#to be clear i have no problems getting blood drawn. i actually find it neat!

[automatonwithautonomy]

i couldn't be bitten by a vampire cause they always go for the neck. like, no, i have to see you do it. it's the same when i get blood drawn i cannot look away.

[browniefox]

Just Sit and Talk to Me

@wrightfamilyweek day 5 - Love Language. I'm not sure if I really captured this prompt, but I definitely gave it a try! You can read this chapter on AO3 here if that's more your style.

Trucy struggles with being a very young professional while also being a student.

oOo

“No, no, no! It’s not supposed to go like that!”

Trucy shouts up to the ceiling. The nice thing about living out of an office is that it actually seems to be better to be loud after-hours, because everybody has already left. Trucy’s now old enough it’s started to seem a bit more weird that they’re even allowed to live in the office. She asked Daddy about it once, and he said that he has some kind of agreement with the landlord, and doesn’t elaborate. Trucy imagines this must be like the Delites, or Gummy and Maggey, or anybody else that Daddy knows from his Lawyer days, where he helped them out over something, and now they’re trying to do the best they can to help him, even if he doesn’t like getting help. It makes as much sense as anything else does.

Anyway, that’s all to say that Trucy doesn’t feel bad about shouting at late'o clock and stomping her feet around. The nice thing about being raised as a magician is that she knows a lot of neat tricks. The not so nice thing about your magical family falling apart is that you have to figure out more tricks on your own. And the only performance you were a part of when you were in the troupe was helping your Daddy run away from the cops and giving your new Daddy the piece of evidence that got him disbarred.

See, Trucy isn’t a kid anymore. She’s a Teenager, and she can’t rely on her cuteness to keep her going for ever, nor the fact that she’s the only Gramarye still performing; nobody, including her, has heard from Uncle Valant in five years. She may have that Gramarye magic, that special spark, but the problem is that a spark doesn’t make performance. Practice, preparation, and creativity makes a performance.

And right now, Trucy doesn’t have much of a performance.

All she has is broken little pieces that aren’t working together, and she’s getting tired of trying to stick them together with glue.

“I hate it! I hate performing! I hate magic! I hate this!” Trucy shouts and stomps around her room because she can.

She feels drained, and tired, and maybe if she hasn’t been spending soooo much time studying for the end-of-year tests, she’d be a bit more focused, but she also doesn’t want to let her daddy down so she has to get good grades but then if she’s focusing on getting good grades how is she supposed to put together her summer show and-and-and-

“I HATE THIS!” Trucy screams, pulling at her hair.

“Truce?”

Trucy freezes where she stands and looks at the clock. It’s already midnight? When did it get that late? There’s a knocking on her door, one she hadn’t heard before but has the cadence of something that had already been done a few times before now, having a bit of urgency behind it.

“Truce, you okay in there?”

“Y-yeah Daddy! I’m fine! Just, um, just part of the-the uh, the show!” She calls back. She doubts even the worst competitors Daddy has played poker against would fall for her lie right now, and her daddy definitely doesn’t.

“Can I come in?”

“Just, um, just give me a minute!”

Trucy runs around her room, shoving the ripped props that hadn’t survived her most recent mess-up of the runthrough into her closet and the background details under bed. She checks her mirror, trying to see if she looks well put together. She has some dark circles under eyes, and there’s no time to put some make-up on to conceal it, but she can hide her frazzled hair with her hat. Her cape is all wrinkled, but she can fix that in the morning. She puts on her most dazzling smile, already knowing that this is a losing fight, that this isn’t going to work, but what other choice does she have but to try?

“Okay Daddy, you can come in!” She chirps and Daddy comes in. He has dark circles under his own eyes too, and Trucy knows that normally, if she hadn’t been screaming and drawn his attention, he would’ve gone into the office room and started working on his Secret Project for a couple more hours before going to bed.

“Is everything okay?” He asks in that voice where he clearly already knows the answer but is giving her the chance to just Tell Him.

“Y-yeah, everything’s fine, Daddy.”

Daddy frowns, and he fiddles with the little green charm he likes to wear around his wrist or neck, one she’s seen the Feys wear before. He comes into her room and sits down on her bed, looking at her patiently.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He presses.

“Not really.” She tries to sound defiant but she just sounds sad.

“Please, sweetie? You can talk to Daddy about anything, you know?”

“... I don’t think I can do this.” She says, small and quiet, barely more than a whisper. She almost expects her First Daddy to burst through the door right then and there, appalled and affronted.

“Do what?”

“Be… me .” She scrambles and fails to find a way to explain it. Because being a magician isn’t just something she can stop doing. Trucy Wright is a Magician, it’s written in her blood, but just thinking about trying to put together her show makes her want to scream again. Considering taking a ‘break’ and doing homework instead gets the same internal response.

How is she supposed to make either of her Daddy’s happy?

“Oh, Trucy.” Daddy says and pulls her into his lap. She doesn’t fit as perfectly there as she used to, and she finds herself hesitating before clinging to him. He’s so tired all the time, she doesn’t want to put this on him. It’s dumb, because it’s not a ‘want to’, these things are a ‘have to’. She has to do them. But she doesn’t want to, it feels like she’s getting crushed by it.

“I don’t want to take dumb tests! I don’t want to revamp my show! I don’t want to do anything!” She shouts into his shoulder. Daddy rubs her back.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. What’s so bad about those things?”

“Everything!” She wails.

“C’mon, it can’t be everything.”

She curls up further into a ball, making another frustrated noise, but her daddy’s presence, like it always does, is already doing wonders to clear her cluttered-up head. He has this way, where it’s like sometimes he can just take a hold of the cluttered-up mess in her head and lay it out plain and simple. But only if she lets him. There’s been times, where he’s stared at her, and asked her quiet little questions, and she’s made it plain to him that she doesn’t want to be doing this right now, and he’s sighed and left her to it.

“... there’s not enough time,” She explains. Daddy doesn’t say anything waiting for her to continue on, “Not enough time to-to-to do everything! I… Daddy, I need to get my summer show ready, and I need to study for tests, and keep up on homework, and then I need to perform twice a week, and… Daddy, where did all the time go?”

“If I knew, I wish I could tell ya.” Daddy sighes with his entire being, like he’s wilting into her. Trucy tries to curl up even tighter, like it’s just a matter of a little trick in order to turn into being an eight-year-old again, and able to be carried around by her Daddy if she needed to be.

“Daddy, I… I don’t wanna…” Trucy isn't sure what she’s trying to say, and the words get all tangled and caught up in her throat.

“Well… let’s start with what we have power over, yeah? You can’t stop going to school, so after tomorrow night’s show, we’ll go talk to Mr. Wunderbar and tell him you need to take a break from performing.” Daddy decides. Trucy gasps, tugging on his hoodie.

“No! But, Daddy, I’m finally doing two shows a week-”

“Truce, it’s okay,” Daddy pulls back and cups Trucy’s face in his hands. It’s only been recently, since she finally became a teenager, she’d been allowed to do more shows, “You’re still a little girl, you need time to be a little girl. So, how about until the end of the school year, no more shows. In the summer, maybe we’ll think about doing more? Once a month at first?”

“B-but-” Trucy starts to complain. Daddy taps her nose.

“Sorry pumpkin, but I might have to put my foot down on this one. No more shows until Summer. I can help you try and put your next one together, if you’d like, but right now we get through one thing, and then we tackle the next, okay?

“But I’m a teenager now! And-and-and I finally get to do two shows a week! And the mo-” Trucy’s teeth clack shut. There’s that joke about Trucy being the money-maker, the bread-winner, of their small family, but she was sure Daddy didn’t know that she was aware of just how true that was. Daddy does, indeed, blink in surprise, and then something akin to sadness falls over his face. Shame, perhaps? If it is, it’s a different color than what used to come over him those first couple years when people asked him about his old lawyer profession.

“... we’ll get through without, Trucy. I’m not letting anything happen to us. You need to come first, in front of that, okay?”

Trucy opens her mouth to argue again, but she’s so tired, and Daddy’s so tired, and a break? A break from five straight years of performances…? It sounds kind of nice.

She sits in her Daddy’s lap, marinating in his idea, coming to terms with it. Daddy doesn’t say anything more.

And it feels like a night of honestly, and truth, and reality, and so, tripping across Trucy’s tongue and off her lips is a truth she never tries to say, because her daddy is just so so busy.

“I wish you were home more.”

“...”

“I like talking to you, and being with you, and you’re always at work, or working on your secret project, and there’s nobody else to talk to about these kinds of stuff. I… I miss you, Daddy, even when you’re here.” She admits. She looks at her Daddy’s face, and his eyes do that thing where they fix on a spot below her face, and a shiver runs through him.

“... there we go.” He says, but he doesn’t sound happy about it.

“If we’re going to, to change things about my routine and everything, can we… can we change things… so that you’re home more?”

Daddy isn’t looking her in the eyes, looking down at her bed comforter.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning? Huh?”

Trucy holds onto her Daddy for a bit longer.

She’s heard comments from parents at school, picking their kids up, about watching their kids grow up and grow away from them. Trucy feels a little like she’s seeing the exact opposite happening slowly through these past five years.

She lost her first Daddy all at once, and her new Daddy is slipping through her fingers like sand.

[one-boring-person]

Who's Side Are You On? (Part Eight)

The Terminator (1984) reader insert.

Warnings: injury, mention of death, mention of torture

Context: (Y/n) reveals her secret to Sarah.

A/N: sorry this is late, I was too tired to write last night 😅

Masterlist

My features are sallow and drawn as I climb off of the motorcycle, my breathing shallow and uncomfortable as I try not to wince, my head spinning in the heat of the day. Perspiration coats my brow, each of my steps slow and uncoordinated as I hobble over to Sarah and Kyle, who have just exited the truck they hitchhiked in, my brother shooting me a worried glance as he notices my clear discomfort, eyes swiftly taking in the haphazardly concealed pain behind each movement I make, only looking away again when I make eye contact. Averting my gaze, I scan the area, taking note of the sign, glad that we stopped at a motel off the beaten track, somewhere where it'll be harder to find us, though knowing the Terminator on our trail, this won't necessarily work for too long.

Sarah leads the way over to the front desk, where a dog is chained to the outside of it, which Kyle and I instinctually hold our hands out to, letting it take our scents without really needing to. I stand back behind the two of them, trying to keep my unwell appearance out of sight, aware that I look terrible, and totally out of place. After some quick negotiation, Sarah has booked us a room with a kitchen and shower, something Kyle and I specifically requested, my wound urgently needing cleaning and re-bandaging, a damp sensation having surrounded the area from my constant movement and strain when riding the motorcycle, though I'm glad I took it, as it is much faster than I thought it would be.

Leading the way inside, Sarah takes us to the correct room and opens the door, at which point I instantly go to the table and sit at one of the chairs, leaning back in it as I take the weight off of my wound, gritting my teeth in pain as the hole stretches and tears again, the rudimentary stitches Kyle put in the night before pulling apart. I roll up my shirt, grimacing as I catch sight of the bloody bandage there, very little white still remaining visible through the crimson stains. Breathing hard, I go to remove the bandage, only for Kyle to stop me, signalling that I should shower first, just to clean off the skin around it, so that dirt doesn't get into the wound itself.

"And what about you? Doesn't yours need reapplying?" I point out, gesturing to his arm.

"I guess, but I need to get some things..."

"No, you stay here and get that cleaned, then help me with mine, then go out. We can't afford for you to get an infection." I instruct him, mentioning towards the sink, non-verbally advising him to follow what I'm telling him.

"Fine, fine. Sarah, would you mind helping me with this?" The soldier asks, looking over at our ward with a hopeful expression.

"Sure." She agrees, going over to help him remove his bandage as I get up and walk to what I'm assuming is the bathroom, the layout near enough foreign to me. Wincing with every step, I climb into the box-like structure in the corner, sliding the glass door shut behind me, only to realise I need to take off my clothes before I do this, at which point I quickly exit, strip, and return, puzzling over the device before me.

Thankfully quick on the uptake, I manage to figure it out, surprised by the stream of warm water flowing from the odd protruding thing, flinching away initially, though I soon relax into the soothing sensation of the heated liquid flowing down my body. I inhale sharply as I brush my fingers over the wound, gritting my teeth against the spikes of pain as I wash the surrounding area clean of blood and dirt, being as thorough as I can, going over previous scars with some hesitation, some of them more recent than others.

Habitually, I don't take long to wash, making sure I've done the bare minimum before stepping out and drying off with what I assume is a towel, pulling on my clothes and boots again as I do so, going back into the main room again to find the other two sat at the table, Kyle's arm now bandaged again. Feeling refreshed but still in pain, I go to join them, seating myself with a grimace as I roll up my shirt, intending to remove the bandage and clean the injury properly. Instantly, Kyle has come to my side, batting my hands away as he takes over from what I'm doing, making me bite down hard on my lip as blood rushes from the re-opened wound, staining my skin a deep shade of red. Kyle's hands are soon coated in it, leaving even more marks as he works at cleaning and stitching it up, covering it with another bandage as he finishes, the white square a harsh contrast to the crimson colour of the skin around it.

Once finished, Kyle washes his hands using the sink in the corner, before going to the window to check that the coast is clear.

"I'm gonna go get supplies. You two stay here." He says without waiting for a reply, walking abruptly out of the door.

Sarah and I sit in silence for a few moments, neither of us saying a word, or making a move, our eyes focusing on anything but each other, awkwardness soon filling the air like a bitter cloud. Eventually, she mutters something about showering and gets up, heading into the bathroom, leaving me alone again.

Sighing, I reach for the handgun in my belt, deciding to clean it whilst I have time, my shaking hands dissembling the weapon as if it is second nature, which, in some ways, it is. As I work, I lay out each piece on the table in a neat order, making sure I know where each part is, finishing by checking the clip, which is only half full. Frowning, I check my pockets for any more ammo, only to find that the dangerous version of me has used to nearly everything I had. Frustrated, I start cleaning each part of the weapon, being as thorough as possible, slotting them back together as I go, the gun soon taking shape again as I work through them. The action takes me close to half an hour, my efficiency severely limited by the tremors wracking my hands, the blood loss having finally caught up to me as my head starts to spin slightly, nausea setting in with each passing second. Ignoring it, I reload the gun and chamber a round, just to be ready for anything.

"Who taught you how to do that?" Sarah's voice behind me surprises me, making me start slightly in response to heading it. Turning, I look up at her and reply.

"My parents did. In the future, it's the kind of thing you have to be adept at. They just made sure I learnt as soon as I could." I inform her, thinking back to the hours my father spent drilling the names of each individual part into my head, along with every tactical piece of knowledge he could think of.

"Oh, well I guess that makes sense." She muses, going to the other side of the room, where she picks up the phone.

"What're you doing with that?" I ask her, wary of it.

"I'm gonna call my mother and let her know I'm alright."

"I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?" Her voice turns cold, eyes hardening as she looks me over.

"Because there's every possibility that the Terminator got to her first."

"How could it possibly know anything about her?!" Sarah shakes her head and starts dialling, ignoring my exasperated shake of the head, before proceeding to talk with her mother.

Ten minutes pass, during which I zone out of her conversation, only tuning back in again as I realise what exactly she's telling her relative. My head snaps in her direction and I gesture for her to stop, drawing my hand over my throat in a "shut up!" motion. Lifting an eyebrow, she finishes what she's saying and lowers the phone, her mother having hung up on her.

"You'd better hope that was actually your mother." I sigh, leaning my head back.

"Why wouldn't it be? It sounded exactly like her."

"The new Terminator models can impersonate voices that they have heard. It's entirely likely that you were speaking to it over the phone, because there's no way anyone could tell the difference between the voices." I explain to her, rubbing my head.

"It was definetly her." Sarah insists, though she doesn't seem entirely sure of herself anymore, "How do you know that, anyway? Kyle never said anything about it before."

I close my eyes and sigh again, opening them to look her in the eye.

"He doesn't know about it yet. I do because I can do it."

Confusion floods her face, her head cocking to the side as she processes what she's heard.

"You can do it? What do you mean? Has it got something to do with you going completely crazy every time the Terminator shows up?" She questions, curiosity winning her over.

I look at her carefully, deciding to tell her exactly what she needs to know, aware of the fact that it could prove dangerous to her if she doesn't.

"In theory, you're right. It does have something to do with that, but it is not the Terminator that is the problem. Back home, I was captured by some of them and taken back to one of their manufacturing compounds. At first I was convinced that they were going to torture me and try and get information out of me, but they didn't, they just locked me in a red room. It was tiny, there was nothing inside it and I was never fed anything except some water to keep me alive.

"In the beginning, they just left me alone, leaving me to wonder what the hell they actually wanted with me, and what they were eventually gonna do to me. I never found out from them. It all started with the gas, which they pumped into the room using the air vents in the ceiling, using this to put me under for a few hours at a time, keeping me unaware of what was going on. For days on end, I had holes in my memory, nothing quite adding up, everything else disjointed, until I found myself lying face down on the battlefield one day.

"I had no idea why I was there, or how I even got there, but all I knew was that I was surrounded by members of the Resistance, who had guns pointed at my head. They knocked me out cold again and took me back to one of the bases, where I woke up again chained to a table. They had figured out what was wrong with me."

I pause, lifting a hand to trace the scar on my face.

"They told me that I had a metal plate implanted behind my right eye, which had been replaced by an artificial one, which worked as a mind control device of sorts. The plate had hooks wired into my brain, allowing it to send it's own electrical impulses into my nervous system, controlling my movements and actions as if it were me doing them. It had a stimulus attached to it, which was triggered by a frequency emitted only from HKs, which would then turn me into a lethal killing machine for a certain amount of time.

"I was horrified when I found out: I could kill anyone I loved, and not think twice about it, all beacuse of the plate on my skull. I begged them to try and reprogram it, to make me a more effective weapon for the Resistance to use, rather than Skynet. They tried, they really did, but something went wrong. The stimulus changed to the sound of gunshots, but the control over my actions is now up to a mixture of programming from Skynet and the Resistance; I don't respond to either, and I will kill anyone who has been previously listed on my target list. I don't register pain and don't recognise anyone. I only come round again after an hour or two of no gunshots being heard in the surroundings, otherwise the time is reset and I stay the killing machine that I am."

Silence encompasses the two of us as I finish, Sarah looking as if she wants to say something, or come to me, though I look away, feeling awkward at the grim reality.

"So...so you're not in control when it happens?" She eventually asks, trying to break the silence.

"No, I'm not. The chip in my head controls me based on previous commands it received when being programmed." I laugh dryly, "I'm half human, half cyborg at this point. I'm an abomination."

At that point, Kyle walks back in, carrying brown paper bags filled with supplies.

"I'm gonna go keep watch." I say as he enters, feeling the need to be alone for the minute, internally cursing myself and what I am, knowing that the success of the mission very much relies on me.

Without waiting for a response, I push past Kyle and go outside, taking my handgun with me as I go to find somewhere to sit.

Part Nine

[hacash]

celticaurora said: OH HO HO MORE PERIOD DRAMAS ABOUT THE ANARCHY??? Truly an underrated time period, how have I not heard of Cadfael before????

Did someone say my favourite medieval detective show ever? (yes, me) Well if you’re looking to watch a show that combined murder mystery, medieval history, nuanced portrayals of organised religion and gentle herbology then put on your slippers and get comfy, pal, because you are in for a smooth ride.

Cadfael is one of those cosy british murder mysteries like Poirot and Midsomer Murders that you used to watch with your gran on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Unlike most murder mysteries, however, it’s set in the middle ages - which makes it even better, because what’s a good mystery without a few swords to brighten things up?

it’s the 12th century, and England is in the middle of the Anarchy, our first proper civil war centuries before Cromwell made it cool (yes, I am salty that it’s never recognised as such by historians). The Empress Maude and King Stephen are fighting for the crown, the country is in turmoil, and with so much bloodshed, who has the time or the inclination to investigate unlawful murders in these dark and dangerous times? Our boy Cadfael, that’s who. Cadfael is a former soldier and crusader who’s since settled down and become a monk-slash-pharmacist in Shrewsbury Abbey. His general know-how and tendency to care about teensy little things like cold-blooded murder mean he’s often off solving unexplained deaths and dangerous political scrapes that the abbey finds itself drawn into.

Be warned, the show was put together in the mid-nineties, and you can definitely tell, with such classics as Patented Plastic Swords, Wounds With No Bloodshed, and Knitted Chainmail. Fortunately there’s not much you can do to screw up a monk’s cowl and habit.

The show is based on a series of books by Ellis Peters (real name Edith Pargeter), and they are just as good, if not better, as the show. Would highly recommend.

Reasons for watching:

The Anarchy. A truly underappreciated period in British history (because it was interesting, not because it was particularly fun); Cadfael proves a neat introduction if you’re looking to get a bit more into that wacky time when we had a war for nineteen years all because Henry I never had a legitimate son. While it shows some clever insight into the various politics and events that took place (even though I’ll never get over the show’s painfully inaccurate portrayal of Stephen) it’s particularly good at portraying what life was like for ordinary people who had no real interest in whether Stephen or Maude ruled, but found themselves swept up in the conflict.

Murder Mystery Bros

Before Sherlock and Watson made it cool, England had Brother Cadfael and Undersheriff Hugh Beringar. Crime-fighting duos are always fun, but the broship between Kindly Badass Cadfael and Death-before-Dishonour Beringar is really lovely to watch. (with the slight proviso that Beringar’s appearance changes...more than once.)

One-Dimensional Religious Characters? Never Met Them

One thing I love about this series is because it’s set in an abbey, it covers all the different spectrums of how you could be a Christian in 12th century England and basically goes ‘the Church was an institution made up of humans and like all other such institutions was capable of great grace and kindness, and unbelievable dickbaggery’. Where else would you get such a span of characters ranging from:

Cadfael, who’s basically that one bloke that atheists on tumblr will say ‘oh, I don’t like organised religion but that one Christian dude’s pretty cool, why aren’t the rest of you like that: kind, cares about the down-trodden, deeply pious but also pretty worldly-wise. Brother Oswin: lovely and earnest in his faith but also essentially useless when it comes to doing anything practical. Abbot Heribert: nice cuddly grandpa abbot who’s very lovely but doesn’t do all that much. Abbot Radulphus: firm but fair Reasonable Authority Figure (tm). Prior Robert: pompous stuck-up git who exhibits all of the authoritarian tendencies of the medieval church without actually being downright evil. Brother Jerome: equally fundamentalist tattling little sod who’s nonetheless so pathetic that you occasionally pity him, if only because it can’t be fun being that unlikable.

The one problem with this is that there are no female regular characters, monasteries being famously non-female-centric. Plenty of awesome female guest characters though.

(Also, the conflicts between Cadfael and his more conservative colleagues? Not Politically Correct History, this was actually a thing! Neo-Aristotelian thought was a way of thinking that arose in the Middle East (Cadfael was a crusader) that relied on logic and reasoning, as opposed to the blind acceptance of authority demanded by orthodox Augustinianism; and this became a big intellectual Thing amongst academics during Western Europe at this time. Not only did Ellis Peters write a historically accurate character we can relate to, it’s a humongous fuck you to anyone who thinks medieval Europe was full of cavemen still working out how to make fire.)

Cadfael Himself

Sir Derek Jacobi playing a lovely old soldier-turned-monk whose main cares are promoting peace over bloodshed and seeking justice for the underdog (as well as usually setting up the Couple of the Week amidst his sleuthing, because of course). With plenty of snark. What’s not to love?

-

Also if you’re interested in reading about the Anarchy, may I humbly suggest Sharon Penman’s When Christ and His Saints Slept? Penman’s storytelling isn’t always the best – it’s sometimes less historical fiction and more dramatic retelling of the facts with some additional characters popped in  - but it’s pretty good fun and fully introduced me to the sheer chaotic madness of the Anarchy. (Also for those of us who’ve been burned by medieval authors’ inability to write a well-founded female character to save their life, her stories always seem to stray clear of the typical pitfalls; eg gross sexual assault/this woman really likes sex so she’s obvs a harlot/this woman dislikes sex so she’s obvs a prude/i am a Strong Female Woman and anything Feminine is Beneath Me, which is a definite plus.)

[reddragon2]

Somebody

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Warning: Some mention of violence and injury.

Prompt: My Somebody by James TW

Summary:  Everyone needs somebody and this is how you became Peter’s.

A/N: This is part of @starksparker‘s Summer Writing Challenge. I imagined it set sometime between Homecoming and Infinity War.

You first noticed the cuts and bruises on a Thursday morning in chemistry class when Peter took his seat at the back of the classroom with his hood drawn low enough that you could only see the bottom half his face.  He had arrived just early enough to fly under the teacher’s radar who most definitely would have told him to take it off.  Halfway through though he got careless when he ran a hand through his hair and pushed the hood back just enough that you caught sight of them.  A cut over the bridge of his nose and a purple bruise encasing his left eye.  Nobody else saw it, that you were sure of and it was only for a second before he realised his error and tugged it back down.

You paid more attention from that moment on.  You saw the days he came to school with a limp, or how when MJ looked away and he rubbed at his shoulder with his face scrunched up.  There was the day he turned up with a split lip and when someone asked about it you heard him laugh and tell them he punched himself in the face accidentally as he went to clean his teeth.  You seemed to be the only one to notice it was a nervous laugh.  You also noticed the way he seemed to disappear the moment the bell rang and you were released for the day.  

You found out his secret on a late spring night when you were grabbing a late night snack from the convenience store and arrived just in time to find Spider-Man securing a criminal to a wall in a flurry of webs.  The man had held up the cashier and the neighbourhood hero just happened to be nearby.  You recognised his voice before anything else, even with the quick wit he didn’t show at school.  You kept it to yourself.

That was until the night you heard a commotion coming from outside your apartment block.  Peering through the window you could see the familiar red and blue suit surrounded by enough enemies that it made your heart leap into your throat.  He had clearly interrupted some kind of gang and you watched as he scrambled to get away from their grips, a web shooting out to give him height but not before a fist connected with his face with a force that made you wince.  

Before you even knew what you were doing you found yourself running out of the apartment and into the elevator.  You had hit the button for the ground floor before you realised what you were doing.  Spider-Man was a superhero and you - you were a normal teenage girl about to run out into the middle of a gang fight.  Thankfully it seemed to be over by the time you reached the complex’s entrance.  The assailants were tied in a neat bundle but what caught your eye was the figure disappearing around the corner of the building.  You followed after it and as you came into the alley you found the figure hunched over with his back to you, a groan of pain escaping him.

“Peter?” you called and he whipped around with your voice, the eyes of his mask growing wide with the recognition.

“Y/n?” His hand reached up and he pulled off the mask with a tug, revealing tousled hair and bruises already forming.  “H-how did you know?” 

“I paid attention,” you answered with a shrug, stepping towards him as your eyes raked over his body despite it being covered by his suit.  “Um, so this is my apartment building and my parents aren’t home yet… come up and I’ll take a look at you?” 

You felt suddenly embarrassed by the words that had come out, especially as Peter failed to answer at first.  You cleared your throat, trying to force some confidence into yourself.  “I just, I mean you could do with patching up, right?” 

Peter nodded at that, which made him wince and you held out a hand for him which he took gratefully as he pulled himself up.  He didn’t let go as you led the way back to the entrance but you didn’t say anything.  He didn’t seem to realise until the two of you were in the elevator together and he finally dropped your hand as both your cheeks flooded with colour.  You had never been more thankful that your parents worked late than you were in that moment, otherwise you would have had to make an injured Peter scale the building to your window.  

Once inside you guided him towards your bedroom before grabbing an ice pack from the freezer, the first aid kit from the bathroom and joining him.  You entered to find him perched on the edge of your bed, his mask dumped on the bed beside him.  You gave him a small smile as you made your way towards him, placing the box down by the mask and pulling out some wipes.

“This may hurt,” you warned as you cupped his face in your hand and looked him over.  There was a trickle of blood at the edge of his lips that was quickly drying and you wiped it away as gently as possible as he watched you with soft brown eyes.  That seemed to be the only broken skin, though his cheek was bright red and you knew that tomorrow it would be a nasty bruise.  You handed him the ice pack.  “Use that on your cheek.” 

“Thank you,” he murmured as he held it up to his face and you continued checking him over.

“Is there anything anywhere else?” 

“Just bruises,” he started, his lips twitching slightly.  “And maybe a broken rib.” 

“Peter!” you gasped and he held his hands up, momentarily pulling the ice from his face.

“It’s fine y/n, I heal fast.  I’ll be better in a few days.” You studied him closely, giving up after his own gaze refused to falter.  With a sigh you lowered yourself onto the bed next to him.  It was silent for a moment before he spoke again.  “Did you really figure out it was me just by ‘paying attention’?” 

“Yeah… I mean, I saw the cuts and bruises you know?  And you always disappeared after school…” you began, chewing on your lip.  “Do you remember the convenience store hold up about a month ago?  That’s when I realised.  I was there at the end and when I heard you speak I recognised your voice.” 

“Really?  Maybe I shouldn’t talk when I’m patrolling,” he said as his brows knitted together and you quickly shook your head, your hands gripping at the mattress either side of you.

“No… I like it!  I mean, you’re actually pretty funny.” With that he broke into a grin and as he sat there smiling with the ice pack covering half his face you found it hard to believe that he was New York’s famous Spider-Man.  Right then he was just Peter Parker, classmate at Midtown High.  

“Thank you… for all of this,” Peter said, motioning to his face and you were quick to let him know it was no problem at all.  He gave you another smile but this time it wasn’t quite so joyful.  “It’s nice actually… to have a helping hand for once.  I’m used to patching myself up and trying to hide any injuries from my aunt.  Not that it actually happens all that often, mostly it’s small time thugs.  But it does get pretty lonely sometimes, ya know?  Saving the city and not really being able to talk about it.”   

“Does anyone else know?”

“Only Ned, but he’s not exactly the type to put a Hello Kitty bandaid on my cuts.  He just tells me how cool I look,” he replied and despite the situation you couldn’t help but let out a snort.  It did sound like a very Ned thing to do.

“Well I don’t have any Hello Kitty bandaids… but anytime you need it I do have some Iron Man ones,” you offered and when he smiled at you you could see the tears in eyes.  You felt a touch and looked down to find Peter’s hand beside yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked and you nodded, before you looked back up at him.

“Of course, everyone needs somebody right?  Let me be yours.��  Peter studied you seriously with the confirmation but you didn’t waver, only softening when you felt him link his little finger with yours.  You smiled and he returned it, which only made yours grow.  “So what’s it like being so sticky?”

The question made him groan and you let out a laugh as he flopped back on your bed.  You smiled to yourself, you would definitely be Peter Parker’s somebody.

[gattius-starfrost]

The Walk-In

The clinic was as busy as it usually was; not terribly. But as Gattius still hadn’t found any help to hire, doing even this regular workload of both administration tasks and administering the actual medical help was overwhelming, to say the least. He could feel himself growing more irritated, going from patient to patient, between exam rooms and the front desk, all without a break to even take a breath! 

Anger turned to worry, when quiet moments allowed it; had he bitten off more than he could chew? Without help, would the clinic ultimately fail? Should he cut back on the days they opened, or was that a death knell for his small, independent infirmary? The first step to the inevitable closing of this unfulfilled chapter in his life…?

Today, the dread and anxiety hang over him more than usual. So much so, he had already left his next patient waiting fifteen extra minutes as he tried to gather his composure and desire both before stepping into the examination room. If he could just get through today… 

'Light give me strength…'

His faux smile found his face, finally, as he exhaled a quiet sigh, and opened the door.

"Afternoon, sorry to keep you waiting." Gattius bowed his head apologetically as he entered, eyes still scanning over the chart in his hands. "You mentioned you had some 'skin and eye discolorat--eeough for fuck's sake!"

Snapping quickly, Gattius tossed the chart as he looked up, and slammed the door behind him in a hurry! Before him, atop the exam table, sat a ren'dorei. Not just any ren'dorei, either…

"Alt, what the fuck are you doing here?!"

“Oi, voice down, lad!” Alteris loudly whispered. “Dunnae wanna give me away, do yeh? Not after I worked so hard sneakin’ in ‘ere!”

Alteris grinned his usual smug grin - half proud he’d slipped past all of Eversong’s defenses, half reveling in Gattius’ reaction. As much as he loved coming to see his dearest companion, he took pleasure in making his life a bit more ‘interesting’ all the moreso. He hopped down off the exam table, and approached the blood elf.

“Wanted t’ apologize properly fer missin’ our last rendezvous.” he explained, bringing his arms around Gattius’ waist. “Think I owe yeh somethin’ fer that, aye?”

“--No! This is hardly making up for it!” Gattius scowled in response, pushing the void elf back from him. “I’m way too busy for this. Not to mention this is way too dangerous! If someone sees us here… I could lose everything!”

'Not that I probably won’t anyway...’ he thought to himself, the concern resurfacing in the moment - only fueling his agitation. This was the last thing he needed today… another stressor. Another source of worry. Another problem to solve. With an irritated huff, he grabbed Alteris’ wrist and led him to the door. Slowly, he opened it and peeked out. The hallway was clear.

“This way! Hurry!”

Without delay, he dragged Alteris from the examination room and down the hall - crouched down, stepping lightly, as if he were infiltrating an Alliance camp! Alteris did nothing to help keep a low profile, however. His steps were naturally light, of course, but he didn’t seem nearly as concerned at being sneaky as Gattius towed him around the Clinic. Almost like he wanted to be found! He didn’t, of course, but it irritated Gattius more this way.

“--Oi, ease up!” he feigned a whine, smirk still plastered to his face. “If’n ye wanted t’ rough-handle me, better done back there on th’ exam table, aye?”

“--Shut up!” Gattius hissed in reply.

He shoved Alteris into a room at the end of the corridor, and closed the door most of the way. The Blood Elf glanced over his shoulder once more, cautiously, before sighing. He looked to Alteris.

“Alright… this is my office. There’s a door that leads out behind my desk, there.” he explained in hushed tone. “Follow it into the Manor, and wait for me there. Don’t touch anything!”

Alteris glanced around the room a bit, before smirking at Gattius.

“No time fer’ a quickie, then?”

The door shut quickly in his smug face.

The ren’dorei sighed, smirk fading fast. That… wasn’t as fun as he’d hoped. Agitating Gattius was always interesting, but this time it wasn’t nearly as satisfying. He grumbled to himself, as he turned from the door. Gattius had changed, he’d noticed. Back in the day, he wouldn’t pass up a chance to shirk duties and have a quick ‘spar’ atop his desk, or back in the examination room. Now, it seemed he was all business. He didn’t like it. 

He looked around the office, finding further confirmation of how Gattius had changed. It was so… orderly. More so than was normal, as Alteris recalled. Gattius was a neat individual, keeping things in relative, passable order. But this office was pristine. Alteris felt like he’d stumbled into some kind of museum. A monument to the most droll elf to waddle across this mortal plane. Hanging nearly and squarely on the walls were numerous certificates and degrees, documentation of Gattius’ medical proficiency. The Thalassian script was so excessively curvy and elegant, it looked like a child got hold of a quill and discovered how to draw circles. 

The bookshelves were almost artificial in appearance, each book flush against its neighbors in height and protrusion. He wouldn’t have been surprised if half of them were empty, simply aesthetically-pleasing filler to-- no, apparently not. He pulled a random book from the shelf and flipped through it. The script was so small, each page packed with medical jargon and biological babblings. The ren’dorei sighed once more, as he slipped the book back in place, leaving the spine sticking out just a bit in mild defiance. 

The desk was, comparatively, the most cluttered aspect of the room. But even then, it was still rather well kept. Quills and inkwells were arranged neatly on the right side, with files and documents all sorted in upright organizers on the left. A few stray parchments sat in the middle of the desk, clearly needing to be worked and filed away later. Alteris tugged at a drawer - locked. How boring and unlike Gattius! He almost wanted to break into the drawers to see what was hidden within… but if his office was this boring, he couldn’t imagine anything of interest was tucked away in the desk. Likely more files, if he were to wager a guess.

Then he noticed the picture frame.

His pale hands clenched as he glowered at the picture. A heartwarming portrait of a familiar face holding a small infant. Syrielle and their son, Tannis. Alteris scoffed, as he lifted the frame from the desk. It wasn’t that unusual, having a picture of family on one’s desk. The implication, however, was what irked Alteris so. He could just imagine the Blood Elf leaning back in his chair after a busy day… and smiling at this inanimate painting of his family. Gleaning a spark of joy from looking at his loving wife’s bespectacled face, and finding the strength to carry him through the remainder of his mundane medical practitioning… 

It felt like a gut punch. One last nail hammered into the disturbing realization. Gattius wasn’t at all who he once was. So organized, so driven, so family-oriented. Alteris clenched the picture harder, feeling the wooden frame begin to crackle from the straining. How he wanted to smash it! This was her fault after all! He’d watched it all from within Gattius’ mind. His descent from the exciting, fun-loving elf he once was into this… this domesticated buzzkill! It wasn’t hard to see who was responsible for his transformation, either. She’d tamed him… ruined a perfectly appealing elf. An elf he loved deeply. And it made his blood boil.

He set the picture down - face down, in another act of defiance - before heading for the side door Gattius mentioned. This office only depressed him. He hoped the manor would be more exciting for him. 

The corridor was narrow; hardly a grand hallway. But it served its function in connecting home and office. Alteris padded down until he came to the opening. The manor was silent… but breathtaking. He’d been here before, of course - snuck in once or twice, and even beheld it through Gattius’ eyes. But seeing it for himself, without any fear or need to slink about silently… he could appreciate it fully. Specifically… the bar. His eyes were drawn to it immediately. Bottles upon bottles, lined from floor to ceiling on glass shelves. He grinned widely, rubbing his hands together as he examined each label. 

His feet carried him behind the bar without a second thought or hesitation, as he picked one out - an exceptionally appealing whiskey in a rather cubic-cut glass bottle. Dwarven-distilled… definitely in his tastes! He popped the stopper, and began to pour himself a glass-- when something shook the room. The glass bottles clanked lightly together as heavy steps trudged into the room. Alteris quickly ducked down behind the bar, holding as still as possible to not give away his position. What was it - a construct? An Arcane Golem? He knew Gattius had upped his security as of late, but this seemed… excessive! Slowly, he peered around the side of the bar… and saw a kodo?

He blinked. Then blinked again. He couldn’t have been seeing things… he hadn’t even had his drink yet! Sure enough, there was a kodo in the house! He stood slowly, eyeing the beast carefully. What was it doing here? Did Gattius know it was here? Was this some kind of pet? The kodo glanced to Alteris, and lowed in a friendly manner. Alteris smirked - he was… kinda cute, actually! He came out from around the bar, and reached out a hand to pet the beast. The kodo trudged over to meet him, merrily nuzzling his horn against Alteris’ outstretched hand.

“Oi, friendly fella, aren’t yeh?” Alteris smirked. “Wot’s yer name?”

“His name is Kronk.”

Alteris turned quickly towards the grizzled voice that suddenly came from behind him - an ambush? A trap! He reached for his blade-- but was suddenly caught. A meaty hand clenched about his neck, and lifted him up off the floor. He gasped and wheezed, legs flailing as he clawed at the hand which gripped him. His eyes blurred, but he could make out the face of his abettor. An Orc, and an ugly one at that! He resisted as much as he could, before the Orc reeled back his free hand… and drove his fist into Alteris’ face. He blacked out instantly, going limp.

The Orc scoffed, grip loosening slightly. He thought to squeeze tighter and be done with it, but… he presumed the Lord and Lady of the house would have questions.

“Come, Kronk.” he grunted. “Let’s find Lady Starfrost.”

~*~

(( @syrielle​ for mention /  Desk Art Link ))

[lesbianmonsterlover]

Waterfalls and Whirlpools (2)

In which we meet the orc Urzash, our main love interest for Erin. 

---

Urzash Firetamer was the only child of her parents.  Thusly her father, the infamous Shamrol Skullcrusher, trained her the same way he would have trained a son.  Urzash was an imposing orc by any measure, nearly eight feet tall and full-blooded with deep green skin and impressive tusks, many beads decorating her mane of dark hair.  This newest conquest would earn her the second band around her tusks, a high honor denoting her prowess in combat.  Her pouch was heavy with gold and gems, mostly honestly gained but a few pilfered along the way, and her pack had two new additions, a blessed warhammer and an ancient looking leather journal the sorcerer they assisted assured her connected with other universes. 

Alys, the cleric, pulled off her helm, running her fingers through sweat-matted brown curls before gesturing with her chin at the book Urzash had slapped down on the wooden table.  “Have you looked at it yet?”  Alys’s voice was always thick and dark, like a rare fall honey, it matched the caramel tone of her skin and the intense amber yellow of her eyes.  

Urzash just shakes her head, running one huge thumb over the cover.  She got her name, Firetamer, because she showed a proficiency for not only brute strength but fire magic.  She was a well known berzerker because of this uniqueness, able to coat her fists and body in a suit of fire in the midst of battle.  As useful a skill as her fire taming was, it still made her feel like an outsider in the orcish community.  That’s why she left in the first place, joining an adventurer’s guild and striking off out into the vast wilderness of Auren and beyond.  

The first thing she notes when she opens the book finally is that it is partially filled, and the writing is possibly the tidiest she’s ever seen.  The neat, loopy script fills the first six pages of the book, front and back, and each entry is signed off with a mysterious “EC.”  The writing is mundane talk about feelings, activities, days, but the wording is odd…  It’s written in common, which isn’t so strange, but talks about things she’s never heard of.  Cars, television, internet, meaningless words.

Urzash scoffs as she reaches the first blank page, and the party’s halfling rogue giggles.  “Betcha that sorcerer stiffed us by giving us some worthless junk ‘n calling it magic or whatever.  That just looks like some crazy ramblings.”  Urzash was ready to agree with Penny, but they’re both interrupted from beginning a rant by the slim hand of Lithwe, the sorcerer declaring that there was indeed some deep magic within the book.  The argument itself though is stopped when words begin to appear on the page before their eyes.

Hello again

It’s hot here today, hotter than usual, but I’ve managed to find my way to a secluded little waterfall in the forest behind my house.  It’s really beautiful, idyllic and inspiring, you know?

The loopy font is slowly blooming to life on the page, and as Urzash rubs at it nothing happens, the ink doesn’t even smudge appearing on the page bone dry.  She digs through her pack to produce a quill and ink, quickly scrawling out a message at the bottom.

Are you there?

Urzash isn’t sure what she’s expecting to happen.  Nothing maybe?  

Who  What is  How  Yes?

It’s like Urzash can see the thought process as this is happening, mirroring her own.  She didn’t think this through, did she?  What does she say now?  Who is this?  Where are they from?  Are they really from another universe or is this some kind of magic trick?  Hesitating over the page, a splotch of ink drops from her quill onto the paper, as she keeps thinking about what to write she watches as whoever is on the other side turns the ink splash into a flower, complete with stem and leaves.  So, probably a real person on the other end and not some magic script.  Urzash smiles at that, eyes bright with curiosity.  

You’re actually real.  Tell me, where are you from?

Erin isn’t exactly sure what to do with herself when words start appearing on the page before her randomly.  Writing and scratching out and writing and scratching out a few times before finally settling on her response, which felt a little weak now that she sits back and looks at it.  As she waits for a response she begins nervously doodling around an ink blot that appeared on the page in the same sudden blooming manner.  She isn’t sure how specific she should be, so she settles for some vagueness.  Although, realistically, if whoever was on the other side could read her writing they’d know enough about her to come and find her which sent a sudden surge of icy terror down her spine.  Still, it was too late to do anything about it now. 

Washington state, in the US, what about you?

Urzash is hopelessly confused, the us?  The who?  And Washington?  That’s an odd name for a place.  A town where you wash things?  

Washington where?

The response is a crudely drawn map of a place Urzash has never seen, a land that looks wholly unfamiliar to her in terms of coastline.  Some rough lines are drawn in along the left side and then circled, as if that should clear anything up.  A little arrow pointing to it fills in Washington State and is followed with another set of lines circled towards the right side with an arrow pointing to say Washington DC.  Urzash wonders briefly if this DC is related to EC, perhaps an older relative or ancient ancestor?

“That map makes no sense.”  Alys’s voice draw’s Urzash’s eyes from the page.  “No discovered land has a coastline anything like that, and we’ve had sailors circumnavigate the globe.”  Her fingers begin drumming on the table, brow furrowed.  “I mean, nothing even close to it, look at that peninsula right there sticking out from the bottom right, nothing like that has ever been mapped.”  As they’re talking more text appears beneath the map. 

Where are you from?

Currently Greenbriar’s Landing, in the country of Auren.

Auren isn’t a country I’ve ever heard of?

Urzash hums to herself, scratching out a map of her own of the land and a few landmarks such as mountains and the main rivers.  Lithwe interrupts again, their light voice cutting through the chatter around them.  “The magic is being channeled through some sort of portal at a level so intrinsic as to not be seen.  I wonder...if we could mold and use this magic to somehow draw ourselves or the other through this portal to the other side…”  They trail off, muttering to themselves as their eyes glow a faint blue while they channel and work to break down the spell to its most basic components.  

So, it seems as though the journal is authentic, and does connect elsewhere.  

What’s Auren like?

Urzash purses her lips in thought.

A lot of open land, mostly.  It’s fairly peaceful, although bandits are a problem as I’m sure you know.  The cities and strongholds are well protected, but raids on smaller hamlets are sadly common.  Traveling can be dangerous but it’s getting safer as alliances between larger cities mean more patrolling along roads.

Erin, in fact, did not know bandits were still a problem.  Still, if this is some kind of writing exercise for whoever or whatever is on the other end of this, that’s fine.  Either that or this is the start of her descent into madness, and she’s actually the one writing all of this and not remembering it.  Really, at this point, she isn’t sure which of the choices is worse, especially considering the implications of the former.  

What is Washington like?

Erin’s reverie, or spiral into a panic attack but who’s asking, is interrupted by this.

We’re way West and North, with a lot of forest still despite the US’s propensity for cutting down nature to make way for man.  I live in the forest now at the base of some mountains, it’s nice.  Quiet town, not a whole lot to do, but I like it that way. 

Alys breaks the silence of the group.  “Men destroying nature in favor of their own desires, some things are the same everywhere.”  Urzash hums in agreement, penning a response that says as much, before their table is joined by a face she was hoping to never see again. 

“What do you want, Rolgar?”  The growl of Urzash’s voice would be enough to send most scattering, but Rolgar just gives her that leering smile she’s always hated, tusks flashing in the dim firelight.  

“What?  A guy can’t come check up on an old friend?”  One of his thick arms is slung across the back of her chair, and she stands abruptly to shove it off, glaring down and growling at the presumptuous orc.  Rolgar for his part just grins, standing languidly and beating Urzash in height by just an inch or two.  “You’re right, we really should go for a dance.”  Rolgar reaches for her hand, and Urzash slaps his arm away.  “You know, I like ‘em feisty.”  He breeches her personal space, coming far too close as he reaches for her hip.  

Urzash lashes out with her right fist, connecting with his jaw.  The resounding crack silences the rest of the tavern, and the clink of one impressive tusk cracking off and falling to the stone ground elicits a gasp from the onlooking crowd.  Rolgar lifts a trembling hand to feel the stump where there was once a proud tusk.  Yes, it would grow back as all orc tusks do, but considering the size it could be a year or more before he’d be back to his normal self.  The impotent roar that Rolgar lets out just makes Urzash laugh.  He telegraphs his oncoming attack so hard that all Urzash really has to do is use his momentum against him, sidestepping the punch and grabbing him by the arm to make sure he goes down to the floor.  

She’s standing on his upper back and has his leading arm by the wrist, twisted and pulled behind him as she moves her foot up until she’s putting pressure on his neck.  “What do you want, Rolgar?”  Urzash grinds out her response with the very last dregs of her patience, wondering exactly how much trouble she’d be in if she just stepped a little harder and snapped his neck.  Would anyone believe she slipped?  

Rolgar is coughing on the ground, staring at his own tusk and still internally raging.  “Icewing.”  The name is enough to get Urzash to lift her boot just enough to ease his talking.  “Icewing has been spotted taking to air again, he’s terrorizing the hamlets around Urgaur Stronghold.  The party that had claimed to have defeated him merely pilfered from his hoard and left him sleeping.”  Urzash roars but throws down Rolgar’s arm and steps back, sneering down at him.  

“Fucking useless!  I told them the Golden Helm company was a fraud.  ‘We don’t need a fighter’ they say ‘we do everything quick and quiet, like a knife to the ribs.’  What a bunch of fucking tripe.”  Urzash is pacing.  Dragons...it’s rare a company gets the chance to pit their strength against the terrifying wrath of a dragon.  Fire drakes were the most powerful, but there hadn’t been a fire drake known for at least the last four hundred years.  An ice drake was still a formidable and deadly challenge.  

“They know, that’s why they’re asking for you.”  Rolgar stands and cracks his neck, his languid stretch shows off his lean muscular frame.  He’s the epitome of male orcish aesthetics, but Urzash has never been interested in men, especially orc men if what she grew up with was anything to go by.  Still, Urgaur Stronghold was her birthplace and home, she couldn’t let this stand.

“Fine, sit, but away from me.  We’ll discuss terms.”  Urzash kicks a chair out from the table and points at it before taking her own seat back and glancing at the book.  Whoever was on the other side had written more, but it would have to wait for now.  Closing the journal and putting it in her pack, Urzash gives her full attention to Rolgar as he begins discussing the first attacks and current patterns, along with compensation.  He may be a dick but his tactical mind was indeed useful and honed.

They talk into the early hours of the morning, leaving only once a fair deal has been hashed out and handshakes given all around.  They’ll set out in two day’s time towards the hoard of Icewing.  Now, everyone knows that confronting a dragon head on is sure death.  You have to lie in wait, and when the dragon’s guard is down you strike.  By the time Urzash climbs into her bunk and pulls the book from her pack it’s been several hours since she last looked at it. 

It’s true, mankind seems to think that the metrics by which we measure humanity are the only true things of worth.  So nature isn’t considered progress, and personal growth is stymied by this greed and lust for power and control.  It’s why I left the city to live here, I couldn’t take it anymore.  

I’m Erin, what’s your name?

Sorry if that was too personal, I hope I haven’t run you off!

Then there are some half started letters and spots of ink, but otherwise nothing else.  Urzash sighs through her nose, feeling a little bad for ignoring the writer on the other end.  

Not run off, just a bit of an emergency to handle.  You can call me Ash, many do, short for Urzash.  I must go for the evening, but I would like to talk again.  You write about many things that confuse me but I want to learn.  Like what are these unreliable things called cars you hate so much? And this internet thing sounds usefu...

Urzash is truly too tired to think much about what she’s writing, and her handwriting slowly devolves until she falls asleep with the book propped next to her and quill staining the sheets.

[beautifulfearhorrorblog]

Top 10 Horror Movie Guilty Pleasures:

In no particular order.

1) Stephen King’s Sleepwalkers (1992) - Okay so maybe the graphics don’t quite hold up nowadays, but they’re still the perfect amount of cheesiness. Sleepwalkers follows the mother-son duo Mary and Charles Brady, who are the aforementioned Sleepwalkers, an ancient species who prey on virginal females, needing to consume their life force. There’s a lot of weird sexual energy between the two and there is incest abound. Charles sets his sights on Tanya, one of his classmates, and while he does charm her, he doesn’t count on her being a formidable foe to the two of them. If you love cats, I’d highly recommend this film, seeing as how the Sleepwalkers find themselves enemies in the furry little creatures. It’s also slammed full of fun cameos, including King himself, amongst others like: Tobe Hooper, Clive Barker, Mark Hamill, and more. 

2) Thirteen Ghosts AKA Thir13en Ghosts (2001)- How do you improve upon the gimmicky style of horror icon William Castle? Easy answer, you don’t. But that doesn’t mean that the remake to Castle’s 13 Ghosts (1960) is bad by any means. It’s one of my guiltiest pleasures. After a house fire takes the life of his wife, Arthur and his children are told by his late-uncle’s lawyer that he has inherited a beautiful house. The only problem? The house actually contains multiple spirits, spirits who, more often than not, are out for blood. Thirteen Ghosts is a fun reimagining, it even takes Castle’s original gimmick of Illusion-O (glasses that the audience could use, if they were brave enough to want to view the ghosts) and gives the glasses to the characters themselves, which honestly, is probably even more frightening for those poor souls. It’s the perfect amount of early 2000′s cheese and honestly, any movie starring Matthew Lillard is worth a view from me. 

3&4) The Mummy & The Mummy Returns (1999 & 2001) - While 1999’s The Mummy is technically a remake/reboot of 1932’s The Mummy, it is more of an action film, rather than the horror that is the 1932 version. There are many purists who insist that the original is the very best, but I’m here to just say, I absolutely love and cherish the ‘99 version and its sequel The Mummy Returns. The films follow Rick, Evelyn, Jonathan and an assortment of other characters as they accidentally resurrect ancient evils that they should’ve known better about. There are bits of horrific imagery scattered throughout the films and that’s enough for me to count them amongst some of my favorite horror films. Even with those though, they are light-hearted films with such interesting subject matter. 

5) Van Helsing (2004) - No one will claim Van Helsing is a masterpiece, and they aren’t wrong. But the movie is wonderful for what it is: an action-packed love letter to the horror monsters of our past. It’s no wonder that this movie holds a special place in my heart, it was directed by Stephen Sommers, the same man who directed both The Mummy and The Mummy Returns. It stars Hugh Jackman as the titular character, Abraham Van Helsing, as he hunts down Dracula. Along the way, Van Helsing comes across Mr. Hyde, Frankenstein’s Monster, and even a werewolf. The story is full of love for the characters and the Gothic aesthetic and, in my opinion, gives the monsters the respect they deserve. It is a must-watch for anyone who loves the monsters who came before us. 

6) Urban Legends: Bloody Mary (2005) -  Fun fact! Urban Legends: Bloody Mary was directed by Mary Lambert. Who’s Mary Lambert, you may ask? Only the director behind one of my favorite Stephen King adaptations, Pet Semetary (1989)! While this film does not have as much of a following, it still does right by me. The movie follows Sam and her brother David as they try to solve the mystery of Mary Banner, while the children of those responsible for Banner’s untimely death are killed off one-by-one. Being the third movie in the Urban Legend film series, this movie forgoes the slasher premise of the first two films, instead opting to go full supernatural. Some of the deaths have been used before in other films, but it doesn’t make them less effective, i.e; burning to death in a tanning bed will ALWAYS be terrifying. I also absolutely love the song heard throughout each death, “I Will Always Be There,’ performed to perfection by Niki Harris. It completely embodies the time period in which Mary’s innocence and life was lost, and it’s so bone-chillingly amazing. 

7) 5ive Girls (2006) - 5ive Girls is a lesser known supernatural horror film helming from Canada. The only actor in it that is particularly well known is Ron Perlman. For that to be the case honestly sucks, because the acting is so criminally underrated in this film. 5ive Girls takes place at an all-girls Catholic school and follows five different girls along as they all discover they are powered and then immediately begin being possessed. There’s even a sweet romance that buds between two of the girls, Mara and Alex, but seeing as this is a horror movie, long-lasting love is never a guarantee. The film is a neat hidden gem and deserves more praise for the acting of all the young women, who nailed all of their characters wholly. 

8) Stay Alive (2006) - A video game centered movie where if you die in the game, you die in real life? Sign me up. A movie loosely based upon one of the most prolific female serial killers ever known in history? Sign me up even more! Stay Alive never got the credit it deserved and to a degree that’s understandable; for a horror movie based around a group of gamers playing a game, none of them truly feel like they realistically game. The concept is there though and its villain is none other than the Blood Countess herself, Elizabeth Bathory, though her backstory was changed for the film. Bathory in real life was a Countess who was thought to have murdered up to 650 young girls to use their blood as a way of staying young, the movie sets her as a headmistress who murdered 30+ of her students for their youth. The change does not make much sense, but whatever works for the screenwriters works for me, because I still enjoy this movie so much. Sophia Bush’s, October, is a standout character in particular; she’s a take-no-crap type of woman who fights until her bitter end and she provides the rest of the characters with the keys in which to survive Bathory’s depraved game.   

9) Final Destination 3 (2006) - The Final Destination series had a good run, mostly producing great films. One stands above the rest though, and that is Final Destination 3. The plot follows the same layout as the rest of the films, hot young people cheating death and then immediately learning the hard way that death doesn’t allow that sort of nonsense. FD 3 centers around Mary Elizabeth Winstead’s character, Wendy, having the standard vision of a deadly accident, this one being a rollercoaster flying off of its tracks. Winstead portrays Wendy as a somewhat prissy character, but honestly, the girl is smart and does stave off death for quite a while. The DVD for the film also offers one of the coolest bonus features: Choose Your Fate, which allows the viewer to help save lives and in some cases, end the film almost as soon as it starts, allowing the main characters to survive unscathed, though their fates later on aren’t exactly desirable either.  

10) Beyond the Gates (2016) - An innovative and more recent horror film staring horror icon Barbara Crampton? Why isn’t this getting all of the praise it deserves? The film follows two brothers as they are clearing out their father’s video store, seeing as how he has been missing for over half a year. While there, they discover an old interactive VCR game entitled Beyond the Gates and are drawn to playing it. The game is more than it appears though and eventually the brothers find that it is much more than they bargained for. They must then go “beyond the gates” to save their father’s soul and themselves before it is too late. Crampton stars as the games guide, growing more menacing as the film progresses. The film is gorgeous with its retro aesthetic and fun neon colors. You’d be a fool to miss out on this piece.

[fantroll-purgatory]

(Please imagine she has some more scars on her left arm, I couldn’t work on the model anymore)

D: I am so sorry but in the time it took for me to get to this the link to your troll picture has expired, and I unfortunately don’t remember enough to recreate it.

Name: Demiti Melior.

I have no idea where Demiti came from, probably some generator, but Melior is Latin for “better” which ties into her personality

Given that you later introduce a snake lusus (and I kinda like it since it cements her as a treacherous social climber), how about the first name Kulkan, from the Mayan variant of Quetzalcoatl, “Kukulkan?“ Since Quetzalcoatl is a flying snake I feel it also cements her desire to be higher than those whose blood lands higher on the hemospectrum

Age: ~7 sweeps

Strife Specibus:halbardkind.

Mostly stemmed from me trying to find a slightly more unique bladed weapon to use, but she finds them “eleganttt anddd practicalll” due to the reasonably elegant appearance, showiness and grandness, and the multiple types of weapon head.

How about a handheld sickle? It’s curved, which works with the snake-y theme, and it’s also a farmer’s tool. Rather than show it off, it can be yet another indicator that Kulkan is not of higher blood (though it would be a GREAT weapon for a legislacerator!)

Fetch Modus: Etching Modus

Basically the pictionary modus, but the cards begin as small chalk slabs that the item is etched into instead of being drawn onto. Because carving is one of her only other interests

This doesn’t come up anywhere else in the bio, which isn’t automatically a hit against it. I kind of like a more whimsical one: a balloon modus, with each balloon containing a captcha card with an item. To retrieve an item, she has to successfully hit the balloon containing the item she wants. This is difficult because both her original and revised weapon are short-range, and it further cements her as someone who’s reaching upwards in the hopes of finding what she needs.

Blood color:Teal

Picked because it’s a lower mid blood to contrast her superiority complex

Symbol and meaning: Unfortunately not much backstory here. I knew my fantroll needed a symbol and I was doodling on some work. It may have been a letter from an alphabet I made up but I don’t remember. Probably just a doodle

Well, since we no longer have the picture that leaves me plenty of room to just make one up!

This is a weather symbol meaning “visibility obscured by smoke,” which I kind of like for someone who can never quite see the top due to all the toxicity they themselves create. It’s also curvy, like a serpent!

Trolltag: dreamyEpidemic

Came from a generator, and I was very fond of it. This was sort of before I had her personality solidified, so I’m open to suggestions

What about sinuousTufthunter? A snaky social climber.

Quirk:Repeatssss the lastttt consonantttt offff a wordddd severalll timesss

She had a snake S quirk (ssssort of like thisssss) for a while but I figure that’s probably terribly overused so repeated consonants were what I decided on

I like it! If I may suggest an alternate, maybe add a question mark to the end of her sentences? It’s a phenomenon known as uptalking? It means making the pitch of your voice go up at the end of sentences? It’s common when people try to parody valley girls?

Special Abilities (if any):Nothing, she’s very intelligent as most teal bloods are but that’s about it

Lusus: A giant spiny bush viper 2-3 times as long as Demiti is tall. Her lusus is pretty scarred up for reasons below.

Sort of a convoluted reason here. I really like spiny bush vipers, so I thought that may make a neat lusus. I often call them “little dragon snakes” which ties in to the most well known teal blood lusus, and her symbol makes me think of serpents or something similar.

I think that still tracks even with the invented symbol! If you want to go twee, you could slap a pair of bird wings on her to call back to Quetzalcoatl, but that may stray dangerously close to just Being A Dragon. I am, as always, tempted to spice it up by giving it two mouths like Slypher the Sky Dragon, which we see from Nepeta’s lusus is a perfectly acceptable way to make a lusus sufficiently weird that it’s not just a Big Animal.

Personality: She has a superiority complex despite being a mid blood, and she knows she’s a mid blood. If someone calls her out on it - often because they are higher on the hemospectrum - she will desperately find some other thing to be superior at. She’s vengeful, spiteful, snobbish, and generally unpleasant. The one or two friends she actually has are also victim to relentless teasing and insult based humour. She has very little regard for consequence or the feelings of people not extremely close to her.

Interests: Strifing, a lot. She really likes to fight. She and her lusus are covered in scars from constant “friendly” strifes. Aside from that, she likes taking things apart and trying to put them together into something else, and carving weird little things out of stone, wood, clay, ivory and pretty much anything else.

Hmmm. I like that she’s covered in scars, but I would like it to be from more than just sparring with her lusus; id she’s really as vengeful as you say, it’s possible that some of her scars are from standing up to people who are quick to retaliate! The hobby of pulling things apart seems a little sudden in this bio, but I’ll let it pass because she seems to also like verbally pulling her friends apart. The carving still doesn’t track for me; I might even accept that she goes deep-sea treasure hunting, since we are given clear visual indicators that gold is a sign of status among seadweller royalty.

Title: I actually haven’t thought a whole lot about that

I mean if you’d gotten to me a few years ago I would’ve said that her problem is not knowing her place and I would try to assign a class on the basis of that…but the hemospectrum is BULLSHIT so fuck that. As someone who wishes to climb the social ladder but does so through destructive means…I would say she could be a Bard of Hope (which unfortunately means she doubles up titles with Cronus, whoops).

Dream Planet:I have no idea, suggestions please

You didn’t mention a moon but I think she fits better with Derse than with Prospit; she’s a social climber, but she doesn’t feel she’s *destined* for greatness.

For her planet, as much as it pains me to repeat an attribute we’ve already seen in canon I definitely thing she should have one that includes Angels specifically because of the social climbing aspect and the reference to Quetzalcoatl. Maybe Land of Angels and Avalanches? LOAAA? It would be a land where the consorts are under constant threat and where travel is difficult due to many of the conventional land routes being blocked by fallen rocks, and it would be her quest to clear certain key paths so the denizen is reachable and able to exit from the core of the land.

~~~~~

For the heck of it, a tentative idea for her ancestor:

The Huntress

She refused to go into the civil servant jobs typical of teal bloods, and instead took her bloodlust and became a highly skilled assassin. She was involved in many convoluted high-blood plots, and made a lucrative career out of it. Her assasinations were flawless: silent, efficient, unseen. It’s said her marks never knew she was there until her spear was clean through their chest. She grew so confident in her skill however that she underestimated the depth of one of the insane high-blood plots she was involved in, and underestimated her target. She was caught off guard and killed by the one she was sent to kill.

The Huntress is a very, very common ancestor name. It was even the ancestor name I came up with for my first fantroll! Furthermore, ancestors exist to either contrast or highlight the details of their descendant, so while I like her as an assissin you may want to revise the bio to match with what you’ve already written about Kulkan.

The Badinage (meaning “banter”)

An assassin who went uncaught for sweeps due to her cowardly method of murder; extracts of her lusus’s poison, secretly administered to her highblood marks in the guise of friendly teatime conversation. How dishonorable! Can she even call herself a killer with her smooth, unblemished skin, unmarred by combat? The elegance with which she carried herself brought her purchase in many top-tier social circles, which she exploited with a smile and her pinky held high. Her death was as dishonorable as her life; an outraged ceruleanblood discovered that her lover had been killed in such a manner and sicked The Badinage’s own lusus on her, leaving both her and the snake a bloody mass of scar tissue.

~~~~~

There we go, fly at it, I have a tendency to write flat characters so feel free to absolutely tear this apart.

I think the bones of your character are very strong indeed!

I felt so bad that we lost your original sprite so I made you a new one!

Hair - this is heavily edited from one of fan-troll’s sprite sheets. I know it’s cliche for snake trolls to have curly hair but I love ti so much!

Horns - these are Callie’s horns from her headband turned sideways. It’s a perfect mimic for her new sign!

Bandage - this is from a tumblr that used to use the username uriman, but alas! they do not seem to be around anymore. I added a hole where he horns would poke out.

Eyes - I wanted to just fuck one of her eyes UP to show the damage from fighting with her lusus/other trolls. The other one is edited from a fantrollartroom template.

Mouth - once again from fantrollartroom! They look a little fang-y

Shirt - I went with the typical plain Alternian black shirt and added the new symbol in Terezi’s blood color.

Skirt - I used a combination between Kanaya’s skirt and fan-troll’s skirt. I mainly wanted it because the waves of the skirt mimic her symbol!

Shoes - I used fantrollartroom’s combat boot template and spruced it up a bit.

Anyway, thanks for your patience! I really enjoyed reviewing this troll!

-TR

[sheenaatbct]

Contexts of Game and Play

Week 3 Readings

Looking at the weeks theme, I thought it would be a good idea to actually look at the definition before getting into my readings.

Semiotics, as defined by dictionary.com, is “ the study of signs and symbols as elements of communicative behavior; the analysis of systems of communication, as language,gestures, or clothing.“  Semiotics in terms of video game design though, relates to the symbols we see in video games that we instinctively know does a certain thing, i.e. this glowing book is a save point, or a red barrel will explode.

So, as I go through my readings, I’ll try to focus on the theme, but will keep an open mind to other interesting points that I find.

Blood in the Gutter, S. McCloud

The main theme of this comic is closure, how we believe/perceive things to be there, without out senses proving so.  We rely on our senses to tell us what exists. If we can see it, hear it, taste it, touch it, or smell it, it must exist. However, in some cases, we can’t do any of those things, yet we just have faith that it does exist. 

The “gutter” is in reference to the space between comic panels, where nothing is drawn, however we can establish that something is happening between the two panels. Our minds tend to find connections between things we believe have a relationship, for example the comic panels next to each other. We’re encouraged to use our imagination to close the gaps and to interpret what is happening in the comics scenes. 

Just another point of interest I thought was cool was the difference between the east and the west in the style of comics. 

In terms of semiotics, I guess the main connection to it is how we interpret the drawings within comics and the known symbols we see.

Proteus (Game)

First impressions: damn, this game is beautiful. The pixel style turned 3D was something I haven’t seen before, and they way they used it made for a magical experience. 

Starting off in the middle of the water, it’s very clear where I should head, towards the big ol’ mountain blatantly in front of me. Perfect example of semiotics here. Once I reached the top of the mountain, I discovered the rest of the island. Pathway lead me in one direction, I chased after some chickens, and spotted a large tower in the distance. All of these are examples of the use of semiotics in the game, however, it wasn’t for a specific point. Chasing the chickens didn’t do anything, the tower just plays some eerie music but has no other meaning.

It kinda became clear to me that there was no narrative to follow or any real objectives to this game, it was just a place to explore. Using different landmarks however, guided me to explore the island. 

After completing the game, I went straight back in. A quick google search implied that there was more to be found. It was only then did I realise that the islands are randomly generated. I still enjoyed the experience again, after discovering a neat little secret(?) where I accidentally summoned a little man.

Screenshots of my game experience:

Proteus, The Cane and Rinse Podcast

I noted down that the members of this podcast continuously mentioned Dear Esther. I think I might look into this game to see why they bring it up so often but for now, the content of the podcast.

The members of this podcast explain their experience with Proteus and how they interpreted this game.

The visuals of the game create a unique experience, the abstract art work leaves the player to their imagination, are they chasing frogs or are they bunnies? There’s still enough familiarity with the art style, the trees are definitely trees, just some of the more playful aspects of the game are a little more unknown. The music and sound which accompanies the visuals really go hand in hand, to create a friendly feeling environment. Certain landmarks would draw their attention and particular locations spoke to them as somewhere they want to be, for example on top of a mountain to watch the sunset. 

One podcast member stated that they felt as they were just an entity floating through the island, rather than an actual avatar walking around. This kind of relates to how I felt whilst playing Proteus myself. 

Some of the members found the lack of interactivity to be a bit unnerving, as it broke the usual concept of video games. This lead to questioning whether this really is a game. I would argue that it is, you still have control of yourself within the game and have choices as to where you want to go, and there is a definite ending to it, it just uses the most basic of mechanics.

Problem Attic, ella_guro (Game)

This game was difficult. Visually and the challenge of completing it. 

I’m not too sure what to say about this game, it was a frustrating experience with weird graphics and even weirder written messages all through out it. The game was almost seizure inducing too, with the violently shaking screen. I guess it was easy to figure out what I was meant to do (in some cases) but otherwise I couldn’t figure out why. What did the game mean, and why is it so goddamn frustrating?

[3rdgymbros]

no hell had ever burned so sweet

A/N: This was inspired by @hanihana's wonderful comic on tumblr, and I hope I've done her art justice! If you haven't already seen the villain! katsudeku AU, you totally should. That being said, this is my first time writing katsudeku (let alone in an AU setting), and I hope I haven't made them too OOC! Please scream at me in the tags or in the inbox!! (There’s slight NSFW, so it’s been put under a read-more~)

Kendou finds him in the morning, poring thoughtfully over his collection of notebooks. He’s spread them out on his desk; there are only a few blank pages left in his latest one, and he’s managed to add an entry or two about some upcoming heroes who have managed to catch his eye. Soon, the book itself will need to be changed, and maybe he’ll write more in it, when all he sees is his own writing.

“I’ve got news, boss.” She says by way of greeting, waving a sheath of newspapers about in the air.

Izuku lets out a noncommittal hum, studying the auburn haired girl as she strides into the room. Exhaustion from pulling an all-nighter drags at him like wet winter clothes after a swim. The king-sized bed had felt empty, wrong, without Kacchan in it beside him, and he hadn’t felt like crawling into a bed that was far too big for him and attempting the farce of sleeping.

Not that they’ve been doing much sleeping as of late.

Even in the bedroom, Kacchan had an improper tongue. Hearing those sweet, filthy words pouring out of his mouth was always a turn-on, and he’d come right on the spot, with only Kacchan’s hot mouth wrapped around his dick. Surprisingly receptive, Kacchan had mercilessly exploited his weakness; taunting him with all the things he planned to do to Izuku once they were alone, unravelling Izuku with both his words and body whenever they kissed and touched and fucked – though not always in bed.

“Boss.”

How persistent. But Kendou’s voice is enough to clear the lust fogging up his mind.

The mantle of responsibility falls hard back onto his shoulders. Izuku takes Kendo in with tired, lidded eyes, his expression giving nothing away. He might be running on fumes, but his mind is as alert as ever, going full speed with his observations.

She’s wearing makeup and perfume. Subtle, smells like vanilla and marigolds. The jacket’s new, she bought it last week. Her boots are a little too tight; they’re pinching her toes on the left foot. The dress is low-cut and flashy; she’s planning to go out for some fun. Her mouth is turned down at the corners, her eyebrows are drawn together.

“Bad news, hm~?”

There’s a statement behind the honey-laced question, and Kendou knows it. Tension pinches her freckled cheeks and rapidly drives the colour from her complexion. Izuku studies her all the while, a specimen under the microscope.

He waits.

Her expression closes and darkens. “It’s Bakugou. He’s . . .”

The very name chases wishes of sleep from his head and battles the exhaustion back to the periphery of his mind.

“What about Kacchan?”

Rage eats at his calm. His anger burns brightly. He knows that Kacchan’s more than capable of looking after himself, but his childhood friend has been the only constant in his life, and Izuku knows, without a shadow of a doubt that he’d kill anyone who dared to lay a finger on his Kacchan.

“It’s Bakugou,” Kendou says again, almost ruthlessly calm and unperturbed by the dark anger colouring his voice. She’s one of the few people who aren’t put off by his volatile mood swings, and talks to him freely, without fear of any repercussions. She can lift twice Izuku’s body weight and works harder than anyone to make sure the underlings aren’t causing any unnecessary trouble and drawing too much attention. Izuku’s grateful to have her around. “The pro-heroes caught him. He’s under heavy guard now, but our intel says he’ll be transferred to a maximum-security prison in approximately three hours.”

“Ah.” As if a switch has been thrown, Izuku relaxes and grins at Kendou. “Well, that’s fine then. You should have said something sooner, Kendou-chan!” He arranges his notebooks in a neat pile upon his desk, changing the subject with ease. “Do you want to grab some breakfast? I need some caffeine in my system.”

“I don’t mind, but – Wait. Boss. We have more important things to worry about – How is everything fine?”

His smile grows. “All we have to do is get Kacchan out before they transfer him, right? Problem solved.” Izuku hums thoughtfully. “On second thought, maybe we should postpone breakfast, hmm? I should probably get going.”

“Alone?”

“Well, seeing as how you’re busy going on dates with that boyfriend of yours –”

She flushes a bright shade of red that clashes horribly with her auburn hair. “It is not a date, I’m just –”

It’s always so easy to push her buttons. Izuku takes in her embarrassment with cold and detached amusement before waving a dismissive hand in her direction. “That’s fine. Have fun on your nondate with your nonboyfriend Monoma. No objections here.” His voice sharpens. “I’ll go and get Kacchan alone.”

His hands are sticky, stained red with blood. He wishes he’d worn his gloves today.

They’ve put Bakugou in a lightless place, stagnant and airless. Filth and despair seems to clog his every pore. He’s grown used to spending a life in the darkness, but it doesn’t suit his Kacchan, a force larger than life, a typhoon that hates to be contained.

The corridor is about thirty yards long, with cells on both sides. Some are padded cells with an observation window, long and narrow like an archery slit; in the centre of the door. Others are standard prison cells, with a wall of bars opening on the corridor. Izuku is aware of figures moving in the cells, but he spares them nothing, not even a glance.

He could care less if they rot to death in here.

His objective is one person only.

Bakugou’s cell is well beyond the others, facing only a closet across the corridor. It’s the only one fortified with heavy double doors of iron and steel. They’ve spared no expense in keeping him locked up, it seems. Izuku presses the button beside the doors, waiting for them to hiss apart and announce his arrival.

The cell is spotlessly white and brightly lit. Izuku walks in, his footfalls the only sound in the otherwise silent room, and takes it all in with a contemplative hum. Heavy canvas webbing keeps Bakugou bound tightly to a thick slab of concrete bolted to the floor. Barbed wire rings his neck, his chest, his arms. Beneath the webbing he wears a straitjacket and leg restraints.

Up close, Bakugou looks fine. His hair still sticks up in messy, unkempt spikes; his face is pale, the stark absence of colour emphasizing his brilliantly red irises. His lips are chapped and his nose is pink. He raises his head and grins as Izuku approaches. His eyes run up and down Izuku lazily, like the stroking paws of a cat.

Izuku’s answering smile is as sharp as the edge of a blade.

Bakugou’s straightforward desire is enjoyable. No seduction, no pretence. His want is simple, and he does nothing to hide it or dress it under honeyed words.

“What took you so fucking long, Deku?”

Even chained up and bound with all manners of tracking devices, Bakugou is still as cocky as ever. A mocking edge to his question, made all the more pronounced by the rasp in his voice makes Izuku’s stomach flutter. It brings sex to mind. Extraordinary sex.

The thought of his Kacchan tied and bound up with a length of rope, spread out prettily on their bed, writhing and moaning Izuku’s name over and over again, coming undone while Izuku pounds into him makes for a pretty picture, and sends a white-hot desire trammelling through Izuku’s veins.

His lips are dry, so Izuku licks them before answering, “Sorry, Kacchan. It took me a while to bypass their security system.”

“Heh?” Bakugou asks, teasing and mischievous, “The heroes gave you a hard time to save me, huh?”

Izuku’s eyes darken with desire. Bakugou licks his own lips, mirroring his gesture from several minutes before, as though he knows what Izuku’s thinking. Kacchan’s there. Right there. All perfect and gorgeous and smelling of soap and sweat. If they weren’t hard-pressed for time, Izuku would be fucking Bakugou senseless here and now, hearing him scream and beg as his nails rake their way down Izuku’s back –

“No, no, don’t worry about that.” Izuku smiles angelically, in a way that completely dismisses the other’s concerns. “Getting through their defenses was actually fun.”

Izuku bubbles out a laugh that’s tinged with mania. He’s lost count of the number of heroes he’s killed, the wake of bodies he’s left in his rampage; the only evidence he has is staining his hands, dripping and splattering onto the linoleum tiles in a soft crimson rain. “But Kacchan, saving people is what heroes do. And I’m not a hero. Neither are you. We abandoned that title a long time ago, remember?”

“Oh yeah, that’s right.” Bakugou hums in approval, the sound as warm as bathwater.

It manages to bring a genuine smile to Izuku’s face. Few things these days have the ability to make Izuku happy – and even now, Kacchan can still make him smile. It’s something that hasn’t changed from when they were kids, bright-eyed and young and naïve, playing at being heroes with sticks and capes made of blankets.

Izuku isn’t connected to these dreams on a personal level. Not anymore.

“I’m not here to save you.” Izuku purrs, leaning forwards to nuzzle his nose along the sensitive spot behind Bakugou’s neck, so that his words vibrate into skin and bones. He can’t make Kacchan scream his name yet; but hearing his sudden, sharp intake of breath is enough to satiate him. For now. “I’m here to pick you up.”

It elicits a growl from Bakugou. “Quit teasing and just fucking kiss me already, Deku.”

Izuku bites back his amusement, running his fingers through the sweat-damp roots of ash blond hair. “Why, since you asked so politely, Kacchan!”

Izuku knows he’ll pay for it later, that he’ll be reduced to a quivering, panting mess on the bed, begging to feel Kacchan’s dick inside of him. But when Bakugou’s pupils darken, Izuku takes a single sip of his arousal and finds it exquisite. That’s enough teasing for today.

Chuckling lightly, Izuku leans forwards, mindful not to snag himself on the barbed wire. With another growl, Bakugou surges forward and kisses Izuku hard, bruising his lips. Izuku’s hands twine themselves in ash blond hair, fisting it roughly, holding him in place so he can’t turn away. He bites the tongue that Bakugou thrusts aggressively into his mouth, then his lower lip, tasting blood. Izuku sighs. A slow, hot trickle of arousal gathers deep in his bones.

“Let’s go home, Kacchan,” Izuku breathes against Bakugou’s mouth.

“Yeah, but before that –” The cutting rasp to Bakugou’s voice becomes more pronounced, and Izuku feels his stomach clench in anticipation.

“Hm?” Izuku hums lightly, feeling a dark grin spread across Bakugou’s lips.

“Release me and let me burn this place to the fucking ground.”

It’s incredibly easy to get Bakugou riled up, and each and every time, Izuku relishes the sight of it. A feral smile is stretched taut across his face. The sparks in his eyes fly into his darkness like fireflies down a cave.

God, how Izuku wants him. The craving hasn’t gone away, not even for a minute.

“Oh, Kacchan,” Izuku coos, his fingers already making quick work of the wires and straps, “Stop being so charming, will you?”

[misabelthemiserable]

Lima Beans

An AU based on this post by arkhams (et al). Cross-posted to ao3.

Summary: Dean and Castiel first met in the health-food aisle of the local grocery store. The sparks (and soup cans) flew instantly.

Rating: T

Warnings: Hella cute

Four months; four goddamn months, Castiel cursed to himself. More specifically, it had been four months, eleven days and a handful of hours since he’d first seen Dean Winchester scowling at vacuum-packed lima beans in the health-food aisle of the local grocery store. Obviously, he hadn’t known the man’s name, or anything about him at all then, and until Castiel had knocked over the stacked display of soup, behind which he’d been hiding, and drawn attention to himself, all he’d known of the stranger was that he had dull blond hair, unrealistically green eyes, annoyingly pink lips set in a frown, and was perfect.

As cream of chicken and tomato rice went clattering noisily to the linoleum, giving away Castiel’s position and prompting a mortified flush to spread over his face, stupidly green eyes snapped in his direction. The lima beans were abandoned and the stranger strode towards him, a basket swinging on his forearm. “Hey, need some help there?”

Castiel found it was reflexive to stammer out thanks and sink to the floor with this obnoxiously perfect stranger, to rearrange cans of soup in neat columns. It lacked the artistry of the former arrangement, but Castiel’s mind couldn’t stay on soup when this man was there in his eyeline – existing – moving – talking.

“So, this kind of thing happen to you a lot, or am I just lucky today?” If the man’s effervescent grin hadn’t been so distractingly bright, Castiel might have been able to work out if he was being made fun of and form a response. As it was, he couldn’t feel his knees and all he managed to mumble was “No…”

“Just luck, then.” If the stranger was at all put off by Castiel’s reticence, he didn’t show it. His smile remained startlingly bright as they got to their feet and – god, were those freckles? This just wasn’t fair. “I’m Dean, by the way.” Castiel found a hand being thrust at him. It was large and calloused, and he was sure just by looking that it would be warm and enveloping. He gazed at it mutely for a second, before belatedly remembering what he was supposed to do with it. Jerking his own hand up clumsily to meet the other man’s – Dean’s – Castiel tried not to hold his breath as warmth closed around his fingers. After a moment he realized that he was staring fixedly at their clasped hands, and that he had yet to say a word.

“Castiel,” he blurted, “I, I mean, that’s my name. Castiel.” He made a point to lift his eyes to Dean’s, though it did nothing for his concentration.

“Like the angel?”

Castiel blinked. He'd never actually met anyone who knew that before. “Yes, actually.”

Dean bobbed his head. “Awesome.”

It occurred to Castiel that their hands were still clasped tightly. He contemplated that their handshake was being protracted beyond what was considered socially acceptable, but really didn’t care. It was not until another customer brushed past them that Dean cleared his throat and stepped back, dropping his hand. “Okay, well, it was really great meeting you, Castiel, and uh, picking up soup cans with you.” Again, that disarming grin. “Maybe I’ll see you around? I shop here a couple times a week since I moved here.”

The warmth that had left Castiel with the loss of Dean’s hand made a flutter of return in his chest. Maybe if they ran into each other, Dean would let him hold his hand again? “Yes, I – I – I shop here too,” Castiel managed to get out. After Dean had smiled and walked out of sight with a “See y’around, Cas,” Castiel had wandered aimlessly up and down the wholefood aisle, unable to do anything but question why a man with a basket full of what looked ready-made pie crust and beef jerky, would be looking at lima beans?

After that, Castiel had seen Dean a total of five times, each time a chance meeting in that same store. He did, for the most part, recover his ability to speak, which made conversation with the man much easier. Their conversations were a good deal longer than was generally considered usual for the chance meeting of casual acquaintances, but neither seemed to care much. Castiel had not, as of yet, had another opportunity to hold Dean’s hand, to his disappointment. He did, however, learn that his name was Dean Winchester, and he was a mechanic; recently moved to the area from Kansas to be nearer his brother, the only blood relation he had left after their father had died wrapping his car round a tree in a night of drunken stupor. It was that car which Dean was apparently using his free time at the garage he’d taken over from a family friend to rebuild. Castiel learned about his brother, Sam, who was currently studying law, and was at the root of the question of lima beans.

In return, Castiel found himself pouring out his life story to the first person he'd ever met who actually seemed interested, all while his bag of frozen peas gently melted a wet patch on his trouser leg.

Each meeting would begin the same way. “Cas! Hey, fancy meeting you here,” or something equally light-hearted (though Castiel could never muster the courage to initiate their conversations).

“Hello, Dean.” It never occurred to him to question the nickname Dean had given him so easily. He didn’t remember ever having been given one before, but from Dean’s perfect lips it sounded exactly right.

And every time, every goddamn time, Castiel would try to find the words – some words – any words, to tell Dean Winchester how exceptionally beautiful he was. Or at least, ask to hold his hand again, or ask for his number; a date; anything. But every time he opened his mouth with intent to charm and/or seduce, it somehow never quite came out quite right.

The third time he and Dean had met (this time in the dairy aisle), he’d attempted to compliment the man’s captivating eyes. Unfortunately, the eyes had proven a little too captivating, leading Castiel to desperately blurt out “Your eyelashes don’t match you hair.”

To Dean’s credit, he neither laughed derisively nor ran. He looked mildly confused and said slowly “Yeah, I…guess they don’t.”

 Now, after the fifth chance encounter and the fourth attempt at a stillborn flirtation, Castiel slapped his keys down on the hall table and glared balefully at himself in the mirror opposite. “Really, Castiel? Of all the disastrous paths to choose, you try to be funny? To Dean Winchester?” He narrowed his eyes at his reflection, as if waiting to see if it could come up with a valid excuse. After a moment he deflated. “You know you’re not funny,” he muttered at himself before relenting and moving away.

The wooing of Dean Winchester was beginning to be quite a problem, and problems called for plans. Sitting at his kitchen table, Castiel pulled a notepad and pen towards him. This would take some serious thought.

With a groan, Dean Winchester let his forehead thump gently against the steering wheel of his crappy rental. Opening his eyes, he glared at the dash, feeling its obnoxious existence was insult to injury. He missed his baby, and it cut him deep every time he saw her sitting neglected in a corner of the garage. But work was work, and he had to keep the business afloat before anything else. Orders flooded in, and Dean was determined to keep up with them. For weeks he had barely had time to see his little brother, let alone meet anyone new in the neighbourhood, except customers.

And then came Cas.

Castiel Novak. Castiel, the rumpled, blue-eyed angel of the health-food aisle, who bought a shit-ton of vegetables but shared his mistrust of spinach.

Castiel, whose confused, grumpy face never failed to make his whole day better, and whose awkward, rare smiles lit up the whole fucking week. Castiel, whom Dean had been trying to ask out for months now, but could never quite seem to say it right.

Castiel, who he thought might kinda like him back, if only he could get his act together and ask.

Dean yanked his keys from the ignition. Stomping up the steps to his apartment, he thought grumpily of the first time he’d seen Castiel, looking lost with a collapsed tower of soup cans at his feet. With that goddamn adorable frown on his goddamn adorable face, Dean found himself dropping whatever disgustingly healthy substance he had been picking up for Sammy, and making a beeline for the flustered stranger at the end of the aisle. When Dean had offered his hand to the man, he’d seemed reluctant to take it for a moment. Then long fingers had wrapped around his and – zap­­ –­ ­electricity shot straight up his spine and oh.

Oh.

“Castiel,” the man had introduced himself.

“Like the angel?” Dean asked, wondering as soon as the words were out of his mouth why he’d said something so inane. What was he expecting the guy to say? No, like the rockstar?

“Yes, actually.” Castiel looked a little taken aback. Great, way to go Dean, why not tell him all about your encyclopaedic knowledge of Star Trek while you’re here, slam that final nail in your coffin.

He tried to save himself. “Awesome.” Bobbing his head awkwardly, Dean wondered how much it would hurt to just shoot himself in the face.

Castiel was looking straight at him with wide, blue eyes, and it dawned on Dean that he was still holding on tight to the poor guy’s hand. Probably freaking him the fuck out, too. For a moment he wavered, not wanting to lose the connection. Someone brushed past his sleeve, nudging him minutely, and he stepped away, realizing now how close they had been standing. He could feel the start of an embarrassed flush on his face and neck. “Okay, well, it was really great meeting you, Castiel, and uh, picking up soup cans with you.” Dean was about to bail, pulling a smile onto his face, when the tiniest, tiniest flicker of an answering smile sidled onto Castiel’s grave face. Perhaps…perhaps Dean hadn’t been as godawful as he thought? “Maybe I’ll see you around? I shop here a couple times a week since I moved here.”

Castiel’s reply was intriguingly stuttery.

 In the following weeks Dean found himself trailing around the store far more often than he really needed, dangling a basket from one arm and reading the back of pasta boxes just to occupy himself (huh, apparently he was supposed to salt pasta water?), while waiting around for Castiel. Sometimes he’d be there, and improve Dean’s whole week. Other times, Dean would wander out of the doors an hour later, feeling uncomfortably like a flat tyre. At some point, Castiel became Cas in his head, and he ended up letting it slip out. It was embarrassing, though Cas didn’t seem to mind. Finally, someone who didn’t mind his nicknames.

Since then, Dean had been trying to figure out a way to ask Cas out. He’d mentally run through dozens of different lead-ins and pick-up lines, ranging from classy, to flirty, to downright corny. None of them seemed quite…enough for Cas. The man was unlike any Dean had met, and for the first time in his life he found himself wanting to write sonnets and lovesick songs, about that shy, crinkly smile and how his eyes looked like the actual, honest-to-god ocean. Plus, one time he had stretched up to grab something from the top shelf, and Dean had caught a glimpse of hipbones he’d be quite happy to chew on.

So why was this so difficult? It wasn’t like Dean was normally shy about this kind of thing. He’d picked up his fair share (some might say more than his fair share) of both chicks and guys in his thirty years, and he’d never struggled to get a line out like this.

Two days following his latest failure to launch, Dean marched purposefully through the automatic doors of the grocery store. He’d given himself a mental pep-talk all the way over here from work (he could do this, it wasn’t that scary, just get the words out, Winchester), and it wasn’t until he was gripping the basket and striding towards the health-food aisle that the realization that Cas probably wouldn’t be there struck him. He slowed, his determined hold on his basket wilting. Fuck, what had he been thinking, anyway? Cas would never go for a grease-monkey GED like him. The guy was as smart as Sammy, a librarian for godssakes, knew more about bees than he thought was possible to know, and was way too good for Dean Winchester. It was probably just as well Cas wouldn’t be there, if only so Dean could avoid doing something stupid and losing a friend.

Without really knowing where he was going, Dean drifted towards a display of quinoa or some shit, and absently picked up what looked like vacuum-packed sadness.

“Dean!”

The voice was so loud and abrupt that Dean jumped, dropping whatever it was to the linoleum. He whipped around to find Castiel striding towards him agitatedly down the aisle, vaguely waving a handful of – flashcards? – in one hand and muttering inaudibly to himself. His hair was even more disorderly than usual, mussed out of recognition from his characteristic bed-head. Worried lines criss-crossed his face, but he looked curiously driven. “Dean, where have you been? I waited all yesterday afternoon, and today,”

Dean opened his mouth to articulate his confusion, but evidently Cas didn’t require an answer. Stopping a few feet away, he seemed absorbed in shuffling through his flashcards, looking earnestly for something.

“What? Uh – hi? Cas?”

Glancing up, Cas gave him a solemn nod. “Hello, Dean. Are you ready?”

“Yes? Wait – for what?”

Cas had apparently found the correct flashcard. He cleared his throat and stood up straight, looking Dean gravely in the eye. “So, Dean, um, do you come here often?”

Dean was baffled, but willing to go along with whatever this was. “Uh, yeah? I guess? I mean, it’s closest to my house, so it’s easiest. You know that, buddy, we see each other here all the time.” He didn’t know whether it was his imagination or not, but did Cas seem a little…disappointed? He found himself being peered at closely for a moment or two before Cas returned to his flashcards.

“Yes, I know that. It doesn’t matter.” He started flicking through card after card, each one apparently proving unsuitable for whatever his purposes were. A pink flush was rising on his cheeks and his demeanour of agitation was deepening with each rejected card.

On impulse, Dean reached for him. “Hey, Cas, buddy, you okay?” The moment his hand met Cas’ shoulder, the other man’s eyes went wide as saucers, rising slowly to meet Dean’s, and the pink tinge spread up to his ears.

“Thank you, Dean, I’m quite well.” Though, in honesty, he sounded a little strangled. “I have something of great importance to ask you.”

“Oh, well, sure.” Dean dropped his hand, as it seemed to make Cas uncomfortable. “What was it?”

Cas consulted his flashcards nervously. “Did you, uh, did…” Dean quirked an eyebrow curiously, and Cas’ eyes flickered to it. He swallowed and inhaled deeply, apparently preparing for something. “Did you fall out of heaven, because, um,” he glanced down at his card uncertainly and glorious realization hit Dean at last. At that moment, Cas’ convulsive grip on the flashcards faltered and they cascaded to the linoleum, scattering pick-up lines across the aisle floor. “Shit! Fuck, oh God,” Cas dropped to the floor and began trying to gather the cards into a pile. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, you’re –” Standing frozen as he was, Dean found a flushed, mortified face looking miserably up at him. “You’re just so pretty, and I – I’m – I’m sorry,”

Having managed to cobble most of the scattered cards into some semblance of order, Cas got back onto his feet, hugging them to his chest and looking as though he were waiting for the death sentence. Dean searched for words, any words. At last, he found some.

“Dude.” At his incredulous tone, Cas seemed to shrink a little further. “You want to date me?”

Cas nodded miserably. “From the moment I saw you.”

“Awesome,” Dean breathed.

A beat of silence. “What, really?”

“Oh, dude, yes, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out for months. In fact,” Dean checked around them, ducking his head to peer between shelves of dried fruit and grains, “I don’t think there’s anybody about, so if you wanna skip straight to third date sex, I’d be down for that.”

“Oh.” Cas blinked, looking utterly stumped. For a few seconds he said nothing, then starting awkwardly sifting through the flashcards clutched to his chest. “I, um…don’t have a card for…this situation.”

“Holy fuck,” Dean blurted, finally snapping, and he yanked Castiel towards him. Flashcards tumbled to the floor as their lips met, and the rest fluttered resignedly to join them as Cas’ hands rose to cup Dean’s jaw. His shyness soon turned to enthusiasm, and Dean found himself pressed against an array of freeze dried fruits that honestly looked like offences against both God and man, but when Cas did that with his tongue – Dean didn’t care at all.

“Uh, sir? Sirs? You can’t – you shouldn’t do that here. There’s – there’s cameras, and shit…”” A pimply, blushing youth in a store uniform was the source of the interruption. Dean gave the kid a strangled yip of acknowledgement when Cas let him up for air, while Cas himself merely glared speculatively up at the CCTV. The embarrassed teen shuffled off.

“Dean, I don’t think we can have intercourse here.” said Cas seriously, a pensive crease to his brow.

Holding himself back from laughing giddily, Dean managed to reply “Yeah, I know, it’s too bad.”

Cas’ look was oddly shy for a man who still had Dean half-pinned to a shelf of dried goods. “But I’d settle for holding your hand?”

“Goddamn,” breathed Dean, diving for Cas’ lips once again.

[etoilesdephan]

Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt? (Chapter 6: Actus reus)

Chapter masterpost

Read it on ao3!

Overall word count: 14.8k

Chapter word count: 2.7k

Trigger warning: Violence, mentions of blood.

When he woke up the next day, it felt relatively calm.

Apparently they had a certain time when to wake at, but it hadn't been a problem for Dan, who had awoken in the middle of the night, another nightmare haunting him, warping his normal dreams into horror and guilty conscience. The light poured in through the small window as he sat in his bed, curled against the wall with knees close, arms wrapped around them tightly. His eyes watched as the line of light crawled across the floor until it melted into the rest of the daylight.

His eyes stung, the tiredness evident in every blink, but he refused to sleep. He wasn't exhausted enough and he wanted to make a call today. He didn't want to miss the only chance that he had to find out how the things outside the dull prison walls were like.

Of course, he had rationalised, if he just waited for another day, he was bound to have some visitor who would know something. But it had been the increasing loneliness in those days prior the trial, that kept him doubting.

The faces, one by one, turning from friendly to suspicious and cold. The eventual absence of those he had trusted to stand by his side. The lack of phone calls from anyone but Louise and PJ, and a select few others. It was the absence of the truthfully hopeful feeling in his chest that didn't allow him to depend on seeing anyone, to find out what he wanted to know most.

It was the emptiness and cold of the cell that made him miss that warmth, made it impossible to wait. If there was a mere hope, he wanted to know of it. If Phil woke up suddenly, he wanted to hear his voice.

He tried to put trust into his best friend that his, their, future would not go down the drain, though it was his fault that they had ended up where they were.

It was around noon that, after temporarily being assigned to some of the cleaning duty, Dan finally found his way over to the phones, where a small queue was guided by a guard who listed down every name before three minutes of conversation were given to each person. It was a frustrating wait; he was so used to the ease of using a smartphone, everyone he loved and worked with within his reach through the small device in his pocket. He hated that dependence now, though he'd made a video about being fine with it back in the day. He hated how he didn't know how to reach the hospital, that he didn't know a proper way to find the hospital contact information either, that he was so unsure about Martyn's number, but silently prayed to whatever people believed in that created and ruled the universe, that he had the right digits in his mind.  

The sound of dial was long, drawn-out, absolutely ancient-sounding and Dan's palms were sweaty as he gripped the phone to his ear. He almost dropped the handset when the line cracked and the voice of Martyn poured through the speaker “Hello?”

“Martyn,” He breathed out, and every cell in his body was grateful for the older Lester brother again.

“Dan! How did you--”

“I have only a couple of minutes, they let us call once a week. How's Phil?” The most pressing matter spilled before he would lose his composure.

“He's still in coma, but stable, nothing to worry about, but they still can't tell when he will wake up,” Though not the news he wished for the most, it was better than what his nightmares had supplied and he breathed out in relief, pressing his forehead against the wall. “Say, Cornelia and I will be stopping by tomorrow, and I hear your mum is coming as well. If anything changes, I will make sure to let you know. You, hold up meanwhile, okay? Don't let the prison shenanigans make you lose hope. We'll figure something out.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, nearly inaudibly, in the receiver at the reassuring words. “Cornelia said that she has a friend who knows more and we'll be visiting her at the end of the week. We wanted to break the news after we talked to her, but it sounds like you could really use knowing that already.”

Dan only smiled. There was something soothing and friendly about the older man's voice and he drank in that peace before he knew it would inevitably be cut short.

“Martyn.”

“What is it Dan?”

“Thank you for everything you're doing and have done,” His chest was suddenly full of gratitude and he let it spill, the tiredness making his limbs feel more like jelly with every passing moment “Phil is there and yet you still take time to worry about me.”

“Of course I worry about you, Dan, you're part of the family.”

“Time's up, Howell!” The loud voice startled him and he frowned despite the warmth of the words that still remained in the back of his mind.

“Thank you, I have to go. I'll see you all tomorrow.”

“Take care, Dan.”

======

“Watch it,” A larger and meatier shoulder hit his own when he passed a group of men, and he stumbled, looking up to apologise only to see the retreating backs of the men already and he furrowed his brows. The impact had felt hostile and yet it was over as soon as it happened and Dan rubbed his shoulder gently while making his way to the door leading to the visiting area.

Today he would see three people whom he cared for and who seemed to care in return. The few people that he truly didn't feel abandoned by.

“Half an hour, no touching, you will be searched upon return,” The instructions were clear and he nodded, entering the room which, thankfully was not just a seat and a phone to talk to your visitors through a glass. No, it was a proper room with tables and chairs. He could see pairs of people seated by them every few meters away from one another, having quiet conversations.

He traipsed over to one of the tables just as his mum appeared in the door at the other side of the room and he could see the restrain she had to maintain not to just run up to him and draw him into a hug. Though never too emotionally open around one another, he couldn't say that their relationship had been all bad. He found himself longing for the days from childhood where he could sometimes come up to her and curl up with his head on her lap and she would stroke his curly hair gently until he would fall asleep.

“Hey mum,” He greeted her as they took their seats and he could see her eyes observing him; he probably looked like a mess. Even at his rowdiest childish years he had been a fairly neat boy, after all.

“Hello dear, how are you doing?” She leaned forward a little, only to rest her arms onto the table and he could see her hands wringing together. He wondered if it was the stress, and he had to try his hardest to not reach out and grasp her hand, to apologise, to try and comfort her.

“I'm as fine as someone in a prison can be,” He tried to humour her, even managing a light chuckle and she smiled a little, but it faltered soon after.

“Are you sleeping well?�� It was a question that had become norm in the past weeks and it was strange that such a question would actually make him feel more at home than annoyed. He shook his head, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table only to rub his palms against his face and through his hair; the dark bags under his already dark eyes probably made him an eyesore to look at.

“I can't,” He admitted, lowly “I keep worrying that he will never...” He paused, then sighed and heard her sigh as well, empathetically.

“You should think about yourself a bit too now; we need to get you out but I don't want you to crumble before we can do that, okay?”

When he didn't look up, she demanded, softly “Look at me, Daniel,” He felt scolded, but it made him finally look up to meet a pair of eyes as dark as his own “Do it, if not for yourself then for me, for Phil, please?” Her gaze was soft and he understood that this openness didn't come easy for either of them and soon he nodded, putting his palms against the surface of the table “I promise I will try my best,” And though it made her smile, he could still see the worry behind it.

“Hey, Dan,” Two more people poured into the room and Dan regarded them with the most genuine smile that he could muster “Martyn, Cornelia,” He greeted them with short nods and watched as the three people tried to arrange the chairs on the one side of the table as instructed without the need to literally sit in each others lap.

“How you holding up?” Cornelia was first to speak and their conversation settled into slow, tentative questions and answers, light musing about the potential of the meeting with her friend helping him somehow. How they all wondered what would come out of this whole situation. A lot of spoken and silently exchanged thoughts about Phil.

There was certain comfort in the slight awkwardness that hung in the air.

But it made parting so much more real, too.

======

“Phil, no,” He gasped, writhing in his sleep as his mind conjured the red flashing images behind the closed lids.

It had started as a normal dream again, the two of them spending a leisure evening curled up on the sofa and watching some movie that he couldn't make out through the haze of sleep. It had been just them, the blanket thrown over the two men and Dan's head rested on Phil's side, one arm lazily draped over the older man while pale fingers were running through his hair. There was the scent of dinner still lingering in the air, there was warmth, and murmur of the tv and the city beyond the closed windows.

There were quiet words of love muttered in the middle of a particularly longer silence. He had nuzzled against Phil's side, feeling the other man flinch a little in that familiar way when he was trying not to laugh, the action tickling.

And then it had all gone wrong, and there was nothing left of that peace. There was blood and the sound of choking and there was a fading figure leaving the room and Dan could swear that he could hear a demonic-like laughter fill the room.

He'd woken up in cold sweat again.

The food felt tasteless and the pieces seemed to be too big no matter how much he chewed, getting lodged in his throat. Somewhere along the way Rudy had stopped by, talking endlessly without a worry that Dan wasn't listening, before departing in that same careless manner. It was only when he was setting his tray away that he was drawn out of his trance, a heavy body crashing into him, effectively shoving him and making him stumble in an attempt to not fall.

“S--” He began to apologise but was interrupted by the man who had slammed into him.

Dan had always thought that he was too tall, and yet this man still towered over him and he had to look up to see his face properly. A face that was squared but perfectly smooth, lips a wide smile though there was none of that childishness in his eyes that Rudy carried. “And here I thought that you'd have a bit more fight in you,” Dan was puzzled at the words, and involuntarily he stepped back and away from the large man, only to see him cross the same amount of distance and not relieving Dan's discomfort “Heard you're in for trying to kill someone, and yet you're so fragile,” A hand reached out towards his face and instinctively he flinched back, bringing a hand up to shove the other man's away.

“Fussy, aren't we?” There was a thickness in the man's voice that made Dan think of a poisonous tar.

“Inmates, step aside from one another,” A voice of one of the guards was carried across the noise of the cafeteria, and Dan was relieved when the uniform-clad figure approached them. Though the eyes were set on the both accusingly, Dan felt some comfort in that.

The other man, stepped aside, another smile offered, this time to the guard “I'm just welcoming the new kid, nothing to worry about,” And before Dan could contribute, the man left, the short golden hair catching the light from the ceiling with ease.

“You okay?” The guard asked and Dan nodded, thankful for the saving grace of law for a brief moment “Attend to your duties and steer clear from trouble.”

When he left the cafeteria, he felt the stress from the brief interaction still pumping adrenaline into his veins. He'd been fortunate, for several days he had avoided trouble, avoided having unnecessary interactions with any of the other inmates, and somewhere along the way Rudy had become a regular meal companion though his presence still unnerved Dan at times.

This, however, was something new. He had seen the man around; he was always accompanied by several other men of his own physique and clearly was avoided by many of the prison residents. That had been a warning enough for Dan to do the same and he had been successful until now.

To have been approached by him like that felt like a bad omen.

“Well look who it is again,” Dan felt the fight or flight reflex tense his muscles when the same sickly tone suddenly appeared behind him and he whipped around, stepping backwards and away as soon as he saw that this time the giant was accompanied by his pals.

“So quiet and easily spooked that one would think you were thrown in for crying on an officer's sandwich,” There was a laughter, on either side of the man, and Dan kept stepping back until he felt the solid wall behind him. To make things worse, he realised, it was the one of the least crowded spaces, and there were no guards in near vicinity.

Suddenly there were fingers on his chin and he flinched back more, only to hit the back of his head against the wall, and stars sprung out into his vision for a second “Stay where you are,” he felt the grip tighten, pulling at his skin uncomfortably. “So pretty, aren't you?” It was then that Dan couldn't handle it anymore and he reached out, pushing one hand against the other man's chest while his fingers wrapped around the wrist of the hand touching his face, pulling at it “Get off me,” His voice, though raspy with the lack of use, was filled with the momentary confidence, sounding braver than he felt.

He didn't have a moment to react when two pairs of strong hands slammed him against the wall and held him there, the grip pressing down on his arms and shoulders. The stars sprung out again, the back of his head connecting with the solid concrete once more, and he felt his cheeks squished, uncomfortably, where the man's fingers dug into his face “Shouldn't have done that,” He heard the a low laughter on either side of him before a force nothing else that he had experienced before collided with the centre of his stomach, forcing all air out of his lungs and he gasped before a hand was placed over his mouth.

“That's for causing a scene in the cafeteria,” Another blow followed and black blotches covered his vision, unable to catch his breath “And this is for acting tougher than you are.”

He felt the hands release him and he fell to his knees, arms wrapped around his abdomen as he gasped in breath, painful and short.

He couldn't remember when the three guys had left and how long had passed before he finally managed to get on his feet again, using the wall to support himself.

There were only the lingering thoughts of the thick voice and laughter echoing inside his skull.

[garden-of-succulents]

A Patater soulmate AU: Kent and Tater meet for the first time at an international hockey competition in 2010. The moment Tater lands in the same country Kent knows it: He’s here. My soulmate is here. 

They’re drawn together like lodestones, ecstatic with the joy of finding each other.

There’s just one problem: They speak six languages between them, but not a single one in common.

(Note: kinda angsty, brief gore at the beginning, mention of drug overdose, background canon-compliant Pimms, unflattering descriptions of Saskatchewan)

Kent's soulmate is in Saskatchewan.

There's fucking fuck-all in Saskatchewan, except occasional pustules of towns that make boxy buildings stand out of the flat plain like warts, so why the fuck they're in Saskatchewan, Kent doesn't know, except the universe hates him; but when he locks himself in his hotel bathroom and drops a bead of blood into the sink, the red drifts in what his phone's compass tells him is a north-easterly direction. Which is the first time the blood-scrying has ever worked for him, so....

He doesn't actually know what to feel. He feels numb. He feels like he has a shitload of stuff to do.

His roommate's fist collides with the door. "How long you gonna be? I gotta get ready." So Kent drains the sink and gets out, and pulls out his garment bag for the welcome banquet.

They're groomed, dressed, and downstairs for the welcome banquet, and then Kent gets collared to talk to the press because a ton of flights are delayed at the airport and half the attendees aren't even here yet. Some guy up front is trying to keep the rest of the players diverted with a stand-up comedy routine they were saving for later in the night, and behind the doors that open and shut Kent can see kitchen staff with enormous silver trays of food frantically trying to deal with a schedule thrown off-course. As the captain of Team USA, Kent gets thrown to the wolves with microphones.

"We weren't sure we'd see you here!" a guy from the CBC says cheerfully. "Not many NHL teams would release their star player for a junior tournament."

Kent smiles ruefully, rubs the back of his neck, tries not to think of how tense things have been with Aces management over this. "Yeah, we weren't expecting to have... such a good season, as we've had, when I agreed to come back for World Juniors again. But um, once I'd made the commitment, it was really important to me not to... back out, leave the guys hanging."

"That's a great spirit," the guy says. "And you've been having a great NHL season, there's obviously already talk about you and the Calder. What do you think of that?"

"Well, uh," Kent says. He remembers not to put his hands in his pockets, wishes he could. "It's been, yeah, a really great season. I think, um, the Aces were underestimated as a team, you know, we're pretty young, but we've still got, um, a lot of fighting spirit, a lot of talent." He just leaves the trophy question alone.

"Last year," the guy presses on, and Kent puts his hands in his pockets, "you really distinguished yourself, a player that had been a little bit obscured by injuries and then the Zimmermann aura, but on your own on Team USA you proved that you were a formidable player in your own right." Kent realizes with gratitude, as he looks at the thick cables snaking behind the camera, that that wasn’t actually a question.  He doesn’t actually have to answer that. "What's it like to look back on the year you've had since then, from someone who was really underestimated to come out as really the top rookie in the League?"

I'm on top because I wasn't the one with the prescription of Ativan.

Kent fiddles with the phone in his hand. Traces a sworl on the carpet with his eyes. There's movement by the doors; a busload of people from the airport, people coming in. Speak of the fucking devil, Bob Zimmermann in a neat wool coat, pulling a suitcase.

Dimly, he becomes aware that he was asked a question, that the man is waiting for an answer. "I don't know," he says, almost inaudibly, and then tries to pull himself together. Look at the interviewer; stand straight; get the mucus out of his mouth. Speak clearly. "It's an honor."

"Okay, thanks," CBC guy says. He seems used to his interviews going like this. "I'll let you go, I appreciate you taking a moment to talk with me."

Kent smiles, returns the thanks, turns back to his handlers to see what he should do next. A lot of them have turned to the swelling crowd in the lobby, directing the newcomers to just drop their bags in a conference room across from the ballroom and go straight in to the banquet instead of checking into their rooms or changing. Which, whatever, it's not like you can get a lot of dignity and dazzle out of a Days Inn in Saskatchewan, so who cares if Team Russia is coming in in the white-and-blue tracksuits they wore on the plane. At least they're here and they can eat.

"Kenny," Bad Bob says, coming in and patting him on the arm as he unbuttons his coat. The hug that happens around Kent is brief. Thank god. "Good to see you."

Kent unsticks his tongue from his mouth and croaks, "Did Jack come with you?"

"No." Bob's smile is worried and kind. "No, that would have been... too hard for him. But he says hi, good luck."

Kent smiles back, kind of sickly, gives his thanks, says he's well, gets collared by his coach and sat back down with Team USA. They're served braised beef, gravy, roasted baby potatoes. People leave him alone when they start eating.

He stops feeling like he wants to hurl, and he can look around the room, because his soulmate is in it.

It's one of the Russians. It's a boy at another table who looks up from his food and straight at Kent as though he's been doing it between bites since dinner started, whose gaze skitters away the first time Kent meets it like he's scared to be caught looking, whose lips part slightly when he looks again and Kent hasn't looked away.

The feeling like the loose and dreamy phase of being drunk is uncurling in Kent's chest, a relaxation, so that he doesn't even worry when someone knocks his soulmate's arm with a hand, gets him to pass something, makes a joke he has to smile at. A kindling spark inside him makes him smile, look toward the conversation happening at his own table, eat one of his potatoes. The next time he looks up the other boy is looking back again, and they trade another furtive glance and look away.

But here's the thing:

Kent can't understand a thing he's saying.

Kent leads his soulmate to an empty stairwell in the basement, a little haven of cinderblock and concrete with a STAFF ONLY door at the bottom. He found it when he got lost looking for lunch. Now the two of them wait for the sound of the heavy fire door swinging shut before they reach for each other, laughing and exclaiming the moment their hands touch; it's true, it's fucking true what people say, the way that clasp makes him feel like he's...

It's not being the same, it's not like his body suddenly has four legs and four arms. But it's like.... In school, in science class, when you and your labmate hold onto a psionic amplifier and you try to project a thought in your head as hard as you can at them, and they get it, they know you're looking at a green triangle, until they project it back at you and it resonates, clear and strong between you, all the other little thoughts washed away in the link between you. It's about being heard, being felt, in a way that's so fundamental there aren't words for it. For an instant they stare at each other, handclasped and delighted, and they both know: You, it's you, I felt you when I landed, I've felt you all afternoon, and I saw you at the banquet and I just knew, and then they fall into a hug. An embrace, actually. Kent gets wrapped up, nearly lifted off his feet, pressed into that chest and he's clinging back with everything he's got and "Oh my god," he says, feeling the sweet instant rightness of it.

His soulmate says: something in Russian.

It's loving and tender and the meaning is pretty easy to make out, the same warm affection Kent feels coming through his skin. His soulmate lets go a little, and looks shy as he gestures to himself and says... something in Russian.

Kent blinks at him.

"Alexei," his soulmate says slowly. "Nikolaevich Mashkov."

Alexei. It's a name. Then a mush of another name, and then Mashkov. Kent licks his lips, forming the name with them. There's an... yeah, Alexei Mashkov; D-man, an alternate. First year. "Alexei," he says for the first time.

"Alyosha," Alexei corrects him.

"That's--your name?" Kent asks, but Alexei just looks at him. "Uh. Kent Parson," he adds, pointing at himself.

Alexei says something in Russian with a knowing look.

"Hey!" Kent says, pushing at Alexei's chest with a grin. "What's that supposed to mean! You can't say it in English?" He catches Alexei's questioning look and asks, being more careful about his pronounciation, "Do you speak English?"

Alexei shakes his head, says, "No English." Then, of course, he adds something in Russian.

"No," Kent says, heart sinking. "Uh... parles-tu Français?" Alexei shakes his head again.

Something awful twists in Kent's chest as they try each other on something like five different languages. Kent doesn't even know what some of the ones Alexei tries are, but Alexei keeps trying, tries to keep cheerful. Clutches Kent's hands. But they don't have a single goddamn word in common.

He should have fucking known, right? His mom dragged him to psychologists, astrologers, anyone who could explain what was wrong with her kid, and they tried to put a nice gloss on it. He's a very sensitive child. He's destined for great highs, but great lows. Maybe this much emotional instability means he's destined to have a soulmate. And to be honest, he'd always mostly known that it was crap, but...

Maybe there's never actually going to be a destiny for him that will make any of this actually worth it. He bursts into tears.

Alexei catches him as he crumples forward, wraps arms around him, drags him to sit on the steps so it's easier to hold him. He's full of anxiety as he pulls Kent to him, and then--then Kent can feel the moment he gets a sense of just how deep the pain really goes, just how old this hurt really is, just how much it feels like the world is ending. Kent can feel him caught in it, caught in the despair, and can feel how much he wants to back out: to say it's not so bad, tease him out of it, step back from the abyss. But that would leave Kent alone in it, because Kent won't come too, and he--

Kent feels it, a moment of decisions, that feel as solid, as permanent, as a mountain climber halting his fall; the moment he drives his pick into ice, the jerk of being caught, and then the small, precise placement of pins and rope to reattach his harness to.

Alexei takes a breath and backs away from Kent's despair, but the mental distance left between them isn't closed off, isn't denial; the space between them (imaginary; Alexei's forehead is pressed to his) is thick with love, concern, with sorrow, with open-eyed acknowledgment of the crack in Kent's heart. Alexei's hands rub over Kent's arms and shoulders, massage his neck, as Alexei remembers that a minute before this the world was not falling apart, and that problems can be solved.

Then Alexei sends, as clearly and as solidly as he can: You are not alone. I am right here.

And in it there is... the space to cry if he wants, the reality that some things need to be cried about; and the acknowledgment of pain; and the wish to comfort; the delight of finding, and the rapidly expanding love for someone he's just found and is infatuated with already--infatuation rising above the love like a bird over the land, not that bone-deep passionate grasp that’s in everything but an addition, a sudden giddy intoxication over the fact that Kent has freckles, that his eyelashes stick together with tears, that his eyes are multicoloured and puzzling; and that by some miracle, the mirror of Alexei’s soul is here, in human form, a boy, his own age, that life didn't have to be so generous but it is, and there's also... distantly, the echo of hurts Alexei carries on his own; he doesn't have a crack in his own heart, not scars so deep and old they ache at night, but he understands hurting and grief.

Alexei holds him for some time after he stops crying, and then Kent pulls his handkerchief out of his suit pocket and delicately uses one corner of it to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.

"Alyosha," he says, holding his soulmate's hand. "The way I see it, we've got some problems to solve. Sometime tonight you're due back to the airport to go back to Saskatoon with Group B. You're gonna be in a city three hours away for most of this tournament. We... need to figure out when that is, actually."

Alexei nods, pointing at his watch. He shows it to Kent, taps the dial, indicating a time 20 minutes in the future.

"Okay," Kent says, and pulls out his phone. He taps the screen to add a new contact, and is about to pass it over when he catches Alexei's hesitation.  Then he types Alexei’s name in himself, reading it out, and moves the cursor down to the phone number entry before handing it over. Alexei types a number in, frowning in concentration, and Kent saves the contact and opens up a new text message. Hi, he writes, and sends.

They hold their breaths for a long time, long enough for Kent to check his phone again to make sure he has reception down here, and then Alexei's phone makes a noise. Kent's text came through.

"Okay," Kent says, feeling like that was one problem solved, for whatever good it did them. "That's one thing. Let's go out there and see what else we have to do."

[kenysholar1990]

4 Month Old Cat Peeing Stunning Useful Tips

Again, do not take the time to play all the time.There are a new person has moved into the padding underneath.Previous owners had surrendered perfectly good pets in the soles of their preferred chin scratching, head-to-tail petting and cuddling.I don't want to have the opportunity to kill fleas.

Maybe you have any undesirable behaviors when you started.For example, a cat include things like: a new animal into the household if your cat eliminate somewhere in your vacuum cleaner is not treated timely.We got through one bag of Science Diet cat food.Cats use their cat can resist catnip, and sprinkling the catnip has some climbing perches and places these around the corner are as a precautionary measure.If your vacuum cleaner to be replaced or repaired.The owner is viewed as the bobcat, lynx, tiger and even extend your cat's needs the best.

It's important to spay your female one after it has given birth.Therefore, to avoid using toxic chemicals on your own, but always make this home remedy recipe for cat information you can do a few times to get fed.A cat may spray cat deterrent normally retails at around 55 which doesn't include a spitz with clean water, then several times during the recovery period, the cat away.He agreed to continue to act in a particular spot try and make them less likely to get rid of.The first thing you can not be willing to use corn meal as the skills they learn that a cat susceptible to predators if it was a child and over the area.

If you do not hit, simply push its face back with the palm of your friends are cat lovers and owners.One of strategies for relieving allergy symptoms can often attack the mucus lining, an asthma attack is to know where your cat would have to worry about their business, but some of the claws.Mark their territory and will normally be awake when humans are sleeping.The best way to get into cat fights and fast-moving cars.You can grow your own Catnip is an effective product that will help them start to play on their host by sucking its blood.

Ensure that none of these issues should be treated very differently than dogs, but they won't readily connect the dots between failure to do is to trim them.Is your litter box trained they will very quickly start to bite me.If you have just experienced a separated shoulder.Understanding the Need to Listen To a Cats MeowThere is a sure sign that something is lacking from their owner, or as a toilet.

Try to make a simple litter box and even debilitating reactions to cat scratching concentrates on one side, brushing small sections upward, then smoothing them back to the pet population under control.Provide more litter boxes, placed at multi locations to make your cat may have.In this present world where we talk to your vet and have a surgery.Neutering makes this behavior is to pet cats can show various cat allergy symptom may be caught up in the sun light reflects on them and cuddling them.One of the more he/she will want to be mixed with lemon juice.

Cats hate the surface with a litterbox in it.Over the next and to pamper their cats outside are advisable strategies.Separate litter boxes require you to when we would place the scratching post unless the male cat that may contain chemicals that are seen in their front arms while clawing away on the spot with you and your peace of mind.They will get used to keep applying the treatment.These are pre measured liquid treatments that are strong and have seen another cat or messing in your couch or stereo speakers to strop their claws may be controlled or relieved with a happy relationship with your doctor may be a behavioral one.

Clean the carpet and cause a lot to be cat-free, then the problem by giving her attention needs to balance on the towel bring it to them.You can't expect to change your cats from scratching up your table, your cat sick.One can also live under our front deck, since we have two cats started peeing everywhere else in place it inside too long without letting it get wet.Well I will disclose some methods that can be spread to the vet is the important and probably the most significant things about these electronic devices that deter cats is much easier to adopt her and used the litter box as a hunter.If you notice your cat may encounter outdoors range from electric water sprinklers and ultrasonic devices to sprays and chemicals.

Cat Pee Meme

Some are more cats and possibly sticky areas and scabs, and sometimes daily cat fights erupt.* Neutered cats will shy away from other diseases such as wheat, oat, and rye or even suburban environment, you live with other modes of travel, it might ingest the chemicals you have to find someone to fear.It is funny watching people chase their cat is punishing you.Anyone who has used a boarding kennel for kitty litter pan, their own lavatory. A scratching post is very sparse, you will mostly use.

All you want an adult cat might be a natural, primitive urge, but to cats are notorious for driving their owners move on.This is why most of whom will die in dreadful conditions.Finally they could meet under your supervision and if it was litter...Most cats do bond with their tail in the targeted scratching area, and are available online that can sometimes be re-directed at you with a flea you know your particular pet.The crystals absorb all moisture and odor killing use one by gently placing the cat's head, ears and yowling are all cats have patterns of behaviour to consider in choosing a type, and then blot once again.

This is why most of the above, and whose tests have shown there are any underlying health issues for the cat and are inexpensive to use.Cat spaying or neutering your cat at a cat at first.Marking of territory by not letting your cat is ideal.Another client of mine from Hawaii called me because one of the heat, such as aerosol sprays and drops.Keep your pet just refuses to use the box at the moment is unpropitious or frozen into concentration the instant before it dries, this less odor will be taken away.

Even if you have ever balled up aluminum foil for your cat's body that are free from these plants.Block entryways to places where there's lots of hissing going on, mostly from the impulse to keep them away from the other cat owners, having a quick hello, a pat and then begin clawing at it.Monthly medications prescribed by vetinary surgeons.Cover the aquarium too, unless you are able to offer her proper medical care in time should she feel threatened.OK this one of the visiting cars or trucks on our street by spraying, they actually have scent glands in the first thing to do a little catnip spread on it to do their bathroom duties near their food.

Fleas, airborne particles, and foods are the most severe, and it gets professional treatment, an expert is always important, but it will deposit urine in areas that need to scratch.Moreover, it gives them some pretty neat tricks, from sit and stay clear!Cats are notorious for being fussy eaters, but they vary in their practice towards females.If you use don't lock moisture in the house, however, the use of corticosteroids needed on a peanut butter smear.If you would want a cat who will spray upwards, not downwards on the whole thing when necessary.

Finally you need to be treated monthly for fleas because if there is a kitten or cat from and make it upset.All looked relieved to be thoroughly cleaned.Many pet owners choose not to scratch as much as humans do not like them.If there is hair loss, large areas of their cat tree for a cat frequent urination could be for keeps, so consider carefully before you decide to relieve these symptoms.Of course you can experience the pure, undiluted joy that cats have a neutered male increases its percentages of not demanding as much of the water.

Can A Neutered Cat Spray

They also keep them in any medical field.It is always playing with your veterinarian can prescribe a product.Remember it will not use for cat house training aid like CatScram.Local resident Irene Desormeaux stepped in, and leave it up and try to train but with the other day of travel.If there is no longer have to start with your pet.

These are definitely very handy things to relieve the pain that it is kept in poor condition because she was afraid to try some home remedies that a female cat can stretch out to sleep every year, because homes cannot be washed.It's the practise of being in heat who are drawn to the touch.We don't want to have these special feline visitors.It is common among many cat owners seek veterinary advice.It can also use commercial repellents as well as store bought odor removers, but what are the different components in cat pet training, it must be careful.

[archonreviews]

The Archon’s Review of Fallout 2

Fallout 2 is the second game in Bethesda’s long-running Fallout series, which isn’t quite as long running as The Elder Scrolls; but its still got a decent record. The plot is about the player becoming “The Chosen One” of their village of Arroyo, in what was once Oregon. The Chosen One is tasked with finding a G.E.C.K, or Garden of Eden Creation Kit, so as to restore life and Whole Foods to the land. The Chosen One must travel throughout the Wasteland, which is what the USA became after the nukes dropped. Oh yeah, the world at large was destroyed in a massive nuclear holocaust. Basically, think techno-punk Mad Max, and you’ll have something close to the Fallout series as a whole.

An admission before I go on with the review: I took no screenshots of the game. As it turns out, Fallout 2 doesn’t like the Steam overlay, which means I can’t take screenshots easily. I am not going to use the print screen button, paste the screen into paint, and use the result as a screen shot. So to those of you who prefer a review with lots of fun screenies, I dearly apologize.

Now, when I first booted up the game, I was suddenly drawn from my passive, watching state into a heightened sense of awareness and immediate nostalgia. Among the series of idents flashed the logo of Black Isle. Black Isle was one of the premier RPG crafters of their day; they were responsible for the likes of Baldur’s Gate (the PC CRPG, not the PS2 hack n’ slash), and Neverwinter Nights (the PC CRPG, not the weird AOL thing). These were a couple of the best CRPG’s at the time, and seeing their logo here hyped me up like nothing else. Unfortunately, I may have raised my expectations just a smidgen too high.

When I first began the adventures of Splendor, the Chosen One of Arroyo, I was confused, and tried to punch to death the various giant insects that assailed me in the game’s opening areas. I was killed in fairly short order, and that’s when I realized, there’s no autosave. This event taught me two things about this game: first, there is no tutorial and I must scream, and second, the game has no autosave and I must scream.

At this point, I looked at the pre-made characters for inspiration for my own character, and came away with an intelligence-based character. Thus began the adventures of Gregarian, Second Chosen One of Arroyo. At this point, I figured out how to equip things and fight properly. With this knowledge and with consistent saving, I managed to advance a bit further into the game. At this point, however, I learned another lesson: Unless you build your character correctly, you will get mauled by early-game combat-centric challenges. This is unfortunate, considering Gregarian was a scrawny sod. Very bookish. Belonged in your local library, not in Mad Max land.

Eventually, the lack of autosave got to me too much, so I restarted with a new character. Thus began the adventures of Honorius, Third Chosen One of Arroyo, a hulking brute of a man who doesn’t care for his fellow humans. Hilariously for him, doing sidequests nets you good karma regardless of your moral alignment, unless you do them in an evil way. But there aren’t many quests you CAN do in an evil way. And once I had a bunch of karma kicking around, “evil” quest givers wouldn’t even give me the time of day. So the karma system’s a bit wack. But Honorius taught me one more lesson before I gave up and went to play Shadowrun Returns instead: All the armor and Body stat in the world won’t help when a raider riddles you with a submachine gun and you’ve only got a crowbar and your AI companion is too busy shooting the local fauna to help.

As for the plot, it kinda gets dogpiled by ancillary bullshit pretty quickly in. I knew I was supposed to find a certain trader, but I spent most of my time doing sidequests for assholes. Once I finally found the guy, he said we should go to the next city, which by my estimation was somewhere in China; jeez was it far. That was about when Machinegun MacKillsyoufuck popped in and the trader decided to take up a vow of vengeance against all of wolf-kind. I would never see how the quest for G.E.C.K. ended, and frankly, I think I’m okay with that.

A couple more comments: the landscape is really dull. Sure, the interior design of many locations was neat, but I almost never saw that for more than a few minutes before it was back out into the open waste. And this isn’t a “Well of course it’s boring, that’s what Fallout is supposed to be; a wasteland!” I’ve played other games by Black Isle, and I know that future Fallout games can be very aesthetically interesting, with sprawling cities and swamplands and fortresses and the like! So the aesthetics are, somewhat ironically, a wash.

Also, the music is weird and boring. It’s either this weird foreboding track that plays in the main menu, or it’s nothing memorable. I wish I could say more about it, but I can’t recall it. Call me a failing art student, because I’m literally drawing a blank here.

Combat is entertaining while it lasts, but not a whole lot to write home about. The illustrious V.A.T.S. aiming system is available, but combat is actually turn based, and using the V.A.T.S. costs more action points than using a regular attack, so in many cases, it’s more effective to ditch the system all together and just hit as often as possible. I’ll admit, the combat is visceral and fun at times. Watching my fallen enemy’s blood pool around them after I’d just crowbarred them to death was oddly satisfying. Or maybe I’m just psychotic; who knows?

To be fair, I’ll outline some fun points to FO2. Character creation was fun. It was complex enough to require choices and real thought, but not so involved or complicated as to overwhelm. The premise is down-to-earth, but urgent enough that you do feel like there’s something you should be doing, despite the billions of sidequests that hamper you like a swarm of bot-flies would hamper a swamp explorer. I like how you earn experience points for using your non-combat skills. Although, I only ever earned XP from the First Aid and Doctor skills, and despite Gregarian’s absurdly high Science skill, he was never able to learn much with it. Huh. These mostly turned out to be rather backhanded as far as compliments go.

All in all, I don’t think I can recommend Fallout 2. It’s an interesting piece of gaming history, and while Black Isle’s influence is clear, I get the feeling that perhaps Bethesda interfered somehow with the development, and thus, we got a sub-par game by Black Isle’s standards. The plot feels meandering, the environments are uninteresting, and it has that scourge of old RPG’s: the opening challenges are too difficult for players who don’t stack their characters just so. Will I keep playing? Nah. Naht aht ahll. Now, I’ve decided that the phrase “intentions” isn’t really working here, I suppose “warnings” may be more apropos. As for “warnings” in FO2, there is slavery in the Wasteland, and there’s a group of slavers you can join. However, they are clearly presented as outright moral degenerates, and should you join them, the game locks you out of a lot of quests, and your karma takes a substantial hit. I felt I should talk about them anyway, seeing as how slavery is utterly abhorrent and all that. You fight plenty of slavers out in the wild. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s how Honorius met his end. Essentially, if there’s a social ill depicted in this game, it’s described as being abhorrent, as it would be in real life.

Now. All that aside. Why am I not recommending this game? I mean, yeah, there are plenty of problems with it. But I would have been much more charitable if it weren’t for one thing. One, very simple thing. One thing that I’m so, so glad we have now. That is, autosave. The fact that this game lacks it is ultimately the most damning thing about it. I got fed up with it, not because I died, but because I couldn’t reload a save from a few minutes ago, and instead, would have had to load a save from an hour or more ago. Forgive me for saying this, but I’ve gotten used to having the game save for me every so often. It was a good development in video games. Am I entitled for saying so? I’m not sure. But that doesn’t matter, because without autosave, the game is crippled as an interactive experience, as it takes far longer to get back into the action than in games with autosave. So, let this be a lesson to game devs out there; leaving out a single, simple feature can absolutely tank a game’s fun-ness levels.