for his backpack, only to find torn fabric and air instead. He turns in the opposite direction just in time to see the contents of his backpack flow in the tundra just before disappearing from sight.

Qrow looks behind him, and upon seeing no more Grimm, immediately takes off his backpack, which is now about as light as air.

Almost everything is gone. His canteen and a single ration remain, only bound to the pieces of fabric on his backpack still left intact by pure chance.

But everything else?

The flare, his matches, his flashlight...his sleeping bag?

They’re not just gone -- they may as well not even exist now for all the chance Qrow has of getting them back.

Just his luck.

And speaking of…

Clover approaches, telling him that the Grimm are gone. He gives Qrow a puzzling look upon seeing him standing so forlornly, but it only seems to take a moment for him to connect the dots. His mouth forms an ‘o’ shape, but he doesn’t say anything, simply signaling that they should enter the cave. Despite his frustration, Qrow appreciates it. What honestly could he say? Clover’s the problem solving type, but some problems don’t have solutions. 

Most of his bag is gone now, and unless there’s a crazy twist of fate that not even Clover’s luck could manage, none of it is coming back. There really isn’t much to say there, much less solve.

So they go inside the cave, just as the darkness of the cloud-filled night grows deeper. 

Clover uses the matches and kindling in his own bag to light a fire, and he and Qrow sit across from each other.

Qrow wraps his arms around himself, feeling tatters in his jacket and feathers flying off into the tundra, just as most of his supplies did.

Grimm really are the worst pests this hellhole they call Remnant have to offer.

Crap. He’s freezing, and the night’s only getting darker and colder.

Though Qrow takes pride in his strength and endurance, a night in freezing temperatures like this would give anyone a case of frostbite they’d never forget. 

For God’s sake! Even Clover’s unashamedly clinging to his own jacket!

If that isn’t telling of the direness of their situation, nothing is.

Qrow knows Clover’s going to offer him his sleeping bag, but he’s not comfortable at all with taking it. It likely wouldn’t even keep him warm enough, and there’d be no point in both of them freezing to death out here. 

Speaking of, his sleeping blanket is the next thing Clover pulls out of his bag. It’s large and when it’s removed from his bag, it deflates like a balloon.

Clover begins to unravel the sleeping bag from its bindings, and Qrow can tell he’s just about to offer it to him, but as he unravels it, it begins to show that it’s far larger than expected. Surprised, Qrow and Clover look at it in disbelief, then at each other, and then back to the sleeping bag. 

Now, out of room to safely spread it out, Clover drags the sleeping bag further from the fire and continues opening it. When it’s finally fully unraveled, they see that it is indeed rather large.

In fact, it might even be large enough to fit two people in it. 

They’re both housing the same thought, and Qrow silently nods at the proposal Clover gives him with only his eyes.

There’s no room for debate – the cave provides shelter, but it’s minimal. If Qrow isn’t given more protection against the winds, who knows what will happen to him?

Qrow’s got too much to live for to refuse whatever will keep him alive. 

Maybe one of those things is the very man he’ll be sharing a sleeping bag with tonight. 

It doesn’t make the idea of sharing one feel any less awkward than it is. 

But neither speak of that very awkwardness that this arrangement brings, least of all Clover. He’s as casual about it as he ever is about anything. Qrow’s sure Clover knows by now how much of a comfort that is for him. He can’t state enough how much he appreciates Clover for not making a big deal out of it. 

There’s not much of a preamble before it’s time to get in the sleeping bag. They share a quick meal, consisting of one of the rations they have each and a few swigs of the water in their canteens. The entire time, Qrow feels his head practically buzzing, but pushes back against the sensation -- just enough to keep it at bay, at least.

When it’s finally time to get into the bag, with a wave of his hand, Clover offers Qrow the chance to enter first and get settled in. Qrow nods and crawls inside. Instantly, two feelings hit him: warmth and disappointment in the lack of warmth relative to his expectations. It’s fine, but he imagined the sleeping bag would make him feel just a bit toastier. 

Of course, there’s no doubt they’ll both survive the night in its confines, but he has to wonder just how much of the chill will make its way through the flimsier-than-he-hoped bag.

But any further questions Qrow has about their resistance to the elements dies in his throat as Clover makes his way into the sleeping bag beside him. 

Fuck, he’s warm.

He’s so, so warm.

It’s literally the difference between night and day, as if Clover’s sheer presence teleports them from the frigid hellhole that is Atlas to the sweltering heat of Vacuo. 

And now, rather than worrying about freezing solid, Qrow’s more worried about melting into the ground, because if Clover Ebi provides him with so much as another degree of heat, he gives himself about a 50% chance of turning into magma.

Because of the strength of the winds and still-piling snow, the weather all but dictates for them to face each other as they sleep. Though there’s some space between their bodies, Clover’s arms can’t help but make casual contact with his own as they settle into their position. Clover tries to apologize for this, but Qrow casually dismisses the concerns.

How Qrow manages to do that would impress no one who has ever known him more than it does himself.

The distance between them, or rather, lack thereof, deprives Qrow of breath for a good ten seconds.

Physically speaking, they’re closer than they’ve ever been before. If they were to both push back as far as they could, they would probably have nearly a foot between them.

But neither of them do this, so they’re at most six inches away from each other.

There’s no hyperbole in saying that it takes each and every survival instinct Qrow has to will his blush away and resume normal breathing.

Qrow thanks Clover for sharing the sleeping bag, space for him or not. To this, Clover grins and drops a charming line like he always does, a line that prompts Qrow to give one of his own. For the next few minutes, they repeat the process, banter flowing between them like it has dozens of times by now. 

It’s nice.

Eventually, their quips relax and they wish each other a ‘good night.’ Not long after that, Clover falls asleep.

Qrow’s anxious. He’s almost too anxious for words. 

He supposes that’s a good thing, since he can’t say any of them with Clover so close to him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Qrow was just barely getting used to the idea of sleeping in the same close vicinity as Clover. 

And now they’re sharing a sleeping bag.

How does someone who barely feels like he can sleep in the same room as another person now do so while sharing a sleeping bag with one?

For God’s sake, Qrow can feel Clover’s hot breath on his even hotter face.

Everything feels intense. It’s like everything he imagined he was going to feel has been accentuated, but new emotions are now added to the pile. It’s not just worrying over what vulnerabilities he can unintentionally reveal to Clover in his sleep, it’s a more profound fear over how Clover will receive those vulnerabilities now that they’ll be literally shoved in his face, and how their relationship will change as a result of that, for worse...or possibly for better...

That fear releases an acknowledgement of blossoming feelings of every kind that Qrow’s not sure he’s ready to confront, not just yet.

But it doesn’t change the fact that they’re there nonetheless.

Why can’t this just go slow? 

And why does part of him not want it to?

Damnit, he’s overthinking things, clearly an effect of his exhaustion. 

Qrow forces himself to calm down. He hasn’t slept since before they departed, and he needs to start now. Otherwise, their return to the transport tomorrow will be impossible, no matter what he does in his sleep.

Slow, deep breaths paint Qrow’s nose with Clover’s scent -- strong, hot, largely composed of sweat but still uniquely Clover-smelling, and omnipresent due to their circumstances.

All the same, it’s good. 

It shouldn’t be good. 

It utterly bewilders Qrow that it’s good.

But it is, in fact, good, good enough that it helps Qrow settle down so that he can at last start to welcome sleep to his tired, tired eyes.

And what little Clover’s scent can’t accomplish in sending him off to sleep, Clover’s body heat wraps up with a neat little bow. Laying beside Clover, even in the tundra, is like laying beside a fireplace. If not for the now scarcely present view of the snow he still has, Qrow could imagine that they were anywhere while in this sleeping bag together.

So, lulled by the symphonic mixture of the harsh, abrasive winds and Clover’s loud, yet gentle snores, Qrow at last falls asleep.

()()()()()()()()

While quite a few sounds sing Qrow to sleep, neither are present as his crimson eyes make contact with daybreak.

Qrow doesn’t know how long he slept for when he wakes up, but it was clearly quite a long amount of time. A bright yellow hue from the sun sparkles against the snowy walls of the cave and any smoke from last night’s fire is long gone. 

Clover’s awake. Without even turning to look at his sleepmate, Qrow knows this to be true. There’s a tension Qrow feels in Clover’s back that’s indicative of his regular posture. 

He’s about to tilt his head and talk to Clover, but is stopped in his tracks. 

How is he able to feel muscles in Clover’s back? 

A stark realization hits Qrow. He hasn’t paid mind to his hands nor arms yet since waking up, but he has a worryingly strong suspicion as to where they are.

With all the lightness of a feather as to not clue Clover into what he’s doing, Qrow softly wiggles a finger on his left hand and a finger on his right. 

Both touch a very familiar piece of fabric, one Qrow knows he’s also currently wearing on his person.

But unlike his coat, the coat his fingers feel is in an untarnished state, still just that little bit poofy.

He can feel his elbows and palms form gentle curves around places that make a lot of sense to form curves around.

His arms are folded atop Clover’s backside and his hands are perched upon the upper edges of his torso.

And now that Qrow notices this, he also notices that Clover’s belly and his own are ever-so-gently pressed together.

Oh Gods...

He’s holding Clover.

Screw holding Clover -- he’s full-on cuddling Clover.

Even from within the shock of sharing a sleeping bag with Clover, Qrow developed some semblance of expectations last night. Vulnerabilities and bad habits are hard to mask when one can’t control their actions. Qrow was mentally preparing for that. Maybe he’d accidentally whack Clover in the event of the nightmares he more often than not had. Maybe he’d toss and turn a lot in his sleep. Hell, he’s been told by his nieces and former teammates that he has a tendency to drool from time to time, so that wasn’t entirely off the table. 

But of all the things he was willing to anticipate he’d do, at the very bottom of that list of expectations was to cuddle up to Clover.

That doesn’t change the truth though -- he did cuddle him all the same, and he still is.

Neither he nor Clover have consciously engaged with each other yet. Qrow begins to calculate how he can use that to his advantage. 

With a fake yawn and a “reflexive” stretch, he could free Clover from his grasp without inviting any further awkwardness. 

That’s what Qrow hopes, in any event, and it makes enough sense to be worth a try.

Qrow begins to shift a little in preparation of his plan, but is stopped in his tracks by something pressed up against his back -- two very muscular, and very familiar arms.

It only takes him half a beat to realize they and the hands attached to them are holding Qrow the same way Qrow is presently holding him.

Clover’s cuddling him too.

That realization is at once both a relief and a terror.

The discomfort he sought to escape with his plan is now simultaneously warded off and stronger than ever as his plan lies in ruins, and feelings he elected to ignore last night are just a little bit more insistent in their presence now.

Qrow quickly decides he’s only one man, and thus can only directly take on one of these Remnant-shattering revelations at a time. 

As the fact remains that he and Clover are awake, and neither have addressed the other about this yet, he elects to at last do so.

Whether it’s the right choice or not, especially when he and Clover have each other to themselves in such a way, is a topic to be handled another day.

But all the same, Qrow swallows his shocked features and turns to face Clover directly, finally crossing the threshold of avoidance between them.

Clover looks shocked to see him make the first move, but upon studying Qrow’s relaxed expression for a moment, however artificial it is, relaxes himself as well. 

There’s a certain sense of breathlessness between them in the seconds that follow, as if they’d both just climbed a mountain and not just woken up from an, all things considered, decent sleep. It all feels contradictory -- exhausting, and yet exuberant, calming, and yet vigilant. Mostly though, it all feels a bit awkward, and yet a bit comfortable too because they both feel that same awkwardness. 

And within those contradictions, there’s something nice, something Qrow can’t explain. Maybe, like those feelings that now massage his brain, he doesn’t want to explain it -- not today, anyways -- but he’s content enough just living and relaxing in whatever it is that he and Clover are sharing. 

After all, his worst case scenario just played out, and nothing bad happened between them. 

It could be nice just to kick back and enjoy things for the little time they have right now. 

A long moment passes before their wordless exchange is finally given voice, but it does happen. They do have a tundra to traverse today, after all, and they’ll get no closer to the transport home just lazing around.

Qrow would be lying if he said that he found prospect to be one all that awful.

But all the same, they greet each other for the new day, and he can tell that there’s just a twinge of reluctance in each of their eyes as they leave the sleeping bag. The chill from last night returns in the absence of Clover’s body heat, albeit less harshly now that the previous night’s storm has dispersed.

Looking ahead at today’s challenge, Qrow sees that the outskirts of the cave are bright with a blanket of shimmering snow that stretches as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful, though the songs the winds sing expose the dangers hidden within that beauty.

It’s going to be a long day.

Still, he’s not alone with Clover by his side, and somehow, that fact makes all the difference.

After years of never even considering such a sentiment, it now permeates Qrow’s every step as he and Clover walk through the snow.

He could get used to a partnership like this.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Animal Instinct + Dead Disco | Writing Update

Hey People of Earth!

We’re back with another Moth Work update because ya girl has finished two chapters and is here to spill all the tea! If you missed update one, and two, be sure to check them out before reading this one! I’ve been having a bit of cabin fever with this project lately which has made it difficult to really immerse myself into the project. But we’re almost at the 20k mark of this project which is wILD! I never imagined writing so much of this story (which was initially just a guilty pleasure) and I’m happy with how much I’ve learned about my characters just through this small detour in the series.

The first chapter I’ll be updating on is chapter four, ANIMAL INSTINCT. 

This chapter was a giant pain to finish! It had about 5000 revisions mid-draft, and I definitely feel like I had blinkers on when writing it. Because of that, I lost sight of the big picture and really got stuck on the little things, like the writing and overall quality of the project. This was not actually the purpose of Moth Work--it was supposed to be a dumping ground for whatever. However, in this chapter, I became really hyperfocused on all the small details I disliked which made drafting it a month-long process. I’ve now come to a slightly healthier place with quality in this draft, and found a middle ground between trash-dumping and nitpicking. 

What’s it about?

Animal Instinct is a major point of tension for Lonan and Harrison as their goals deviate. This chapter focuses heavily on the volatility of their relationship and highlights Lonan’s current irrational mental state. The title stems from this idea of calculated action for the sake of a single person’s benefit. 

The writing bit: 

I struggled to write this chapter quite a bit. It took me the majority of July to complete because of a major logic problem I kept running into. After struggling for a few days, I finally realized by fleshing out what I’d written initially, I could overwrite the logic problem. The solution took a lot of work/test scenes to figure out, but eventually I got it!

Excerpts:

I shared this excerpt before because it’s one of the only paragraphs I don’t mind in this chapter! I think the flow is a lil funky but I dig the concept! This outlines the last bits of the cabin, specifically Harrison’s final check around the perimeter. 

Around the corner, the back patio is static—like Anna and her son never stopped sitting there. Her bowl of avocado and Greek yogurt—the holistic remedy Emily said would make her glow like an angel—sits gummy and pestered with flies. One of Milo’s toys is wedged under the cheap lawn chair. It haunts him, seeing them while not seeing them, but he leaves everything like it is. Anna and her son will always remain on the patio, Anna with her cheekbones splayed for the moon, Milo babbling mildly about his father like he hasn’t made the connection. They’ve gone invisible.  

After this first scene, Harrison does some driving in the dark which gives me major book three vibes lol, and eventually pulls into a motel somewhere in Nevada. This route from Oregon to Boston makes no sense but I conveniently needed Lonan to end up in Vegas, so!! do it for Vegas!!

In the motel, Harrison meets Jeremiah, his potential new man lol. Harrison is focused on getting in and out of there as quickly as possible, but he’s like dang mans teeth are the straightest I ever did see (me too tho). Because he gets distracted, he fails to notice his car turn off, and only makes the connection after passing it a few times in the parking lot. He minorly paniques as he looks for Lonan, but eventually finds him around the building. 

The scene that follows gets volatile as heck, and really showcases how similar Lonan and Reeve are? Like dang that whole family tho? (Can I join?)

I’m not going to share much of this scene because she gets dramatic, but this is the wildest dialogue I’ve written in a while and I think I’m going to steal it and make Reeve say it because something like this would come out of her mouth:

“Do you feel that, Harrison? I could burn you with a cigarette and call it a wolf bite and nobody would know the difference.” 

sounds normal at first then NOPE

The next chapter (chapter 5) is called Dead Disco:

This chapter came together very quickly because I’d had it basically planned out, however, it veered into an emotional direction I wasn’t expecting. This chapter was supposed to be fun and lighthearted, and it ended up being... not that??  

What’s it about?

After the tragic drama that occurs in the previous chapter, Harrison wakes up the next morning to notice that Lonan has #left and #taken the car. This is v/ not good, but instead of getting super worked up he chooses to chill out at Jeremiah’s place and chill ft. some disco. I meant for it to be cute but Harrison ends up in a mental place I wasn’t expecting, so the chapter feels a bit “derealized” to me. After both Lonan and Harrison head out on their solo endeavors, they meet back up and this encounter ends *badly*. 

Playlist:

July 31st Rachel was feeling very enthusiastic about the playlist for this chapter (I was writing while listening to music) and wrote down a list of songs that describe the progression of this chapter (in order + all Nothing But Thieves because predictable!):

Holding Out For A Hero

Crazy

Afterlife

Hanging

Excuse Me

Forever & Ever More

You Know Me Too Well

I’m Not Made By Design

Amsterdam

Number 13

Itch

Hostage

BUT SHOUTOUT TO: Disco by Surf Curse

Probably the most accurate vibe here lol

Excerpts:

This first excerpt is Harrison angsting hard about missing his friends. I don’t *love* her but I don’t *hate* her! I tried revising it but it... flopped, so here’s the failed revision:

Lonan could say those words and it haunts him, how easily he taints him like a bad omen. There are so many things Emily would tell him to do to cleanse the bad magic, but Harrison recalls none of them properly. He remembers words like moon, and black walnut, and quartz crystal, and cardamom, but can’t think of what to do with any. He wishes he were like Foster, curious enough to carry around a pocket dictionary, or like his mother, clever enough to make something up on a whim. All Harrison can do is bury his face in his palms outside the restaurant and hope no one watches him. The main road bustles by and he wishes to be invisible, like Anna and her son. He wants his friends back. Foster could lull him to consciousness with a quiz on the different kinds of plants, which are edible, which are poisonous. Reeve would split a cigarette with him and scare him back to life with her driving. Emily will never speak to him but at least she’d cast a curse on him, and even that’s better than his nullified state of living. It’s disorienting, to feel asleep while awake. Harrison blinks hard, but everything feels the same—the buildings all shimmering, the people staring barely even people, everything derealized like it’s all been coated in REM. 

(tag urself i’m foster’s pocket dictionary)

This next excerpt outlines Harrison getting turnt with his new man and then getting philosophical? drunk Harrison be Aristotle and Madonna smushed together idk

Harrison knows he shouldn’t drink around a stranger but Jeremiah’s got a handmade bracelet and scribbly tattoos on his forearm so it’s hard not to trust him. Photo prints of hostels in Japan, statues in Europe, cathedrals in Paraguay decorate the walls in perfectly cut rectangles. Each is plumed with a dried flower and it reminds Harrison so much of Emily, he has to look away, back to the Lonan-coloured drink. He studies the shot glass like it isn’t transparent, the grooves around the perimeter, the engraving that reads Cancun 1987. He loses Jeremiah’s absent swish around him, and gets lost in the blue. The trifecta amazes him, how a colour as unnatural as this has manifested in Lonan’s eyes, his earring, this drink. He tips the glass back and finishes it in one go, and even though it’s strong and should taste like artificial blueberries, his mouth is tasteless and numb.

“You live here alone?” Harrison asks, raking his fingers through his hair. The apartment overlooks the strip across the street and Harrison gets lost in it, the artificial signs like bad advertising, the neons ill like influenza. When he looks toward Jeremiah again, his glass is refilled and he has to think hard to remember if he emptied it in the first place. 

This is where Harrison manages to make disco big sad + some lowkey salt at Lonan which is always! a! win!:

Together, they move in a trance, limber and manic. The glass in Harrison’s hand isn’t a weight—it’s a lifeline. The apartment blurs, and waves in slow motion. Harrison doesn’t hear the music or taste the drink; he feels nothing in the ground, and everything in his tongue. His hair swims in his face like Lonan’s, moving like he did in the water, careless in his forehead, his eyes. The pictures on the wall become the pictures in his bedroom, and the blinking doesn’t get rid of them. In his sidesteps with Jeremiah he sees him, in the glass, across the street, under a streetlamp. Taking his cigarettes, his light, his car, his mouth like a cannibal. 

To end this update, here’s some dialogue ft. savagery:

“You’re patronizing me.”

“You’re patronizing yourself.” 

A meme to accompany this lol:

So that’s it for this update! At the time of drafting most of this post (which was a few weeks ago), I wasn’t really feeling this project, however, after writing chapter 6 and switching POVs into Lonan’s head (where there’s lots of messy stuff to work with), I’ve been having a lot of fun!

I’m sorry updates have been slow on this blog--I’m in the process of moving so I’m getting busy, however, I hope to post at least one more update before I go off to school! Thanks for reading. :)

--Rachel

[deliayi]

Long story short, I’ve never been the biggest fan of Royal Enfield motorcycles, even though I learned to ride on one. Sure, it was big, burly and entirely different from the rest of the econo-commuters available in India when I was coming of age, but that wasn’t saying much. When it came time to buying my first bike – a critical time of flux for me personally – it was a toss-up between a Machismo and the fast, dangerous, economically suicidal RD350. With all that was going on in my life at the time, I didn’t want to compromise. I wanted what I wanted. I bought the Yamaha, met a girl, married her, met many credit cards, spent them all on the bike and twenty years later, the story continues. Well, mostly.

The Meteor 350 that I’ve been riding is the successor to the Thunderbird, which was by all accounts, a great success for Royal Enfield. To me, however, it was a bit awkward, pretending to be something it was not – a proper cruiser. From the spy shots that have been floating around the Internet, the Meteor looked much the same, but I’m happy to say that it isn’t. Not by a long shot. Unlike previous models from the legendary manufacturer, the Meteor only borrows an old marque; everything else is quite new.

Royal Enfield is cool (again?)

The myth, aura and credit due to Royal Enfield motorcycles, frankly, are a product of fortuity. The Bullet tugs at the heartstrings because it has always been there. It has endured nearly unchanged for half a century, and even the most Vulcan of rational thinkers would succumb to nostalgia when talking about that old 350 or 500 their uncle/friend/lover had at some point. But in the last decade or so, there’s been a sea-change in the way the company looks at, and projects itself. Walk into a Royal Enfield showroom and it feels like a lifestyle brand. The apparel and gear are carefully curated, and go with the ethos of their retro/classic motorcycles. As does the dapper CEO, who made the pitch for the new bike in a cinematic video shot while he rode the bike in bright red gloves and boots. The film too had the right tone, look and messaging. It feels aspirational, not agrarian.

That’s not to say that RE has gone so far upmarket as to lose touch with the machismo that they so incite. On my way home with the bike, I was accosted by two lorry and one rickshaw driver, all of whom knew that this was the Meteor and it was to be launched on the sixth of November. Enfield comms department: take a bow.

The Meteor 350 is an all-new motorcycle

Knowing Royal Enfield’s history, it is hard to stress this enough. The company is steeped in tradition, and that can hold things back against the march of progress. But time carries on, and with it have come many sweeping differences in the new motorcycle. The Meteor uses a new frame, an entirely new engine, new switchgear, lighting, ergonomics and tech. India’s strict BS6 emissions norms have meant tectonic shifts in the Indian automotive space, and 2-wheelers are no exception. The new 349cc motor forms a strong base for what is likely to be a raft of future motorcycles. Gone are pushrods, replaced with a single overhead camshaft. Primary drive is now geared, there’s a balancer shaft to keep things smooth and the gearbox is slick and traditional (with a shifter on the left side).

The frame has two down-tubes now, cradling the motor, but not quite. The engine is not a stressed member of the chassis. Suspension is traditional, but beefy. 41mm forks up front, with twin shocks at the back. The rider triangle is laid back, with forward-set footpegs that put your weight roundly on your bum, and the torso in a tall, commanding position.

If you don’t know what all this means, think of it this way: the old Enfields felt like a coalition government, while the Meteor 350 feels more like a benevolent dictatorship. Things are tight and run together as a unit. It feels like any other motorcycle, with no excuses needed about ‘character’.

A word about tech

As a (mostly) tech journalist, this was the biggest surprise to me. Royal Enfield has supplied a secondary display unit called the ‘Tripper’ on all variants of the Meteor 350. The screen serves as a turn-by-turn navigation unit when paired with your smartphone. It is excellent. Traditionally, I expect very little in terms of tech from an automotive manufacturer. They just seem tone-deaf most of the time. Not so with the Tripper. It is excellent in execution, and as RE is at pains to explain, provides only the information you need and nothing more.

Once you plot a route in the Royal Enfield smartphone app – which uses Google Maps as a base – you simply punch ‘Navigate’ and turn-by-turn directions are displayed in the little pod to the left of the main console. Arrows indicate the direction of your route, and supplementary, minimal info informs you of lane suggestions. The routing is smart enough to let you know specifically when to take the road below the flyover and not climb it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to mix laxative in the KTM watercooler for their garbage navigation.

This is very, very new for the Royal Enfield we know. Considering that this is a first attempt, and it gets so much right, I’m excited to see what they do next!

The Meteor 350 looks like an old motorcycle

The design of the Meteor is far too similar to that of the outgoing Thunderbird series. In fact, all the spy shots over the past few months made it look like a sticker job more than a new motorcycle. While the lines are more refined, I think Royal Enfield perhaps missed an opportunity to make this otherwise fresh motorcycle stand out.

A cursory glance hides so much that’s new. The double down-tube frame, for instance, is easily missed. The side profile is very familiar, as is the characteristic shape of the frame. It is clearly intentional, and in this case, very conservative. The rake is a degree tighter and the rear mudguard quite thick, giving the impression of a stubby, squashed motorcycle, not the laid-back cruiser vibe they’re selling.

One must give it to them for attention to detail, however. Everything does flow quite nicely. I was particularly impressed with the rider’s view. The handlebar grips are retro, as are the clutch and brake levers. Even the console, while a hybrid analogue/digital unit, doesn’t look out of place. Royal Enfield is quite proud of their rotary toggle switches as you’d have had on old British motorcycles. It just doesn’t work as well on the left side for the passing switch. More on that latter. All in all, impressive once you pay attention, as the company hopes their faithful will.

The Meteor 350 goes like a modern motorcycle

... or a close approximation of one, considering what it is. Sticking to its heritage of making a tried-and-tested 350cc motor, Royal Enfield has taken very calculated steps into 2020 with this venerable warhorse. To pass BS6 legislation, the motor now uses a modern, traditional valvetrain and a catcon to keep the smoke clean. They’ve even managed to retain some (but not all) of the iconic thump that one expects of a Bullet variant.

On the go, things feel tight, cohesive. The front and rear aren’t telling your mind different things at the same time. Twist and go, really. I found the Meteor 350 to be exceptional in the city, betraying none of its 191kg wet weight. The fuel injection feels accurate, not lean and edgy, so your right wrist is in harmony with the progress of the bike. It feels light, almost nimble in traffic, and the suspension makes short work of rough roads. The general consensus seems to be that the Meteor feels stiff to aid handling, but this was not my experience. The 19” front wheel adds to it’s rough road readiness.

The 20-odd horsepower propelling this mass won’t deliver relaxed triple-digit cruising, but the 27Nm of torque ensures that you never really want for extra poke in the city. Overtakes and launches from traffic lights are now possible, not just noisy. The engine does start running out of steam past 100kmph so while it’s going to be better than its older 350cc brethren, it’s still not a fast mile-muncher. And most will tell you that it isn’t supposed to be. As a relaxed highway cruiser, it will work fine, I think, especially two-up.

The new motor will surprise you with its refinement more than its performance. The primary balancer shaft ensures a surprisingly vibe-free experience, even as the revs rise and you go faster. This should make for a more comfortable long-hauler, since your hands and feet will tingle less than on earlier Royal Enfield motorcycles. It’s nowhere as smooth as their twins, however. Brakes are okay. The discs are a generous size and get the job done, but feel is lacking from the front. It does its thing but conveys little. The ABS is dual-channel, so no pinching paisas here.

There are some compromises for form against function on the Meteor. The switchgear is wonderfully retro, but you need your thumb to flash your high beam. This means you can’t honk and flash at the same time, something many do for extra safety. The levers too have this period look to them, but they’re not kind on thin fingers like mine. And while the plush seat feels comfortable at first try, with forward-set footpegs, there is no chance of taking any weight onto your legs. Spotted a nasty pothole too late? Get off the brakes and brace for spinal compression. Your back will take the brunt of impact right through your tailbone. I heard this feedback on more than one occasion, but it’s part of the whole foot-forward cruising design. It’s a thing. It’s just not the ideal thing.

The Meteor 350 can be specifically yours

Available in three variants: Fireball, Stellar and Supernova, the bikes are identical save for paint schemes and accessories. Ah, the accessories. So. Many. Accessories. Royal Enfield offers the top variant with a windshield and pillion backrest, and you can pick from no less than six accessory mufflers, each with a different sound and look. No more raiding the aftermarket for loud (illegal) exhaust units, which can be a liability in some states with aggressive policing. Thankfully, the excellent ‘Tripper’ navigation system is standard across variants.

Apart from the Interceptor 650, there isn’t another Royal Enfield motorcycle I’d rather ride than the Meteor 350. It’s a nice, rewarding ride with few compromises. I’d just as quickly jump onto it for a short trip around town as my KTM. For longer journeys, the only thing holding me back would be its lack of speed.

The Meteor 350 is based on an all-new platform, one that will be the base of many future models. Starting at Rs 1.76 lac, buyers can now comfortably indulge their Royal Enfield fantasies, without making too many excuses to their friends who ride bikes that start every single time. The smiles and appreciation from lorry drivers are free.

[allenmendezsr]

Hemorrhoids Horror Healed

New Post has been published on https://autotraffixpro.app/allenmendezsr/hemorrhoids-horror-healed/

Hemorrhoids Horror Healed

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    Is there an ongoing pain or discomfort that a person can suffer that is worse than hemorrhoids?

I suppose there must be.

But I can’t think of what it might be.

I reckon I have a higher than average pain tolerance. I generally take discomfort quite well. I’m no complainer.

But sometimes the pain after a bowel movement hurt so much it made my eyes water.

And getting relief was next to impossible. Creams and ointments can only cope with so much… when the pain was at its worst, even lying down gave me no relief.

I don’t have hemorrhoids anymore. I got rid of them just over two years ago and they’ve never come back.

They’re not going to either.

Which, I realize, is a bold statement. How can I be so sure?

That’s easy. The method I used worked so quickly that it was clearly the cause of my hemorrhoids disappearing. I had stumbled on something that genuinely tackled those horrible things head-on.

After 3 weeks my hemorrhoids had reduced to almost nothing. Before finally disappearing for good.

There’s no accident here. Something that gets results so quickly has to be doing something right.

So when they finally disappeared I just knew they weren’t coming back.

And I was right.

Believe me, I tried everything you’ve ever tried.

And for 2 long years I tried it.

The creams and ointments…. Forget it. It took me a while to realize what was going on here but in the end I got it: ointments are simply addressing the symptoms.

They don’t stop the hemorrhoids coming back the next day.

I tried eating more fiber. It’s not as easy as it might sound. I got tired of salads and forcing myself to eat more vegetables.

I figured that some veggies would be better for my hemorrhoids than others… but I didn’t know which ones it might be. But despite eating everything in sight I didn’t really notice any change in the way I went to the toilet.

And the pain just went on.

I went to hospital for banding. If you’ve not heard of banding it’s a procedure where they tie bands around each hemorrhoid (I’m not kidding you). The resulting lack of blood flow to the hemorrhoid causes it to wither and fall off.

That worked for a while. It left me with a skin tag but that caused no problems. But over the next 4 months the hemorrhoids came back – with a vengeance. They were actually slightly worse than ever.

So then it was THD – transanal hemorrhoidal dearterialization. I was told this would be relatively pain-free.

I believed it. I shouldn’t have.

True, I did suffer some complications – all procedures carry risk – but I had a month of pain beyond description. I preferred the hemorrhoids, to be honest.

THD was my last procedure. When the hemorrhoids returned I more or less gave up on a cure.

So I carried on suffering all the frustrations that you’re probably experiencing now

Discomfort going to the toilet.

Real, sometimes searing pain afterward. For hours on end.

Bleeding. Which always worried me because of the risk of infection. I mean, an open wound in an area like that… I think you get what I mean.

Lack of mobility. I couldn’t walk comfortably or bend down at all when my hemorrhoids were at their worst. Trouble was, their worse became more and more frequent…

Hygiene… let’s not go too much into that. But you know and I know how difficult it can be to properly clean oneself when you’re swollen and in pain. There’s not much dignity to be had, that’s for sure.

Itchiness. I was luckier in that regard. But when it did itch, well… it itches like crazy.

Having to plan toilet visits so the pain afterward didn’t coincide with a social or work event. There’s no discomfort like having to smile at people, be physically active in ways you don’t want to be, be alert and attentive while you’re painfully swollen and, possibly, bleeding at the same time…

Finally, that permanent background fear of going to the toilet. Knowing, as I did, that it wasn’t going to be nice afterward.

Is any of this familiar to you?

If it is then I feel for you. I know what you’re going through.

At one point my doctor told me that I would probably have to live with the condition.

His advice? Readjust your idea of what it means to live ‘pain-free’.

In other words, take the level of pain and misery that your hemorrhoids are giving you… and try to regard that as your new ‘normal’.

I think that was one of the genuine low points in my time with hemorrhoids. That was one of the moments in which I wondered if I could really put up with this for the rest of my life.

Then… something happened

I can’t claim I did something clever or insightful.

It was no stroke of genius on my part.

In fact, I only got rid of my hemorrhoids by a stroke of luck really.

After more than 2 years of trying out everything that doctors advised me to try… I’d resigned myself to simply managing the pain. Just like my doctor had suggested.

I stopped hoping for a remedy because frankly… I didn’t believe there was one.

But the one thing I did continue to do – now and again – was read some online health forums.

And that’s where I struck gold.

One old forum I used to like had an entire thread devoted to the problems of hemorrhoids.

It felt comforting at times to read other people’s experience of the condition.

Made me feel less alone.

Because I found having hemorrhoids is quite isolating. I was embarrassed about it to some extent.

It’s not a pleasant thing to describe. How do you tell a person who has no experience of it what it’s really like?

For some people it’s a funny condition. Amusing, even.

Which is both infuriating and dispiriting.

Anyway, on one of the few occasions I logged in and read people’s comments I saw they were going on about alternative remedies for hemorrhoids.

I’m not really into all this ‘alternative’ stuff.

After all, doctors train for years. If they can’t cure something then, so far as I am concerned (or, more accurately, so far as I used to be concerned) that means it can’t be cured.

Right?

Well, perhaps not…

Gradually, the penny dropped….

I read the thread and, in truth, I was intrigued by what some of the contributors were saying about the underlying causes of hemorrhoids.

In particular a couple of people mentioned an approach to hemorrhoids they had taken that had made a startling difference to their condition.

There was endless conversation over it in the forum but the nub of the matter was this:

Hemorrhoids is caused. It doesn’t just happen. We get it for a reason.

If you can identify actual causes you have a fighting chance of remedying the condition itself.

I realized there and then the creams and hospital treatments I’d tried were tackling symptoms, not causes.

They addressed the hemorrhoids you’ve actually got rather than the condition that’s making them happen in the first place.

And here’s what this means to every single person currently suffering the pain of hemorrhoids:

Standard creams and treatments leave the causes of your hemorrhoids in place.

And if you leave the causes in place guess what? You get the symptoms again.

Swelling. Itching. Bleeding. Pain.

What they were saying in this forum was that, like many physical conditions, hemorrhoids are caused by some of the simplest activities known to man or woman, namely:

What we eat

How we move

Most of us have some pretty unhelpful habits in these two areas. If we also have a susceptibility to hemorrhoids then these bad habits will ensure we get those hemorrhoids.

Now, at first I was both excited and a bit deflated by that news.

For one thing, I don’t want diet advice – I really can’t stand diets. I’ve tried a couple in the past and they really don’t suit me.

And I certainly don’t want an exercise program. All those silly moves and jumping about. It just isn’t me.

Turns out though that it’s not like that at all.

And that added to my underlying sense of excitement.

I was reading in that forum about people who’d had painful, long-lasting hemorrhoids for years… but who were getting rid of them in weeks.

There were two main contributors to the discussion in this forum: a lady who had successfully got rid of her hemorrhoids using this approach.

And a man who had only been using the approach for a couple of weeks. His hemorrhoids had shrunk to almost nothing – they were nearly gone.

The lady told us that although she had lost 7 pounds in a month she had eaten more food than she had ever eaten before.

So no diet then. Which was good news for me.

Anyway, weight-loss is just a happy side effect. Weight-loss isn’t the point of this approach.

Here’s the real point:

There are two really, really bad habits that are strong contributors to hemorrhoids.

If you acquired hemorrhoids due to heavy lifting or through pregnancy then these two bad habits are going to make it very difficult for you to shift them.

If you already are naturally susceptible to hemorrhoids then these two bad habits make it almost certain you’ll get them. And you may well get them really bad.

To repeat:

The first bad habit is around what we eat.

The second bad habit is around how we move.

And to cut to the chase:

We eat the wrong stuff.

And we move too little – or we move enough but not in the right way.

Both are very easy to remedy. Much, much easier than I imagined, actually.

I’ll explain it here:

Bad Habit 1 – I was eating the wrong stuff

To be honest, I like my food and don’t really want to change my eating habits.

But get this: modern medical science has stated this for decades: food is medicine.

(Ancient medicine has known it for centuries – but that’s a different discussion).

In other words, all the different natural foods have their own protective and healing properties.

Food has known and measurable effects on us.

So although we tend to eat for pleasure the truth is we can direct our eating towards specific, well-defined goals.

Like removing hemorrhoids.

How do we do that?

Well, the mechanics of hemorrhoids are well-known: they include unhealthy bowel movements, weak blood vessels and severe inflammation.

At the same time, the properties of different foods are also very well-understood: anti-inflammatory, promote very efficient bowel movements, strengthens blood vessels, reduces swelling, relieve pain, and so on.

Food choices are hemorrhoids choices

When you look at the scientifically evidenced health-giving properties of natural foods you end up realizing…

…that there are many foods that seem to have been almost purposely designed to relieve and remove hemorrhoids.

One of the reasons I suffered my hemorrhoids for so long was that I didn’t know which foods they were.

I wonder if that’s the case for you too?

Because it’s all very well endlessly stuffing fiber down your throat – but if more fiber was the answer nobody would have hemorrhoids, would they?

We have to be smarter than that.

Understanding which foods directly affect hemorrhoids means we can take control of the condition and do something about it.

For example, some types of fiber have much, much better anti-hemorrhoids effects than others.

That’s the fiber we want to be eating.

Other foods contain natural astringents and anthocyanins – both these decrease hemorrhoid swelling and so reduce that awful pain. Again, we’d want to make absolutely certain we’re getting these foods in our diet.

Yet other foods specifically combat coagulation and inflammation within the circulatory system – primary causes of the development of swollen, painful blood vessels.

And so on.

Combining the very best medicinal and curative foods has an unavoidably positive effect on hemorrhoids. You can’t help but get better if you’re eating the range of foods whose effect is to make you better.

It is intelligent to focus on foods that can end this hemorrhoid misery for us. That’s the approach those people in the online forum were taking.

Bad Habit 2 – I was moving wrong

The second habit is to do with movement.

I thought at first that meant ‘exercise’ but it doesn’t. Not in the sense that you and I understand exercise, anyway.

The basic bad habit here is this:

we sit too much and move too little.

Both of these are significant factors in your hemorrhoids pain.

As a typical westerner I spend way too much time sitting.

Sure, I walk here and there – but that’s usually for minutes at a time.

Whereas I sit – on the sofa, at a desk, in my car, on the bus – for hours.

Sitting too long is very bad for hemorrhoids.

(As a side-note: too much sitting – which two-thirds of Americans are guilty of – also raises your risk of heart disease, diabetes, stroke, high blood pressure, and high cholesterol.)

So we need to move a bit.

But not all movement is equal.

All that weight training stuff… getting all sweaty, straining… doing sit-ups every day… that’s not helping at all.

In fact, certain types of strenuous exercise is shown categorically to make hemorrhoids worse.

Movement that eases the causes of hemorrhoid pain is gentle movement. They’re nurturing.

In fact, you can perform those movements while you’re watching television.

There’s no jumping about. No special equipment.

Perform the right movements and you’re giving your body the healing that it craves.

A lot of this has been known elsewhere for centuries. We just haven’t been making proper use of it.

Now we can. I did. And I’m so so glad that I did…

Address these two bad habits, get rid of hemorrhoids

So these two bad habits around eating the wrong foods and not moving enough (in the right way) are the reason your hemorrhoids continue to have such a miserable – and, possibly, worsening – effect on you.

So address your eating habits and you’ve stopped doing the things that make hemorrhoids possible.

Eat the specific foods that directly tackle the different aspects of hemorrhoids and you’ve taken away hemorrhoids’ ability to exist in the first place.

Perform a couple of gentle movements that help those hemorrhoids fade away.

And you’re done.

I maintain these simple but powerful habits to this day. I have not had a single instance of anything even remotely like hemorrhoids for a year.

I honestly don’t expect to experience them ever again.

So.. what about you?

If you realized you could say ‘goodbye’ forever to hemorrhoids… would you make these basic changes to your daily habits?

Is getting rid of that pain worth it?

Yes, it is! But… how?

Okay, so the key to all of this is, of course: how the heck do we put this all together?

Well, that is a trick question…

Because I already know the answer.

The lady on the chat forum who had successfully got rid of her hemorrhoids – and the gentleman who was in the process of doing the same – happened to both be following the same program.

They told us about the program and how it worked for them.

The program is called the Hemorrhoids Healing Protocol and it has been created, tested and proven by Scott Davis.

It turns out that Scott is a well-regarded alternative health practitioner. He concentrates on the causes of various conditions. He then applies non-drug, non-surgery treatments for those causes.

Scott’s approach to remedying unpleasant but persistent conditions is pretty simple, really.

Successfully tackling the causes of a condition means you’ve successfully got rid of the condition. Which makes sense: without the causes there can be no condition, can there?

His Hemorrhoids Healing Protocol is designed to remedy the specific bad habits around food and movement that directly cause the condition in the first place.

A long story cut short: I was so determined to get shot of my miserable condition that I bought Scott’s Hemorrhoids Healing Protocol that morning.

It’s not like me to be so spontaneous. But these damn things had made my life miserable and if there was a chance of making them disappear I was willing to go for it.

I got rid of these awful hemorrhoids of mine in under a month. They’ve never returned.

I have zero swelling, zero bleeding, zero itching… and absolutely zero pain.

It wasn’t an immediate fix. But it was a quick fix.

It took about 3 weeks for things to clear up. Certainly before a month was out I was pretty much a new – and significantly happier – person.

So what does this involve?

There are some obvious – and understandable – questions you might have about Scott’s protocol.

Such as:

What is it?

What do I do to make it work?

Am I going to have to change my life in order to do this?

I’m time-poor and cash-strapped – is this expensive? Does it take long?

Let me just answer these clearly – and bluntly – and let you decide if it’s for you.

Put simply, the protocol addresses those two bad habits I mentioned:

first, not eating foods that are known to directly reduce and remove the causes of hemorrhoids.

And, second, not moving in ways that, basically, ease and then reduce them.

First, the food aspect:

Scott describes the precise foods that act directly on the weaknesses that cause hemorrhoids.

He treats food as medicine – which is what it really is – and shows you the foods that remedy hemorrhoids.

He turns those foods into easy-to-prepare but very tasty recipes. They’re quick to prepare too – Scott realizes that if they take too much prep time people simply won’t do them.

If you aren’t a natural cook – or your culinary skills are only basic – you’ll no doubt be pleased to hear this.

On a personal note, one thing that I was most happy about was that this isn’t a diet!

So I ate as much as I liked. (But if you’re underweight check with your doctor before starting – some people report some fat-loss with this protocol.)

Also, none of these foods are exotic items that you’ve never heard of.

They’re all available in your local supermarket. Some of them you might not previously have tried but they’re widely available.

And because they’re easy to source they’re not at all expensive. You don’t have to go to specialist outlets to acquire them.

So – easy to find foods, simple ways of turning them into delicious meals, inexpensive and tasty. There are no portion restrictions and you can still eat many of your favorite foods.

You’ll be a happy eater.

But you’ll also be a much smarter eater.

Which is what your hemorrhoids desperately need. And it’s why you’ll start to see improvements in your condition more quickly than you might dare to hope…

Then the exercises:

Scott’s movement plan centers around exercises that nurture healthy bowels and relieve hemorrhoids’ painful symptoms.

They strengthen the anal muscles and reduce swelling and discomfort. They tackle constipation head-on by stimulating the abdomen.

Although, to be honest, they’re not really exercises as you and I might imagine them.

And given that I’m a bit… lazy… I was delighted to see most involve sitting or, even better, lying down.

In fact, there’s a couple you can do and nobody would even know you’re doing them.

I mostly do my exercises whilst watching TV or listening to music. Actually, that’s how I remember to even do them. The moment I decide to watch something it’s my cue to also quickly do my exercises.

It’s really lovely to be doing these movements with such ease. It’s wonderful, actually.

What do I have to do to make it all work for me?

The simple answer? Not much.

The Hemorrhoids Healing Protocol provides a lot of insightful information that, despite my various inquiries, I’d not heard of.

But Scott does one special thing that, for me, is the key to his whole program actually working.

Instead of dumping lots of interesting and inspiring facts on people – and then leaving us to work out how to apply it – he has created a 3-week, step-by-step plan for us to follow.

3 weeks to freedom from hemorrhoids

I didn’t have to think about how I was going to apply Scott’s knowledge. His Protocol did all my thinking for me and showed me exactly what to do.

So I now shop a little differently.

I still go to the same shops… but I choose slightly different foods for some of my meals.

When I watch TV I don’t just sit there idle anymore. For short periods I do some of the healing movements that helped ease my pain and shrink the swelling.

Doing this ensures not just that the hemorrhoids go. It ensures that they stay gone.

A year after using Scott’s program I can confirm that they have gone, they’ve stayed gone – and I absolutely know they aren’t coming back.

Also – as a bonus – he also describes some really useful ways to get instant relief from hemorrhoid symptoms while the main program is taking effect.

And while my symptoms reduced quickly I did use his instant relief advice for a week or two because, to be honest, I was still experiencing some pain.

But once the program started taking effect the improvement I felt was really, really quick.

I mean, one day I went to the toilet, things were over pretty quickly… and there was no swelling.

And with no swelling there was no pain.

And no bleeding.

It was sort of… weird at first… like something was missing.

But it was a very nice weird!

Just recollecting that first time when everything worked out still makes me smile, even now…

And you?

I’ve talked a lot about my experiences here. What about you?

What would not suffering hemorrhoids mean for you?

If they were gone 3 weeks from now… what would that feel like?

What’s the one thing that would make you most happy about not suffering hemorrhoids any more?

For me, saying goodbye to hemorrhoids meant the end of pain. That was the number one thing for me.

And then no uncomfortable swelling.

No embarrassing difficulties keeping myself clean.

And the other thing… that people who don’t suffer hemorrhoids wouldn’t understand:

Not having to think, plan or worry about the next hemorrhoids attack. And how that attack might affect a social or work event.

Acquiring Scott Davis’ Hemorrhoids Healing Protocol was one of the single best decisions I’ve ever made. I’m so glad I did it.

I do wish I’d done it earlier. I went through some pretty nasty medical procedures – and 2 years of misery.

It simply wasn’t necessary. There was a much better way of tackling it – I just didn’t know what it was.

And it’s the same for you. You don’t have to put up with hemorrhoids either.

They’ve caused you enough suffering. You don’t want this pain anymore.

Which is, I’m guessing, why you’re actually here reading this now. Perhaps you’ve reached that point where enough is more than enough. and you’ve decided today to address the problem once and for all.

Good for you.

It’s the right time to be doing this.

Because there’s no risk here. This protocol has now worked for thousands of people.

They once suffered hemorrhoids. And now they don’t.

For them, hemorrhoids is nothing more than a distant memory.

Would you like the same for you?

Results are 100% guaranteed.

Every step in the protocol is based on proven medicine. Scott has drawn together science-based data from hundreds of peer-reviewed studies to create an intelligent remedy for the cause of hemorrhoids.

His program has succeeded for thousands of people. People like me and people like you.

Scott realizes people are worried about committing to the unknown. As sufferers we’ve experienced so many disappointments that it’s only natural that we fear yet another one.

So he completely guarantees the program.

Scott has no doubt it will produce the same results for you as it has for thousands of others.

But so that you’re completely reassured he makes this offer: if you decide at any time within 60 days of purchasing this healing protocol that it isn’t for you then you can get all your money back. No questions asked.

This is going to work for you. It worked for me. There are so many people whose only regret about using Scott’s protocol is… that they didn’t find it sooner.

I’m so glad I got rid of my hemorrhoids so quickly. I wouldn’t wish them on anybody.

I now use the toilet without any worry. I never have painful swelling.

There’s never any blood. Everything is always perfect.

It’s your turn now. Be kind to yourself.

Get Scott’s Hemorrhoids Healing Protocol, follow the laid-out steps… and see why the rest of us swear that it’s the best thing we ever did.

Yours is here:

I want to feel good again!

Remember: hemorrhoids don’t just happen.

And they don’t have to happen.

They are a problem with specific causes. Cause and effect – it’s a universal law.

The key, then, to permanently ending hemorrhoids pain is to address those identified causes. With the causes removed hemorrhoids simply can’t exist.

It simply doesn’t have to be complicated.

Bad habits cause hemorrhoids. I addressed the bad habits that created my hemorrhoids… and so my hemorrhoids ceased.

It’s really that simple.

One thing I think you know for certain: they won’t go on their own.

But they will go if you make them go.

Scott will show you how to do that. Every single step.

In about 3 weeks I was able to go to the toilet without suffering any swelling. Without pain or bleeding. Without worry.

Just like I used to be able to do.

You want the same. And you can start getting it in about 90 seconds from now. Click below and let’s get this done.

Start now

Everything improves with your decision

There’s one thing we all know: if we don’t address problems they tend to get worse over time.

There can come a point with hemorrhoids where the problem has become so bad it needs surgery – just for you to function normally.

The after-effects may not be very nice.

Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t let inaction today cause worse things to happen to you tomorrow.

Time is of the essence. Start following the protocol that so many sufferers like me did.

You’ve got a money-back guarantee that it works.

What more do you need to relieve yourself of this misery?

Your hemorrhoids can either get so bad you can barely stand… or get so good you actually no longer have them.

Free of swelling. Easy, pain-free. Happy.

It doesn’t stand still. It gets better or it gets worse.

I choose to get better!