#tuck no hander

[bigothteddies]

thank you @victmcomplx for the tag :3 :*

post: your lockscreen, the last song you listened to, the last movie you watched, and the last photo you took

I’m tagging @meatexe @crybaby-foxx @perfectdeadgirl @zoenextdoor @ragdolly-rabbit @c3meterycat @bewitching-666

[heroesrolli]

Tuck no hander riders republic

The minutes dragging on forever, the tarmac boiling on his bare skin, no protection offered by the ripped skinsuit. Could he feel his leg? That’s when the panic hit home. Mathieu put the Leclerc banner over him to protect him. Over three minutes passed before they finally moved him from the road onto the pavement, clear of the race line. The medics seemed to take an eternity to arrive. Mathieu came rushing over from the team car. Was it the base bar that caught the Leclerc banner, was it his hip? The pedal? Did the fence hook onto his skinsuit? His Bianchi abandoned in the middle of the road. Next thing he knew, he was lying in the gutter with team and official cars rolling past. Related - Tom Pidcock: That's Entertainment With only just over a minute to go, it was time to empty the tank. He was already anticipating moving back into the tuck. There was no going back, he was committed.Ī light feathering of the brakes and he swept in, hands on the base bars, skimming the banners, a smooth line. Perfection. With the barriers and the crowd, it was practically a blind corner. He’d reccied it, gone over it in his mind. He knew the tight right-hander coming up. If he was hurting, everyone else was going through hell. He could do this, he had done it before, he was doing it again. He had won the race against the clock at the Dauphiné and taken the national title. Rock-solid in his aerodynamic position, he knew he was one of the top time-triallists in the world. With just over a kilometre to go, he was squeezing the power, aiming for the next corner, regaining valuable seconds.

[itslucyhenley]

I watched Meg Ryan’s new movie What Happens Later and I just have mad respect that the absolute queen of rom-coms directed a movie where in the first five minutes one of the characters unplugs a digital sign with a generic ad flashing the words “rom-com” on it and the omniscient airport announcer sounds like 90s trailer voice man. So meta, loved it. I watched it like it was week 15 of a college course on rom-coms where we just watched every classic Meg Ryan performance and then the professor says, now let’s see what america’s sweetheart herself has to say about it all. And we think we’re going to watch a traditional rom-com, a comeback, a triumphant return to a familiar place if you will, but we’re actually watching an existential two-hander stage play about perception and aging and what it means to really be honest with someone else and with yourself. And the songs are familiar 90s songs but they sound wrong because they’re just oddly homogeneous sounding covers of the originals. And the whole thing takes place in this unnamed regional airport during a storm, a liminal space where the foreground and backgrounds are filled with blurry faces and legs walking by in the background until eventually there’s a scene later on where they’re just silhouettes. After the first 10 minutes of the movie the characters only talk to each other and the electronic voices of support kiosks and the omnipotent airport announcer and take phone calls that we can’t hear the other end of and we don’t see the phone screen telling us who is calling. They sit in restaurants with no waitstaff and bars with no bartenders. There’s no sense of direction either you don’t get any sense of the layout of the space they’re occupying and the aerial shot of the airport at various points during the movie looks sharp but the characters are almost always walking in circles. I don’t know man I was riveted, I was stroking my chin in deep thought, I just kept saying “interesting, interesting.”

edit: also I left the dvd menu screen on for like two hours after I finished watching the movie, it just kept playing this absolutely hypnotic 18 seconds of the score over a clip of them dancing in a hallway as seen from the outside looking in through falling snow and there’s a continuity error where David Duchovny’s white shirt alternates between being tucked in and untucked and I didn’t even care. During that actual scene they’re dancing to “Pure” by The Lightning Seeds which is the only not-a-cover song in the movie i think? And at one point Meg Ryan looks up and yells “louder” and the music gets a little louder and I’m sitting on the couch in my living room but I’m trying to figure out where I am actually because I thought I was gonna watch a trope-heavy romcom but I’m sat here typing out this stream-of-consciousness movie analysis on tumblr dotcom.

[turtleduckscribbles]

Close to Home

“No matter where I go to offer aid, Link remains at my side…”

~A brief exploration of Zelda’s personal journey toward home, and how she finds it in Link.

Read on AO3 or continue below.

<< Chap 3 <<

~o~o~o~o~o~

PART TWO

Chapter 4: "A Clean Slate"

Zelda woke to silence.

At first, she didn’t recognize where she was. Time and space seemed indistinct and fuzzy, as if she were back in that century-long imprisoning cocoon. An immaterial void. There was something, though… Just outside her consciousness, something hazy floated out of reach. Something vaguely familiar. Something sad. For a while, she lay there, half awake and yearning, reaching out to it in her mind, only to have it slip through her fingers. But once she blinked away the sleep and saw the Sheikah Slate slide into focus on the bedside table, the previous night came rushing back.

Slowly, she sat up, wincing at the stiffness in her neck. How long had she been out? She looked around. The light seeping from the window by the foot of the bed was muted and gray, and the house was unlit. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a full night’s sleep; probably literal ages ago. With all the traveling she and Link had been doing lately, it had become routine for her to be up at the crack of dawn, mapping out their next destination. Between that and their vigorous hikes across the countryside, the added rest was admittedly appreciated.

She tugged at the silk sleeves of her nightgown. How dreadful she must have looked. Her hair was in a right state—a complete cucco’s nest by the looks of her tangled ends—and she hadn’t cleaned up since getting caught in yesterday’s downpour. The thought of having soiled Link’s bed sent shame curling through her, what with her grubby skin… but for now, there was nothing to be done for it. First, she’d clean up. Then she’d find a way to wash his sheets. Make it up to him.

Yes. She’d make this up to him.

With renewed conviction, Zelda tossed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Gingerly, she tested her weight, wobbling slightly, then gave a good stretch, savoring the pleasant pull in her muscles. She smoothed out her gown, and, with a resolved breath and eyes resolutely avoiding the wall, she descended the stairs, the cold floorboards squeaking beneath her bare feet.

Barring the gloomy fireplace, the downstairs was left untouched from the night before. The chairs were vacant and the kitchen was lifeless. Timidly, she peeked behind the railing at the bottom of the staircase. Except for the wooden crates tucked away in back, the storeroom too was empty. Not a bed nor blanket to be found. 

Disappointment crept into her chest. Shivering, Zelda wrapped her arms around her middle. She was about to head to the window when a flash of green caught her eye. Suddenly, before she could adequately prepare herself, Urbosa’s shield was staring her in the face.

Zelda gaped at it. Round and rimmed in vivid emerald, it hung there on the wall, the golden Gerudo emblem shining like a talisman in the gloom. Proud and radiant, just like its owner. She’d lost track of how many times she’d seen it over the course of her life, perched on its owner’s back. Daybreaker.

Had it always been here?

Baffled, Zelda cast her gaze round about, the measure of her folly beginning to sink in. Sure enough, she saw them: the Champions’ weapons, in all their burnished glory. Every single one, on the walls, in plain sight. She took an involuntary step toward them, as if drawn by a magnet. Along with Urbosa’s sword and shield was Daruk’s weighty two-hander… Mipha’s trident… Revali’s bow—

The door banged open, and Zelda jumped a foot in the air. Link came crashing inside, his dusty hair sticking up every which way, panting considerably more than what was usual for him. His Champion’s tunic was gone, replaced by a long-sleeved cream undershirt, smudged from whatever heavy labor he’d indulged in that morning. In his arms were two large baskets, stuffed with an assortment of edible provisions. His darting eyes found her instantly, intense and a little bit wild.

“Sorry,” he gasped. For a moment, he stood transfixed, until a jerk of his head had him shuffling toward the kitchen. The baskets hit the countertops, and Zelda watched with bemusement as he selected eggs and mushrooms from their insides. As he lit the cooking fire, the puzzle pieces began sliding into place in her mind, and she rushed forward.

“Link! Are you—? Did you run to the markets this morning?”

Link nodded as he cracked an egg into a bowl. Suddenly, he froze halfway into cracking the second, a startled expression crossing his face. He dropped the uncracked egg into the bowl and zipped past her to the storeroom where, just like the night before, he fetched some towels—but upon presenting them to her, he saw her look of bewilderment, and he flushed a sheepish shade of pink.

“Sorry,” he said again. “I heated some water out back, if you wanted to wash up. Or would you rather eat first?”

Zelda gawked at him. She took in the state of his rumpled clothes, his disheveled hair poking out of its tie, the sheen of sweat on the back of his neck. From all appearances, it seemed Link had been hard at work for hours, slogging away to ensure everything was in order. For her. He must have risen early, running errands left and right—all whilst she slept on. Guilt stabbed her like a hot poker.

“Oh, Link… you didn’t need to go to all this trouble for me. You’ve done enough. But if… well, if it’s alright, a wash does sound lovely… if it’s not a bother…”

Link shook his head fervently, setting the towels into her hands. Then, he paused, his eyes averted from her.

Zelda stared at him before glancing down. Her stomach dropped. She’d forgotten about her unkempt hair, the sheerness of her gown. She clutched the towels close, willing the heat in her face to recede. 

“Omelet okay, Princess?”

She quickly swallowed back her discomposure. “Oh, er… yes, please. That sounds wonderful.”

Link nodded, still not looking at her. He began to retreat, backing toward the kitchen, when Zelda interrupted.

“Thank you, Link. For everything.”

His eyes found her again. A small, sincere smile lit up his face, and Zelda returned it, relishing the warmth from its glow.

Outside, a chilly wind beat the weeds and knocked the boughs of the overhead branches together, but inside the back shed, the air was thick with a lulling heat. Zelda set her towels and fresh change of clothes by the washbasin, letting the humidity wash over her like a cleansing balm. A small hand mirror rested on a nearby shelf, and she picked it up, giving the splotchy glass a tentative glance.

It was only to be expected, frankly. Her reflection stared wanly back at her, all pale and bedraggled, a jarring blend of soft curves and sunken valleys. A squirmy feeling unraveled somewhere near her navel. What an eyesore…

Grimacing, she cast about for a rag, intent on sponging herself down, when a glaring detail had her pulling up short.

A giant tub was filled to the brim with piping hot water.

Zelda hesitated before stepping closer. She dipped her hand into the water, skimming the steamy surface. Her heart squeezed. When Link had mentioned heating water for her, she’d envisioned a bucket, a simple washbowl—not an entire bathtub. What time this must have taken him to fill…

Goddess bless him.

With a final check that the door was latched, she cracked open the ventilation window, shimmied out of her gown, and stepped into the tub.

Water sloshed over the edge as she lowered herself down. With a contented sigh, she sunk up to her shoulders, the warmth enfolding her. How long it had been since she’d had a proper bath. Since returning from the castle, her rinses had been just that: quick, hurried rinses. Nothing like this soothing, leisurely soak. Basking in the water, her head fell back to rest against the rim, inhaling the swirling eddies of heat.

For all the downsides that having a mortal body entailed, there was something to be said for moments such as these. The heat seeped all the way into her bones, allaying her body as much as it did her spirit. She’d tried a bath like this back in Kakariko—heaven knew she’d needed one terribly after where she’d been—but whether it was nerves or overstimulation, Zelda didn’t know, only that it was a rushed, discomforting experience. Now, however, was altogether much more pleasant. Her eyelids grew heavy, her mind wandering to recent events.

Already the shock of seeing her departed friends’ effects on the walls of Link’s home was waning, replaced instead by confusion over how she hadn’t noticed them on arrival. True, the previous night was a tiring, surreal blur… but the fact that Link would choose to exhibit such sentimental artifacts in his house, even with his lapse in memory, was a wonder to her.

She could ask him about it. She’d asked about his memory before, albeit unsuccessfully… Truthfully, the thought of asking him again made her shrink. With a pang, she recalled her first words to him upon their reunion, which had ultimately been fruitless: Do you really remember me? She readjusted in the water, watching a bubble bob on the surface.

Link lived by action, a language entirely its own. Given his laconic nature, she knew he took communication slower than most—and that was just fine with her. She could go slow with him. The last thing she wanted to do was to push him too hard, too fast; at least not so soon. Not after she’d just gotten him back. It would crush her to shift the status quo between them in the wrong direction—whatever that was. Whatever details he remembered about their past, they would come in time. She could wait.

It was strange. What she couldn’t wrap her mind around was that their positions were now the inverse of one another. Where once Link was an occupant of her home in the castle, employed in the services of Hyrule, now she was a guest in his. She thought of the selfless efforts he took that morning to fill a heated bath for her, of his incessant apologies over his tardiness, despite all he’d done to prepare her a nice breakfast…

How could she have ever resented him?

Shutting her eyes, Zelda slumped in the tub, the water rising to her ears. What kindness, what charity, her dear friend possessed. No matter his personal trials, no matter the horrors that plagued him, Link never failed to go out of his way to help another. It was his nature, an inextricable virtue woven into his soul. Truly, he was a man devoid of guile.

And even with his memory loss, he still chose Zelda every day.

With a prickle of affection, she thought back to that silly frog encounter a few days prior. Evidently, even after a span of endless years and wayward memories, Link did still remember her—remembered their shared history together. She knew he had, at least in part; ever since he’d woken from the Shrine of Resurrection, she had watched him tirelessly pursue the images she’d left for him on the Slate, had witnessed him break and reforge time and time again. All for her. But she couldn’t deny her fears. While she’d never lost faith in him, an irksome part of her mind clung fast to her worry that he was only going through the motions, that they would amicably part ways once their duties were fulfilled. That he had grown indifferent toward her. A terrifying thought. After they’d driven back the Calamity, that was when she had asked him point-blank, unable to bear it, desperate to quash these needling worries. Do you really remember me? But that was as far as she’d gotten, for no sooner had the words left her lips than she had fainted, collapsing onto him. All this time, she’d been left in suspense, dangling from the thread of this unanswered question—until the frog. Hearing her fears finally put to rest from his own mouth, in his own way… It was like nothing she’d ever known.

A euphoric smile broke out on Zelda’s face. Even if Link’s memory wasn’t fully restored, he was still the same devoted person she’d always known. He was still her Link. He was a defender. A protector. Her most ardent, fervent supporter. He was always, always, attentive to her needs.

Zelda eyed her bright long hair, fanned out around her like a fiery halo. How grateful, how beyond blessed she was, to still have him in her life. The whitewater course of their relationship had been rocky, but she was proud of the progress they’d made, of everything they’d held onto, even through the rapids of amnesia. She’d been relearning him over these past several weeks, noting the contrast between his past and present selves. Clearly, there were differences… but mostly he was the same. The same warrior, the same gifted chef. The same beautiful soul who had captivated her from the beginning.

Oh, had he captivated her.

From the way he tied back his golden hair, to the finesse of his fingers as he strung a bow… the muscle definition across his back…

A wave of steam seemed to rise from the bath in that instant, hitting Zelda square in the face. She sucked in a sharp breath and sat up, the water cascading in rivulets down her shoulders. Right. Time to wash up.

As she took the bar of soap and began the painstaking process of scouring herself down, she allowed her thoughts to drift to the future, making way for blind optimism. She was here; he was here. They were here together. And whatever next came their way, she trusted they’d see it through. Just as they always had. The both of them.

Together.

[sweetmage]

Happy Friday and welcome to DADWC! How about: "Please don't leave me" from the Bad Things Happen Bingo prompts for M!Hawke/Anders?

Hi!! Happy Friday! Thank you so so much for the prompt <3 After much waffling on it, I decided to do a little bit of Hawke fearing losing Anders since I haven't done that as much!

Please Don't Leave Me - M!Handers

@dadrunkwriting

TW: Parental death, grieving

Words: 1220+

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, angst

Summary: After losing so much, Hawke doesn't know how to cope with the loss of his mother nor the fear of losing what little he has left. Anders tries his best to comfort him.

Full fic below the cut!

The room was quiet, as it so often was, but on this night it only served to exemplify what was missing. Who was missing. 

The scent of blood was still fresh in his nose, the feeling of rot hadn't left his fingers, nor had the loving tingle where she'd held his hand until hers went limp in his.

Hawke was utterly devastating beyond what he could put to words. 

Anders had long since stopped trying to soothe him with words, instead threading his fingers through Hawke's hair while he laid up against his feather pauldrons. 

It felt wrong, almost, grieving for a mother he'd had the privilege of knowing for nearly three decades while wrapped in the arms of a man who had been denied that right. He knew Anders hadn't meant it that way when he called him lucky, but it stuck like a stone in his chest.

Sharing what he felt was hard, but some things could not be masked with humor. Sometimes things could not even be masked with silence, for as much as he tried. 

"Can I get anything for you?" Anders asked, breaking his long silence. 

After a moment, Hawke shook his head. "No," he said, voice hoarse from disuse and the lump in his throat.

"You're not thirsty? Hungry? You haven't had anything all day." 

Losing a loved one wasn't exactly conducive to an appetite, but he understood Anders's concern all the same.

He shook his head again, though Anders still moved, still slid from beneath him. The sudden absence was like a blow, and he sat up quickly.

"Anders," he called, but he gave him no time to react before he was on his feet and grabbing for him frantically. "Don't. Please don't." His tone came harsher than he'd meant it, and he hated the way Anders tensed up at his tight touch.

Hawke loosened his grip on his arm, but he didnt let go. He couldn't. "I'm sorry, I'm not—I don't mean—"

"Love, I was just going to—" Anders said, soft, gentle, and turned around in his hold.

"Stay," he pleaded, not letting him finish his thought. "I don't need anything else. If you leave I'll just think and I... can't. I can't."

He chastised himself for how childish he sounded, how selfish and demanding. 

He'd blamed himself for his father's death, for Bethany's, for Carver's mishap in the deep roads. He blames himself for denying Marian her last moments with their mother, for squandering them by making Leandra spend her last breaths comforting and reassuring him instead of the other way around. Were she to see him now, she might very well tell him the same.

Yet for all he was able to convince himself he was to blame, he could not stomach the idea of losing Anders's comfort. Of losing Anders, period.

That was what it really came down to. Losing him.

Anders's hand came to rest on his cheek, thumb smoothing over his beard in slow circles. He met Hawke's gaze with a cocked brow as if searching him, looking for a sign that his touch was unwanted or unwarranted. 

"I'm here love," Anders murmured.

There was no judgment, no anger, no impatience. How was he so good? How could anyone be so unreasonably understanding?

Hawke pulled him into a tight embrace and buried his face within his hair. "For how long?" He asked quietly.

"What?"

"I've lost everyone," he whispered. "Mother was supposed to be safe here. Tucked away in the estate, living a comfortable life. But it didn't matter. I couldn't even keep her safe, how am I supposed to protect you? How long until someone gets to you?"

He felt Anders shift within his hold, just enough to bring his lips near his ear.

"I won't lie to you. I can't promise that won't happen. But it won't be because you didn't do everything in your power to protect me. There is no place safe for an apostate, but being with you is the closest thing I've ever had."

While the truth was harsh, he found it preferable to platitudes and unkept promises. Still...

"You could be safer elsewhere. I'm not sure I can protect you or keep you safe," Hawke said. "You deserve better than this."

Anders wrenched himself free of Hawke's hold, and for a moment he feared his words to be misconstrued as rejection or doubt.

He was about to correct himself when Anders faced him with the fainted crooked smirk upon his lips. "I've fed you every line about how you should leave me, find someone better suited to you, how I'll only end up hurting you or worse. But here you are. You're not the only one who's stubborn. I would do anything, endure anything, to keep you at my side."

It was no surprise that Anders would feel the same, not after all they'd seen together, yet somehow it still caught him off guard.

It was strange to be the one needing comfort, he was so accustomed to nights spent wiping tears from pains long past, allaying fears of a future uncertain and, in those simple acts of assurance, finding his own comfort and healing. Now he felt so vulnerable and exposed, caught beneath that sympathetic amber gaze.

"Love?" He spoke again, when Hawke had yet to respond. His hand came to rest on Hawke's jaw, his thumb swiping tears he hadn't meant to let fall.

"Sorry, sorry. Maker, I'm such a mess." Hawke muttered and leaned into his touch.

"You're hurting," Anders said. "And that's okay. You don't have to apologize. I just... I wish there was more I could do. Or say... something. Anything."

Hawke leaned forward until his head was on Anders's chest, listening to the sound of his beating heart. It was so comforting he almost forgot that he'd yet to answer him. "This. You're doing enough."

"If you insist," Anders said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and carding his fingers through his hair. "Do you... want to lay down? It might help..."

"If you want," Hawke murmured.

"Do you?"

Hawke nodded. "Please."

He stepped back but didn't go far, pulling Hawke in close as he sat on the edge of their shared mattress. He swung his legs up and patted the space beside him where Hawke followed and rested his head upon his chest.

"Can you... stroke my hair again?" He asked quietly. "When I was small, Mother would—"

Warm fingers slid into his hair as if they knew, finding the right rhythm with ease, evoking another time.

"My mother, too," Anders murmured, one of the very few times he'd spoken of his past unprompted.

Hawke scooted up a bit within his arms, burying his face into his neck and bringing his hand up to Anders's hair as well. He loosed it from its tie and ran his fingers there, trying to recreate what had once given him solace and safety.

He knew now why he didn't speak of her, why it had to have been difficult, so painful. But he hoped Anders could feel the love behind the gesture, informed by his own Leandra's loving hand, just as Anders shared with him a touch from long past.

Things weren’t alright, may never be, but they had each other and their ghosts for now, and that was enough.

[charcoalgrayswriting]

Found 18+ MDNI

Adler/Bell

No Warnings

Read on AO3 HERE!

Words: 4668

Summary: Adler finds Bell in hiding, and they talk. Takes place a few years after Solovetsky.

“Bell,” it wasn’t just the call of her old name that had her snapping her head up from the vegetable garden. No, it was the voice that called for her. With shaking hands, she turned face to face with her old hander, Russel fucking Adler. 

There he stood, infamous sunglasses still perched on his nose, his hands tucked safely into his leather jacket. Her stomach turned uncomfortably, the artificial trust and warring with her fear of him. 

“Adler,” her hands still shook as she tried to hold them still at her sides, the face she saw in her nightmares approached her, slowly, as if she were a wild animal that needed calming. Maybe she was. Her chest heaved as she stepped back, just now remembering to breathe, eyes darting wildly around to find any way to escape him, escape the false feeling of safety he made her feel. 

It was like seeing him again washed all of the training from her mind, leaving only panic in its wake, the phantom feeling of a needle in her eye and restraints against her wrists. 

Turning her head away from him, she tensed her body to run. She had become lax, the paranoia of the CIA finding and killing her had left after two years of living out in the middle of nowhere and she no longer carried a gun on her everywhere she went at home. How stupid. If she survived this she would not make that same mistake again. 

“No, wait,” he lunged for her just as she took a step back, catching her shaking arm in a firm, but gentle, grip. He pulled her close, so that her chest was to his back, twisting her arm in between their bodies. 

. “I’m not here to hurt you.” he whispered, nose bumping against her hair as he forced her to turn towards her house, prompting her to lead him into her sanctuary. And how she wished that were true and not just a ploy to get her to trust him. Some part of her did still trust him, and she hated it. She had fought so hard for her peace, and now he came back to shatter it. 

Enraged, she struggled, but she was out of practice. His other arm wrapped around her waist, and when she tried to flip him off of her, he slid a leg between hers and swept both of her feet out from underneath hers. Now the only thing supporting her, Adler leaned his head in close as she scrambled to stand on her own, his arm the only thing keeping her from hitting the ground. 

“Are you going to behave or not,” he breathed, allowing her to get her feet back underneath herself before nudging her towards the house again. Surprisingly, he was gentle with her. Or at least as gentle as he could be, restraining her as she fought against him with all her might. 

Defeated and nauseous as her lab grown emotions warred with her natural ones, she led him up the gravel path to her little cabin. It was nice and homey, perfect for one person trying to hide. She found herself wishing that she could fight him, but she was out of practice, if not out of shape. And she sincerely doubted that he had let himself grow lax the way she had, could feel the experience in the way he held her tight to him. 

Opening the door, she took in the small home as he urged her towards her sofa, past the oak table where she had stashed one of her hidden guns. Attempting to lunge for it was pointless, but she tried it anyway. She had to. 

Breaking Adlers grip on her was all muscle memory, though not entirely hers, and shocked the both of them before she was moving. Lurching towards the table, she made it two steps towards it before Adler had her restrained, one arm pinning hers to her sides wrapped around her to pin back against his chest. The other hand came up to rest gently on her neck, flexing in warning as he cut off her air for a few seconds. 

Not enough to actually hurt her, but enough to leave her gasping when he relaxed his hand. Dispassionately, he watched as her chest heaved, her mouth parted as she took in huge gulps of the cabin's warm air. 

She could feel her blood racing against his fingers as he simply held her, his thumb brushing her carotid artery as she stood stock still, not moving a muscle. Save for the trembling of her fucking hands. Damn him, apparently he still used the same cologne and smoked the same cigarettes, their combined scents made her feel safe, even as his hand was lethally wrapped around her neck. 

“Relax Bell, I don’t want to kill you.” Adler grumbled, breath ghosting her ear, and she had to concede to him that if he was sent to kill her, he would have probably done it by now and not bothered approaching her like this. 

“That’s not my name anymore,” she snapped without thinking before clamping her mouth shut with an audible click. 

He huffed a small laugh, and she felt a flash of pride before she tamped it down, “Oh? What are you going by these days?” He marched her to the sofa again, sitting her down beside him, slowly unwinding his arms from around her. It did not escape her attention that he made her sit the furthest away from the door, and she shuffled as far away from him as the sofa would allow. 

“Nadia.” she definitely raised her chin. Her defiance made him smile. So different, yet still the same. 

“So you did remember your name, I had wondered.” he muttered, his head tilted to the side. 

“Yes, well, without you and Park there to inject me with drugs, my mind became mine again.” a small white lie, she had not remembered everything, only had vague flashes of memories that felt less real than her fake memories, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Why are you even here?” she snapped, patience worn thin by fear. “You already failed to kill me once, and apparently you aren’t going to try again,” Nadia made a face as she rolled her eyes, telling him without words exactly how little she believed him. 

He didn’t respond to her anger, simply reached into his jacket and pulled out a file. It was thin, almost flat for how much information was probably inside. 

“We’ve been tracking someone we assume to be a defected Perseus cryptographer.” Nadia took the folder gently before snatching it away from him, like if she lingered too close he would hurt her again. Probably.  

Sighing through her nose she asked, “And what does this have to do with me?” she flipped through the dossier, fighting back a laugh. How clueless they still were. 

“We knew that a Russian had defected here, one who had been in Perseus’s… employ.” what a kind way to say that Nadia had been drafted into this stupid war against her will. First for the Russians and Perseus, and then for the Americans and Adler. She couldn’t fucking win. “The agency tracked rumors of an ex-Perseus agent to these parts, and thought you may’ve known the cryptographer. We didn’t know it was you though,” she gave him a look, scoffing at his heavy-handed attempt to gently pry the information from her. 

“Well,” she smirked up at him, her eyes alight with a challenging glare, “You’ve already found the cryptographer.” he looked at her, confusion on his face and she couldn’t help but revel in it. So few times did she remember Adler being confused. Not even in her false memories. 

“But we don’t know who–” he cut himself off, looking at her in a new light. Nadia wasn’t anything impressive at the minute, hadn’t been impressive in quite a while. A plain gray t-shirt and some dirt stained blue jeans over her muddy work boots painted the perfect picture of a fit but unassuming country girl, save for the scars that ran up and down her arms, but she could cover them with a jacket or sweater when she went into town. 

She only remembered gaining half of the scars. 

“It’s you,” he stated, locking eyes with her, and damn it after all this time he could still read her, and she was still in the dark. 

“I do what I can, when I can. But I will never be back in the field. The only time I pick up my gun now is to hunt for game.” Nadia smiled, harsh and sarcastic as she watched Adler sit back, still surprised. 

“We thought you were dead.” She heard the words he didn’t say, I thought you were dead. Her heart gave a pang at the false trust and… other emotions they had forcefully instilled in her. 

“Yes, well, you shot me in the chest like an idiot instead of shooting me in the head.” She shrugged as she rolled her eyes. “Didn’t even stick around to confirm the kill.” 

Adler shrugged, “Guess it’s a good thing I did. You’ve been very helpful to us with those decryptions of yours.”

Smiling, Nadia opted not to tell him that it was her who created those codes. That she had been one of Perseus’s best and that was why she rose so quickly through the ranks, despite her reluctance. “I guess so.” After all, she had to keep some of her cards to herself, right?

“It would be in your best interest to consider joining the CIA, you know the procedure and all of our taglines, so I won’t bore you with it.” 

“Why? Not just gonna inject me with more drugs and tell me we’ve got a job to do?” she snapped, leaning away from him as he scooted closer.

“No, that has been proven to be too unreliable.” he chuckled, looking at her pointedly, extending a hand, palm up. “We have other measures of making people cooperate, now, that are far more effective.” and Nadia heard the threat for what it was.

“Oh? Well, I guess I’ll never know” she sighed, handing the folder back to him. “I can continue my work here. All I need is a radio, a pencil, and paper. I have all that.” she gestured towards her desk where the radio sat, surrounded by mounds of paper. 

“I want to take you back to Langley with me.” Nadia’s eyes snapped back to Adler as he sat the file on the coffee table, a snort leaving her before she could stop it. Realizing he was serious, she grew angry again. 

“Kiss my ass.” she laughed, shaking her head, “My corpse wouldn’t let you take me back there.” 

“Yeah, figures you wouldn’t wanna go back,” he muttered. “You don’t get a choice though. We can’t protect you all the way out here.” he gestured around her house, small and in a remote part of Nebraska. 

“I’ve done fine so far.” Nadia insisted angrily gesturing. 

“So far, no one knows you exist.” he countered, beginning to show anger as well. 

“And it will stay that way!”

“Not for long, it’s only a matter of time before the Russians find you.” 

“Well then do your damn job and keep them from finding me!” she yelled at him, throwing her hands up in the air. 

“That’s why I want to take you back with me dammit!” he shouted back, and for a second, she was taken back to one of her memories, of him standing over her yelling at her to tell her about Perseus. Flinching, she shakes herself. 

“No, I will be staying here! You don’t get to walk in here and demand things of me! Not after everything I’ve done and everything I continue to do!”

“Nadia,” his voice was calm and even, face smoothing out, and she knew what was coming next. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way but either way, you will be coming with me, back to Langley. How we get there is entirely up to you.”

She stayed silent, glaring at him as he smirked at her. It made her want to hit and kiss him in equal measure. 

For a few minutes the pair sat in silence, Adler allowing her to get used to the idea of leaving. No matter how much she wanted to stall, they both knew that she would be going back with him. He was preset to win. 

Nadia felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and blinked rapidly as she looked around at her cabin, at the life she had built for herself. She knew, eventually, that if the CIA had found her, Perseus would find her. And she didn’t know how he would react to seeing her alive after all she did to harm the cause. 

Well, it’s as they say. The devil you know. 

“Okay,” she whispered, voice small and defeated as she slumped, running a dirt-streaked hand through her sweat-dried hair. 

“Good girl,” her head whipped up, pupils dilated as she remembered the last time he called her that, the sound of their breaths mingling and the feel of him inside of her making her back arch and toes curl as he played her body like a fiddle. 

“Don’t do that,” Nadia whispered, voice rough. 

“Don’t do what?” grinning, he slid closer to her, touching their thighs together, wrapping one arm behind her on the sofa. 

“You know what.” she snapped defensively, attempting to move further away from him, and running out of sofa. 

Adler watched her shrink in on herself with a frown. “You always enjoyed our time together.”

“That was before,” rasped Nadia, not making eye contact, even when he took both of her hands in his, forcefully uncurling her fingers from the meat of her palms. She hadn’t even noticed that she was digging them into it. 

“We had so much fun together. Don’t wanna relive it? For old times sake?” It was Nadia’s turn to laugh at him. “You’re not that sentimental. Try again.” 

Sighing, Adler stared at her, contemplating before he answered, “Ah, you know me too well.” 

“I do, I have your memories, and have had a lot of time to analyze them. So tell me the truth.” 

“Well,” he almost seemed embarrassed as he continued, scratching at his cheek. “It is very rare in our line of work to find a woman who knows what you do, and still chooses to sleep with you.” with a smirk he looked her up and down, lingering on her breasts. 

A nice sentiment, but she didn’t believe him for a second. “It’s a conflict of interest.” Nadia stated, voice flat, even as she could feel her body reacting to his words, the blush rising on her traitorous cheeks. 

He snorted. “You didn’t care before.”

“Well that might have something to do with the fact that I didn’t know you brainwashed me.” 

“Yeah I imagine that would put a fucking dampener on things.” Still, he didn’t let go of her, just continued to stare at her. 

“What if I say no?” she questioned, looking up at him warily. 

“Then I let go and we forget this ever happened. Rape doesn’t do it for me,” he stated, completely unphased. 

They sat there like that, for an undetermined amount of time. Adler just held her close in a gentle grasp, something Nadia could easily break if she wished. 

“Okay,” she whispered, slowly leaning into his chest, tucking her head under his chin as she relaxed, boneless, against him. She knew this was just a manipulative ploy to win her back, and was under no illusions that he cared. Not like last time, when she had thought they were two old friends comforting each other. 

“Just like that?” he muttered amused, letting go of one of her hands to card his fingers through her hair, sliding his hand down to cup her chin, tilting her face towards him with a gentle grip. 

“It’s very hard to find someone to fuck that won’t ask questions about my scars,” Nadia muttered, the real reason why she agreed to this. If there was one thing Adler was good at, it was sex, and she planned to take full advantage. 

“Oh?” he frowned again, the other hand trailing down her bare scarred arm before it settled on her hip. 

“On men, scars are sexy, mysterious.” she gestured towards his face, watching as the conflict passed over it, “On women?” she scoffed before continuing bitterly. “Well most men, at least civilians, find it intimidating at best, and a major turnoff at worst. The best I could hope for was a quick, unsatisfying fuck in an alleyway.” 

Smirking salaciously down at her Adler responded, “Guess I just have to fix that,” and before Nadia could counter, his mouth was on hers. Their kiss was not soft and gentle, but a clashing of teeth and tongues as they both fought for control of it. Sneakily moving his hands down her back, he kneaded at the tense muscles he found there and she moaned into their kiss, momentarily caught off guard. 

But Nadia’s hands were moving too, one wrapping around his neck to play with his annoyingly perfect hair, the other sliding up his back and untucking his white button down from his jeans to trace the sensitive scars she found there. 

His hands tracing her waist, Adler gripped her tight before he lifted her off the sofa and into his arms. Yelping into the kiss, she wrapped her legs around his middle, her hands scrambling to wrap around his shoulders, tangling into his light hair. 

Neither one broke the kiss as Adler carried her towards her bedroom, not stopping to ask for instructions, both groaning as he licked into her mouth. 

Nadia broke the kiss with a scowl,“How do you know where my bedroom is?” she panted out as she began to lay hickeys along his neck, just above where she knew his collar covered, the hand in his hair knocking his infamous shades off and somewhere onto the floor. 

Laughing, Adler groaned, “Found your house’s blueprints,” and didn’t even pause his confident stride, despite his sudden loss of his sunglasses, kicking her door open before he gently laid her back on the plush bed, letting her legs dangle over the edge. 

Standing, he gazed down at her, pupils blown and cock already beginning to harden in his jeans. Nadia just stared up at him, feeling herself getting wet as she took in the sight of his messy hair and rumpled polo shirt. Such a contrast from how he appeared in most of her memories. 

“Look at you,” towering over her, he made quick work of her old belt, tossing it somewhere in her room before popping the button on her dirt-stained blue jeans. “Last chance to stop me,” Adler smirked down at her, licking his lips. 

She tracked the movement of his tongue with her dark eyes, and smirked. “Give it your best shot, old man.”

“I’m only three fucking years older than you,” he grumbled, kneeling to take off her boots and socks before Adler slid her jeans off, leaving her in just her panties and top. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, sliding her top over her head, groaning at the sight of her nearly naked, trailing his fingers along her collarbones before pulling her bra off. It shouldn’t be such a major turn on, him being fully clothed with her naked in front of him. 

“Bet you– shit!” she gasped, unable to snark him as he touched her through her underwear, rubbing slow circles over her clit, feeling the uncomfortable dampness of her underwear growing. 

“What was that?” he laughed, pulling her panties off and tossing them in the same direction as her shirt and pants, not entirely unaffected as he panted slightly, “You didn’t get to finish.” he moved back between her legs, his left hand coming up to hold her hip still. 

Returning his hand to her cunt, Adler moved his callused middle finger against her folds, pressing in slowly, teasing her. 

With a moan, Nadia fisted her hands in her quilt, attempting to shift her hips against Adlers skilled hand, but he held her down. 

“It must have been a long time for you to be reacting like this,” murmuring, Adler circled her clit with his thumb while adding his ring finger. 

“Please don’t fuck with me right now.” she grunted, wrenching her eyes open and making eye contact with him. 

“My pleasure,” and crooked his fingers expertly, finding that spot inside of her that so few men knew about, much less were able to find. 

“Fuck!” she shouted, pleasure racing through her as Nadia clenched down on his fingers, arching her back. 

“There we go,” he whispered, leaning in close to her, pressing a kiss to the old wound on her chest from where he shot her. “Just like that.” she watched him look up at her, smirking as he licked the old scar. 

She laid there, gasping for breath as Adler continued to expertly finger her, stretching her slow and thorough, just like he had back then. With a whine, she grabbed his messy hair, pulling him up towards her. 

“Needy are you?” he smirked as she pulled him in for a kiss, fingers not faltering inside her for a second. 

“Please,” she gasped, Russian accent thickening as he inserted a third finger, kissing down her neck, leaving behind inconveniently placed hickeys, just like she had. 

“Please what?” he mocked, allowing her to draw his shirt over his head, flinging it in the opposite direction of her clothes. 

Nadia panted as she drifted closer to her orgasm, his hand an iron brand inside of her and on her hip, “Please just fuck me you absolute jackass!” 

Chuckling, Adler crooked his fingers, and suddenly she was crying out as she saw stars behind her eyes. “Well since you asked so nicely,” focusing on her pleasure, he massaged her clit with his thumb, thrusting his fingers in and out, smirking as she clenched down on him.

Reduced to nothing more than the lewd noises she was making, Nadia grabbed his hair again, getting a rare breathy moan from Adler, who allowed her to pull him up and into a steaming kiss. Her other hand clawed down his back, leaving red welts in her wake. 

His fingers picked up the pace, and the pleasure that had been building inside of her snapped. Crying out, her back bowed off the bed, mouth slack with pleasure as her hands fisted against Adler’s body, leaving red lines and pulling at his hair. 

“Fuck,” she breathed into his mouth as he fingered her through the aftershocks of her orgasm. 

She whined when Adler pulled his fingers out from inside of her and stood back, but she wouldn’t be left empty for long. Using the hand that was covered in her juices, he slicked up his cock, smirking down at her. 

“Gonna just stand there?” Nadia mocked, still panting like she had run a marathon. 

Not bothering to respond, Adler just laughed, wrapping her legs around his waist before shoving his hands under her back. He lifted her up, ignoring her shriek, and tossed her further up the bed. 

Laughing, he knelt between her legs, lining up his cock with her entrance. For a moment, he stayed like that, just staring down at her, his thick head brushing up against her clit. It sent small shocks through her tired body, and he smirked. 

Before she could tell him to hurry up, Adler was pushing inside of her. The acidic words died on her tongue. All that left her was a breathy whine as she clawed at him again, the heels of her feet digging into his lower back, urging him deeper. He wasn’t fairing much better. 

A low groan was ripped from his throat as Adler fully sheathed himself inside her, bending over her body as he stilled. 

“You feel just as good as I remember,” he muttered into Nadia’s ear. Before her mind could catch up with her mouth and demand answers, he was leaning back and slamming into her again. 

Soon, any thoughts she had disappeared in favor of the pleasure again building inside of her. One of his hands found her clit, the other molded itself to her waist, pulling her into him. 

Soon the room was filled with the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin, and their moans, pulled from the depths of their chests. 

Nadia could feel that coil of pleasure tightening in her stomach, and she clenched down on Adler’s cock as he hit that pleasurable spot inside of her. Chasing his own pleasure, he sped up. 

Finally, with one last thrust, he came deep inside of her. The feeling of his warm cum flooding her had Nadia’s back arching in her second orgasm. Panting, Adler fucked them through the aftershocks. 

She laid there, gasping for breath as she came back down from her post orgasmic high. Slowly, Adler slid his cock out from inside of her, rolling onto his side. He threw an arm over Nadia’s stomach and pulled her in close, tucking her head under his chin. 

Blushing, she felt a mixture of his cum and her fluids leak out of her cunt, groaning as he swept a finger through it, licking it off like it was a special treat.  

“Go grab a towel you fucking perv.” she grumbled, closing her eyes as Nadia’s muscles continued to shake, this time not from fear, but from ecstasy. 

Adler groaned, “You’re so goddamn bossy,” he complained, but complied, padding towards her bathroom in search of a towel to clean them up. While he was away, Nadia felt herself growing tired, and her eyelids fluttered shut. 

So tired apparently, that she didn’t hear Adler come back, only registered he was in the same room as her when the bed dipped, startling her back awake. Eyes flying open, Nadia looked up at him, holding her pale green washcloth in his hand, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. 

Nadia didn’t trust it, and she squinted up at him as he began to clean her, slowly wiping down her legs and stomach. Well, essentially massaging her, running one of his rugged hands over her damp skin to check for any leftover residue. 

Once he had finished, Nadia felt him shuffle her around, and realized he was pulling the sheets of her bed back so that she could nap in them. 

Eyes listing closed as he tugged the covers over her, she felt him grab one of her hands in his, beginning to wipe it down with the cloth. Slowly and thoroughly, he cleaned her palm, the soft fibers of the washcloth wiping away any residual stickiness. Adler paid attention to every single finger, before he dropped the hand and repeated the same process on the next one. 

Halfway asleep, Nadia cracked an eyelid to look at him, looking at the conflicted expression on his face as he set the washcloth to the side. Grumbling, she lifted one of her arms, an invitation to him to come join her under the covers. 

Adler made a quiet happy noise, before shuffling into bed in front of her, wasting no time in situating her head under his chin. Both of his arms encircled her and pulled Nadia in closer to his chest. 

Humming, Nadia breathed deeply snuggling into him, ignoring the way her common sense was screaming in the back of her mind. But she was so comfortable and warm, lounging in Adler's arms as he held her close to his chest. 

Was it smart? No. Was it safe? Absolutely not. 

But she liked it, and even though she knew better, Nadia couldn’t stop herself from falling asleep next to him. 

Banner from @cafekitsune

[thiefbird]

Happy Friday! I'm not sure what pairings you're into but since I saw your blog title was Anders Trash, how about "[They] looked into my eyes and uttered four simple words. Those words changed everything." for him?

Happy Friday! This one is long and bittersweet: Kanders and pre m!Handers for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

Hawke had stopped in at the Darktown clinic on his way back from the Wounded Coast, as usual, pockets and pack filled near to bursting with threadbare scavenged clothes and herbs. He'd offered Anders coin, too, when he'd gotten his first profits from the Bone Pit, but the man steadfastly refused any pay but his cut of any work he tagged along for.

Hawke probably would have found his refusal irritating if he hadn't been head over heels in love with him, but he'd long since accepted that he was incapable of being objective where Anders was concerned, so he called it selfless, and chose to hunt down and carry pounds and pounds of elfroot, embrium, and orichalcum back from each journey out of the city.

It was a rare quiet day in the clinic; good weather meant that there were less illnesses, and less accidents from slipping on wet stone. Lirene was rolling bandages--made from previous selections of torn trousers--in the corner, and against the back wall, Anders was bent over a fire, stirring a small pot of simmering green liquid.

He looked back over his shoulder at the clank of Hawke dropping his helmet on a cot, and smiled warmly. "The wandering hero returns! How was the coast?" he asked, pulling the potion off the fire with his bare hands.

Hawke cringed, even as he recognized the pattern of frost protecting Anders' palms. "Less bandit-y than it was a week ago, at the very least. Less full of herbs, too: between myself and Merrill, I think we picked a tree's worth of elfroot," Hawke joked, slipping his pack off his shoulder and dropping it, exaggerating the effort it took to hold it.

Anders' eyes widened as he saw the bulging pack. "Tell me that's not all elfroot, Hawke," he muttered, setting his pot on a flat stone and moving to take a closer look. "I don't know if I have enough space to dry that much."

"No, not all. Found you some stuff to turn into rags and bandages, too, and the orichalcuk and embrium you needed." He paused, hand in his pocket as he debated with himself, as he had the entire walk back.

Merrill had been the first to spot it, crouching in thy grass to peer curiously at the tiny white flowers. "I've never seen these before!" she'd said, waving Hawke and Varric over. "Is it useful? It's very pretty!"

Hawke had recognized the white petals and red center from his father's botanical compendium, the one he'd stolen from the Gallows the night he'd eloped with Leandra. "It's Andraste’s Grace, I think. It, uh... it's not really useful for humans, but it can be used in a potion that can cure the Taint in mabari."

Merrill had looked a little disappointed as she slowly straightened up. "I guess we had better leave it, then," she'd murmured reluctantly. "If we can't use it."

Varric made a soft noise in the back of his throat, and deftly plucked one of the myriad blossoms. "Nonsense, Daisy. No one said you can only have useful flowers." He bowed dramatically, holding the flower towards her, and Merrill giggled as she took it from him.

"Thank you, Varric. Do you think Anders would like some? He spends so much time in his clinic, and i know it's in the nicer part of Darktown, not the very sewery bit, but I think some flowers would help."

And that was how Hawke came to be standing awkwardly in Anders' clinic, a bouquet of Andraste’s Grace oh-so-carefully tucked in a pocket, the image of a nobleman preparing to court a blushing maid. The idea was so ridiculous he nearly left, but...

No. He wouldn't back out now. He couldn't. Knowing his luck, Merrill would ask Anders if he'd liked the bouquet, and that would be worse.

"I also found these," he muttered, pulling the small, brilliantly white flowers from his pocket as he carefully avoided Anders' eyes. "Andraste’s Grace. I- we- Merrill and I thought they might cheer up the clinic."

There was a too-long pause, and Hawke risked a passing glance at Anders' face. The older man's expression was indecipherable, and Hawke felt himself flush. "If you don't like them, or you're allergic, or... I'll just leave. I'm sorry," he mumbled, turning towards the door. Maybe he'd forgotten some important meaning in the years since he'd read about them, and he'd just told Anders to go to the Void, or threatened to burn him like the flowers' namesake.

"No, no, wait. Hawke!" Anders called, voice cracking miserably on his name. "They're beautiful. I just..."

Another quick glance up from the floor revealed the unmistakable gleam of unshed years in Anders' eyes as the mage dropped into his rickety chair. "They were his favorite flowers. Karl's. He'd found a clump the day his magic manifested."

Hawke swallowed down the instinctive groan of self-loathing. Trust him to pick the most emotionally loaded bouquet in the all of Thedas. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be," Anders said after clearing his throat. "I've... I've never seen any in person. They really are beautiful...

"He always said he'd find a way to give me one, once we got out. Fanciful plans, realistic ones, they all had that in common: once we were free, really free, we would find Andraste’s Grace." He choked on a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob, and absently spun the lyrium-banded ring he'd taken from Karl's corpse.

Hawke stepped closer, setting the bundle of tiny flowers on the desk in front of Anders. "You were planning to run?"

Anders chuckled humorless. "I'd already run five or six times before that. They always caught me again; phylacteries are a crueler evil than any blood magic Merrill or Surana could ever wield. But this time, this time we were going to run together.

"One of the Templars thought it was romantic," Anders continued, spite tingeing his voice. "She said she'd leave a door to the outside unlocked for us. We'd go north, Tevinter or Rivain, somewhere the Chantry couldn't get us, and we'd be free."

Hawke didn't want to ask. He'd been there for the ending of this story, that horrible, heartbreaking night. But he'd never heard Anders talk about Karl before. "What happened?" he asked, barely louder than a whisper.

Anders didn't answer immediately, brushing his thumb back and forth over the petals. "Changed her mind. Told the Knight-Commander, the First Enchanter. Told them we were- that we planned to run. They sent him to the Gallows that night; he didn't even get to pack.

"She was the one who told me. The next morning; she woke me up, stood over me in my bed. She looked me in the eyes and said four simple words. 'Thekla's left for Kirkwall.' Those words changed everything."

Finally, Anders picked up the flowers, holding them to his face and inhaling their delicate scent. "We're free, Karl," he whispered, barely audible; Hawke felt like the intruding third wheel to Anders and his overwhelming grief. "We're free of them for good, and I have Andraste's Grace."]

[pers-books]

Review

Sep 26, 2023 - Written By Diana Feng

Review:

OCTOPOLIS, Hampstead Theatre

Photo credit: The Other Richard

Octopolis is a witty two-hander with a playful spark in its fiery humour and a thrilling emotional journey tucked away within.

Professor George Grey (Jemma Redgrave), a world-renowned behavioural biologist, best known for her pioneering research into octopus intelligence, is grieving over her recently deceased husband. She spends every day with her research subject: Frances, who resides in a large, purpose-built tank in George’s campus accommodation. Their world is disrupted when ambitious anthropologist Harry (Ewan Miller) arrives, seeking to test a groundbreaking theory on Frances.

Entering Downstairs at Hampstead Theatre, Octopolis dresses the theatre in an oceanic ambiance. Blue velvet curtains, blue carpet, blue wash lighting, accompanied by David Bowie’s iconic songs; it feels like diving into the ocean with a Walkman plugged into our ears – delightful and liberating.

Blackout, the blue velvet curtain opens to reveal a sophisticated minimal set designed by Anisha Fields: a wall of built-in aquarium-like light boxes, lit up with a gradient of blue, filling with haze to suggest the motion of water. Two actors dress in matching hues, dancing on stage in an iconic, almost pulp fiction-like movement. No set, no props, just a bench and the water tank. A projection appears on top of the water tank: “The Future,” and quickly, we are immersed in the world of George and Harry.

The fast-paced dialogue between the two actors works like a charm. Marek Horn’s humorous text injects academic jargon with just the right amount of zest. Though the two researchers often speak in long, complex sentences, it maintains emotional resonance throughout.

The story is compelling. The octopus has always been a mysterious, intelligent creature that fascinates mankind. Its curious nature draws parallels to the curiosity building up between George and Harry. Redgrave’s performance is strong, grounded, and endearing. Her wittiness and assertive body language make the audience fall in love with her. It’s not hard to see why a young, passionate man like Harry would find her as fascinating to observe as the octopus. Miller exudes fiery playfulness in his performance. There’s no doubt we can see his obsession with his work. However, we wish there’s a clearer moment for us to see how Harry's feelings sprout for George.

Director Ed Madden strikes a balance between playfulness and sophistication, fuelling the audience's imagination. The overall quality and atmosphere give an aristocratic ease. The 'third actor,' Frances the octopus, is vividly present without ever being seen on stage. Thanks to the cast and creative team's artistry, we feel as if she’s right there in the tank with us. The imagination takes us exactly where we need to be.

Jamie Platt's interactive lighting design takes a creative stance on stage. The water tank/aquarium changes from one colour to another, like colourful ink extractions, adding depth, mirroring the characters' emotional journeys, and emphasising the octopus' presence. It prompts contemplation about sensory experiences. Who says we cannot feel colour?

There’s something captivating about two professional observers observing a subject as well as their personal lives from an intimate yet slightly removed standpoint. It’s as if the audience is looking into an aquarium, observing the two characters, just as they observe the octopus or even themselves. Octopolis touches on big intersecting ideas about religion, existence, human behaviour, and evolution through the lens of academia and emotional connection. It’s all very fascinating; we only wish it carried more weight than an inciting incident. Perhaps exploring how these big ideas impact the relationship itself would be an even more thought-provoking journey for the audience. Though time goes by quickly and it doesn't feel like an hour and forty minutes, there are bits that feel a little repetitive and could use some tightening overall.

Angela Gasparetto’s movement and intimacy direction and Esther Kehinde Ajyai's sound design infuse a playful spirit into the often logical and conceptual dialogues. The fun, quirky dance moves and the retro iconic music draw us closer to the characters' humanity over their intellectual minds.

Octopolis is a theatrical delight that skilfully blends humour with profound emotional depth. It immerses its audience in a captivating world of imagination, wit, conceptual challenges, and emotional depth. A gem for theatre enthusiasts.

**** Four stars

Reviewed by: Diana Feng

Octopolis plays at Hampstead Theatre until 28 October, with further information here.

Octopolis - Hampstead Theatre

(If anyone's interested, the book of the play's available from Nick Hern Books or from the theatre itself.)

[bigothteddies]

HI GUYS I DIDN’T TAKE ANY PICTURES OR VIDEOS WHILE I WAS AT THE JUMPS TODAY BUT I DID LEARN HOW TO DO SUPERMANS SO I AM VERY EXCITED

[primitiveside]

INTIMIDATION AND VIOLENT RP PROMPTS @immortalmuses sent weapon from vaako.

They were stuck together for three more hours at least. In Riddick's evasion attempts, he'd ruined both their ships. Now it was a matter of not murdering each other in the sinkhole they'd fallen into long enough for Vaako's so-called rescue party.

A shadow crosses over Riddick. His goggle eyes covet the weapon casting it: this cumbersome and spartan two-hander. Another creation of this necromonger pomp and circumstance that, truth be told, tickled him. Murderers pretending to be better than the average con. Gussied up in their tech and their sacrament and their ritual.

Riddick preferred to be plain-faced about his depravity. Off-grid, off-putting. Spare him the bullshit creeds to feel good about killing. Can't shame the shameless.

This amusement slips into his natural pout, looking as pleased as the cat that caught the canary when it should be the other way around.

"Compensatin' for something?" A metallic ringing — his blade glancing up the necromonger's weapon before tucking neatly, lightning quick, in that sweet little nook where that armor doesn't cover a joint. The promise of blood for blood, but until then, he maintains.

[elkenbulwark]

@callidusdryadalis cont.

He, of course, had no reason to turn down a 'demonstration' in swordplay, whether or not said demonstration entailed a spar with his assistance or not. If it wasn't magic they were primarily using, then an elven opponent was little more than light entertainment- about as invigorating as a tavern brawl with a sober mind, and about as heavy lifting involved as it took him to stride over, scoop his brother up and strap him to his shoulder and continue forward in his advance without a lapse in stride even if captive fists found shoulder blades to beat on. "What, you askin' to dance?" He teased with a click of teeth to tusks, already convinced of what sort of spar he'd get from such company, and though the idea of it might have amused him, he wasn't at all missing said 'dances' from the high borns at the fencing lessons he usually served as a moving prop for. "Call me presump'tious, but- 'heavily doubt with this build difference we'd ah... sync up." In swordplay anyway.

Though he would admittedly flinch as he noticed the other reaching for the hilt of a belted weapon, the shine of silver presented along open palms gave him pause shortly before he swiveled in his seat to take the edge under his gloves and the weight of it from his company. Tucking the blade between the bar top and the lower chest padding of his jerkin, he set about turning the blade over in search of any decorum, and grinding his thumb along where the low candlelight of the outdoor tavern caught in its shimmering surface. "Huh, not the cheap stuff, I take it." He surmised through his appraisal. He was no blacksmith by any means, but he could and had swung just about every weapon there was in the Cragdew's armory to know when swords like the rapiers used in training exercises were cheaply made...mainly because he'd end up bending them with the force of his blows. It was why a two handed ax sat on his back now- and at times a rather large hammer...though the lute strapped there with the imposing weapon was a bit on the frailer side, by far.

"Bit 'uv a two-hander, m'self. Sometimes when you got a lot to give, best throw it with your weight into one whole end. Feels like you're short changin' yourself with just one arm and all. But I guess this here's a two-hander fer you, huh?" With a second glance over at the size of the elf's hands, he confirmed they wouldn't be suited to just swing the long sword around with one hand like he would...hands being a bit too large to wrap both proper round the hilt and all.

The admission has him shifting, and after he's done with the sword- he lifts it up and sets it onto the bar in front of them with a bored flick to the flat of it to send it off. "Birvor." He grumbled after a moment's pause between the unusual introduction, shoulders shifting around under his skin for a more comfortable angle hunched over the table as they were. "S'what you can call me if you're drawing a blank on any punitive substitutes." Though he'd yet to hear any as of yet from this company, surprisingly.

Still reeling from choking mid beer-appraisal with the other's untimely admission, Birvor testily grinded his jaw in place as he regarded him with eyes swiveled up through his lashes and a grip fastened tight round the handle of his mug. "Ways to find out-...? You can't be serious..." He huffed, shifting the mug around the table as a way of distracting himself from elf's words, though it only seemed to coax him into a more antsy frame of mind. At the suggestion he preferred gentle things, his nostrils flared and his ears tucked ever so slightly against his skull. He wasn't sure why he thought an elf to be of tame drinking company, but he was certainly seeing why that wasn't the case now. "...this you suggesting what sorta attention you're after, or?" He grumbled, giving himself a firm shake before he slid the sword across the bar top back to its owner. "'Cause I can guarantee you... to risk these tusks near your main arteries izza mistake. Dangerously fun...but a mistake." A shift into his own shoulders later, he leaned in to place his hand over the sword's hilt before Sorros could claim it again, eyes flicking up to pierce the elf with a sharpness unlike that at the end of his tusks.

"Sounds like it's you needin' the 'demonstration' now." On necks over swords, anyway.

[casitafallz]

Hallow AU | Intimacy without the emotion?

Note: discussions of sex, fade to black of nsfw content

Pepa pulled from his arms after a few minutes as soon as her heart slowed as the rush in her veins filtered away, letting him calm down from their activities too before she reached for her dressing gown and wrapped it around her loosely before she retrieved their clothes from the floor, leaving the underwear and bloomers; they’d go straight to the washing soon enough.

“So soon?” Felix’s gruff voice echoed, the sound of the covers shifting as he pushed himself up.

“The fabric will crinkle on the floor.” Pepa spoke passively padding over to the wardrobe and slipped the dress onto a hander and folded up Felix’s pants over the hanger bar and slipped the shirt over the top and added that into the collection.

“Hasn’t stopped us before, Mi Vida. Come back to bed.” He asked softly. “It’d be nice to cuddle.”

Pepa shut the wooden doors, her head turning to see Felix opening her side of the bed, his face soft with an edge of hope in his eyes. A tempting request.

“After I clean up.” She forced a smile to at least assure him, they would cuddle but she did want to clean herself, lest risk another pregnancy. She’d rather not have any more now if she could help it.

His soft expression dropped but nodded. “Of course.”

-

Felix was more or less asleep after she returned, slipping into the bed, rolling into her husband’s weight to big-spoon him to at least make up for the time she had taken in cleaning up. He shifted around, tucking into her chest with a heavy sigh but he sounded content now which was… satisfactory at the very least.

She didn’t want to upset him more than necessary and she knew he had wanted to become intimate again. She didn’t want to ruin this for him. Another thing the accident had taken along with her emotions was a lot involved in her personal desires, her sex drive was a part of that. The act of sex did bring her the real sense of pleasure but now it was a physical stimulation, the closest she could get to an emotion.

It lingered for a few minutes… but it didn’t last. It just left her tired or hungry from such vigorous activity; other physical necessity kicked in.

Why tell Felix when he was enjoying himself for the first time after the accident? Him happy was important for their marriage and for their children. He could certainly fulfil their emotional needs more than she could. Why ruin the balance?

Pepa ran her fingers down his back, feeling when he truly drifted off to sleep with how his breath turned to soft snores, but it took a little longer before she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

-

It was the soft kisses that tugged Pepa from the warmth of oblivion. Gentle lips tracing up the side of her neck to her ear lobe, the gentle texture of his beard ticking her skin.

“Is it morning already?” Pepa mumbled, her tired brain filtering the soft sensation of Felix’s arms around her middle; his hand resting on her lower belly but not touching down further. Her mind wasn’t to that, though she felt reminded on a good night sleep that… it was most likely due they needed Antonio to be moved back into their room. Julieta’s babysitting would need to come to an end at some point. She was probably exhausted looking after a new-born…

“Plenty of time until we’re needed to leave.” His lips pressed back, his fingers tracing the delicate skin of her belly; his tactics of asking.

Pepa weighted her options before she sighed out softly, shifting her leg further open to allow him to continue.

-

Pepa flicked through her book boredly. Discontent but she knew this had been her favourite book before. She remembered how she used to feel as she read and reread; to feel that sadness and ache because it felt good for the release. A book she never could read enough without someone getting annoyed at the rain that naturally came with the sadness.

Now she could.

She felt nothing.

She wanted to feel the sadness and ache in her heart again… but all the pages now felt vacant and...what had been an emotional ride, Pepa now only saw the fatal flaws of the characters; bad decisions and oversight.

She wanted to feel.

She wanted to enjoy that.

She wanted to be frustrated that she couldn’t even feel frustration. But she couldn’t.

Pepa felt nothing and she didn’t like it.

After a moment, Pepa closed it before she set it to the side before she reached and pulled the month and a half-old infant from his bassinet as he began to fuzz and set him to nurse to keep him content with a full belly.

She remembered the times when she fed Dolores and Camilo; the deep seeded warmth of love that came with this unique form of bonding.

Antonio deserved to have that as well. He needed that.

But she felt no warmth or deep sense of connection. It certainly put her into a bad-mother territory if she couldn’t even bond with him… or any of the other two. She was…aware but she couldn’t feel bad about it either.

She had to try.

“Pepa?” Her head rose, to see her mother coming into the kitchen.

“Si?” Her voice echoed in from the dining room.

Her mother followed her voice but she looked troubled, even as she glanced down to the baby.

“I…know you’re having trouble with your gift, Mija but I think we should discuss ways to…manage the fog outside.”

“Manage?” Pepa perked an eyebrow, “I can no longer control the weather, mama.” She pointed out.

Abuela’s face didn’t change, still troubled but took a seat as her usual spot. “There has to be something you’re missing, Pepa. If the fog continues, our crops will start to fail.”

“I can take day naps if it suits the needs of Encanto, the fog thins when I sleep.” It had been an observation from Felix when he had woken to change Antonio.

“Pepa, we need the fog gone.” The underlining frustration rose in her mother’s voice, causing Antonio to whine against her nipple with displeasure. Pepa spared a look down, making sure he wasn’t too disturbed.

“I am aware of such a fact. I cannot control it.” Pepa empathised calmly. “I cannot help the fog. I am in as much control of it as you are.”

“Pepa.” Abuela’s jaw tightened, “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“No, I am.” Pepa corrected, “I am aware the fog is effecting our community’s life; how it affects the crops and how it makes looking out the window much more difficult. I cannot lift the fog any more than you can.” She rose to her feet sharply, “I cannot feel emotions, Mama. I feel nothing.” She cocked her head to the side. “Adios.”

With that, Pepa walked away with the baby still attached to her breast.

-

Felix eyed his wife in concern as she returned back from the bathroom. His heart panging as she clambered into bed but… he was worried; her sounds of their love making near ten minutes ago had been minimal and quiet. Unlike the Pepa he knew would have been vocal and loud for him; spending hours together in hot passion; revelling in each other.

Now, after she was recovered, it was gone… or at least there was that absence he couldn’t place as they fucked. He knew Antonio’s birth had been hard on her and he had been patient to let her heal and be ready for him.

Then he almost lost her to herself.

It had terrified him but now… while she was back and alive; she was missing something and it wasn’t her weather. He hoped intimacy would reawaken the fire between them but watching her go for her book than settle into his arms… hurt.

“Pepi…” Felix started, unsure how to start.

“Si, Felix?” her voice lack warmth, her head tilting a fraction his way as she began to flick through the pages.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Pepa blinked at him blankly for a moment. “Why wouldn’t I?”

How she managed to turn the conversation almost against him in such a manner, he didn’t know but it left him feeling iffy. Something wasn’t right.

“You were much quieter.” He pointed out, his hand coming to her shoulder. “Less…rougher.” He enjoyed her rough because it meant she was enjoying herself…enjoying him. “Are you okay?”

Pepa again looked a little distant at such question. “I’m fine, Felix. Don’t worry.”

Which felt like a loaded lie if anything of the last few weeks had been anything to go by. His hand slipped down to elbow. “Mi Vida, last time you said that…” He trailed off, trying to claw onto the fact she had no idea what she did. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Pepa’s eyes crinkled as she frowned. “Why are you asking, Felix?” Her tone sounded more guarded, “Are you not satisfied enough? Do you need another round?”

Felix huffed, clambering out of bed at that, running his hand down his face at the welt of frustration that rose within him.

“Pepa, I’m asking you.” He started, “Are you enjoying sex?”

Pepa’s frown didn’t lift, but she did snap the book she had closed and set it onto the bed side. “Sex is enjoyable.” She spoke, “But…” she hesitated, “I don’t feel it as intensely as before.”

Felix deflated but a part of him had dreaded to know. It made sense… her difficulties now were never more present in her lack of emotion but…he expected more honesty. To know so he could make things better for her.

“How intense do you feel it? We can…try new things if you want?” He’d probably have to brain storm a few ideas but he was sure he could adapt to her needs.

Pepa shrugged. “The act of sex is the intense part.”

“Is foreplay not good enough?” The lead up and the wind down, surely that had to help, right? He loved winding her up just as much as she did. He loved how he could push her right to the edge and sopping wet with his mere touch.

“It does it’s job.”

Felix dropped his hands at that. “It does its job?” he echoed in disbelief, “You used to love that part!”

Pepa swallowed, looking mildly discomforted. “I know…but I just…can’t feel the way I used to. Felix.”

Felix shook his head. “I know you’re having difficulties and I want to help, Pepi… but I thought you’d be more honest!”

“I… I just want to make you happy, Amour.” Pepa spoke, “You deserve to be happy.”

In any other context, that would have sounded deep and meaningful. That someone would so desire to put their own happiness aside for another but… this….this was all distorted.

“Pepa…have you been reciprocating my affections for me?” He asked, but he felt a slither of panic run a cold chill in his veins, “Did you…did you lie to me about wanting to have sex with me because I wanted it?”

Oh god, if she lied to him and he did something she didn’t truly want then—

“I consented!” Pepa spoke sharply, her hand coming to his arm before he could sink into a panic. “Please don’t worry on that!”

“How can I not, Pepa!” he shook his head, pulling away from her as he began to pace. “I thought we were finally moving on somewhere…as a couple. I don’t want this to be one sided…I don’t want you to have sex with me or any part of those acts just to keep me satisfied, Pepi… it should be because you want to have that experience with me.”

Pepa looked down with an uncertain gaze. “I don’t mind it.”

“I do, because that isn’t how our relationship should become. It should be mutual and desired by both of us.”

Pepa swallowed thickly, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t feel sexual desire anymore, Felix.” Her voice quiet. “I… I only do when I’m stimulated… but that’s only physically.”

Felix felt his heart ache for her, his anger dying down a little. How could he blame her for that? That…damn nail had done so much damage… why did it have to take her emotions? All of her drives were different but he would have thought that… some things would come back. But, that did leave an intrusive thought lingering in his mind, did… did she no longer love him?

The lingering answer was now at the fact that…Pepa had chosen to lie and say nothing. He didn’t deserve that.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to” Her response was cuttingly blunt but… final. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

He didn’t stop her as she turned to the bed and got in but he grabbed his robe and walked out. He needed space.

[abishekmuses]

Cricket, The Game of Life and The Awkwardness of Adult-Kid Relationships The joys of cricket are so manifold, so generously giving and utterly unconveyable through such mere things as words.

Where would one even start. Say I was to explain the emotion that is cricket - where would I start? where could I start?

Would I start by explaining the beauty - nay, the poetry - nay, the geometry of a sweetly timed cover drive.

Could I possibly explain to someone that feeling - that indescribably pregnant feeling that hangs in the air and in heart of the ardent fain on the first morning of a test match - and you have nothing on schedule for the day and all you plan on doing is watching the cricket.

An in form Tendulkar picking the gaps in a packed off side field with surgical precision. Dhoni finishing things off with a six. Dravid frustrating fast bowlers with his stoic defence, session after session. The ebbs and flows of a test match - the way the fuse catches fire sometimes in the last few sessions of the 5th day.

The achingly long passages of play where nothing happens and commentators turn into philosophers - giving us metaphysical musings to ponder about. The sheer poetry of watching over after over go by languidly - the scoreboard ticking over.

The dopamine rush of a sudden flurry of boundaries or wickets. Oh the joy of leather making contact with willow. The sound. The feedback. That inimitable feeling of timing the ball exquisitely and knowing the moment it leaves the bat that it's headed past the ropes.

Oh how could I begin to explain all this?

How could I tell them about "Ashes to ashes dust to dust - if Lilee won't get you, then Thommo must"

or the feared West Indian pace quartet.

Would the names Marshall, Garner, Holding, Roberts mean anything to them? Hell, would the name VIv Richards mean anything to someone who isn't also taken by this most exquisite of afflictions.

Would they think you're merely a lunatic when you say that cricket does a bloody job of acting as a metaphor for life?

Expansive, take-no-prisoners style vs circumspect outside off stump?

Compact technique vs see ball hit ball.

Monastic marathon innings - 15 ball wonder-cameos . Oh would they see it?

The first morning of an ashes series.

The magic of Mccullium's last test innings.

The unreal events of Headingley 2019.

India vs Pakistan.

Oh I say.

The G Version

I want to talk about my love for cricket with you. It's romance. It's love. it's beauty. It's passion. It's aesthetics. It's joie de vivre. Sometimes I feel, it is life itself. The sight of a batsman in tucked in whites, padded up, taking guard - ahhh. That exquisite unspeakable perfection of even witnessing a sweetly timed cover drive - let alone playing one. do you know what i mean?

the exquisite comprehensiveness with which cricket acts as a metaphot for life. The addictive yet ever-fresh sensual pleasure of leather striking willow. The sweet sound. The feedback through the hands. The sweet rhythm of building an innings and reaching a crescendo. The bated breaths when totals are being chased. That air of expectation and possibility when a test is about to begin and it's time for toss. those agonising waits for the next day's play to begin. The thrill of watching MSD hit last over sixes. The unspeakable joy of watching rahul dravid defend ball after ball and making bowlers feel like even a six would be preferable, given all the effort they've expended. The feeling of mastery and utter imperiousness that one feels when one pitches the ball outside a right hander's leg stump and gets it to fizz into his off stump, rattling the woodwork. Oh even phrases such as rattling the woodwork. The linguistics of cricket is a whole other treat by itself. Creaming it through the covers. hasn't troubled the scorers. He's gone for a duck. I can't remember the others but i'll try my best to remember - they are poetry - the expressions, the phrases, the idioms. Those memories of walking bat in hand, through indian streets looking for a fellow who'd oblige and bowl a few - just to feel that rush of bat hitting ball. Those memories of commentary gold - "Mccullum's at it again - he goes over extra" AHHHH Tony greig screaming "It's all happening here - SASHIN TENDALKAR" Mccullum's last test. The first morning of an ashes series. The sheer poetry of a Lord's test. The unbearable heat of Indian summers and the hopelessness of fielding for 50 overs on the face of an unbreakable partnership. The sheer ecstasy of a breakthrough. oh the ebbs and flows of test cricket - Ben Stokes on the final day of Headingley. the feared and legendary West Indian pace quartet. The audacious genius of Viv Richards that I only ever came in contact with through legends. And that of Garry Sobers, Ian Botham, Imran Khan and Kapil Dev. The trivia itself - ohh - the trivia - of how Sobers stormed into the Aussie dressing room and gave a word of warning to new boy Lilee before going on to smash him to all parts. Oh the expressions again - Took him to the cleaners. Damaged his figures. Sent it flying over cow corner. shots both sides of the wicket. two paced wickets. A bit of nip. Lateral movement on offer. Flat track bully. elegant strokemaker. Slog overs dasher. Oh God where do I start? I love this sport. Oh but the pains. The pains of loving cricket so much and getting out for a first ball duck in your first innings in years. the pain of having to pretend that never happened while you go and and field for 50 overs - watching lesser batsmen who don't quite see the poetry of it all ike you do make runs for fun. Reading about a humdinger of a test match written by an inimitably wise cricket writer - oh what a tradition - cricket writing. Mark Nicholas. Richie Benaud. Oh where do I start?

[sweetmage]

Happy Friday! 💚

From the flufftober prompt list: ‘thunderstorm’ for Handers? (Or justhanders if you’re feeling it!)

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS PROMPT! I loved to write it so much <3 @dadrunkwriting ---

Pairing: Hawke/Anders Word Count: 2088 Tags: Cuddling, Innuendos, Fluff, Ser Pounce A Lot (and other kitties!), Silly Boys Being Silly Summary: Hawke and Anders were trying their best to get some shut-eye, but the storm has other plans.

Thunder rolled in the distance as Anders came awake slowly, lashes fluttering open to the dimness of the room. Hawke's steady breaths were a comforting, soothing lullaby that nearly drew him back into slumber, but a flash of lightning that lit the sky, followed by a much louder clap of thunder roused Anders fully and startled Hawke awake as well.

Hawke sat upright, looking around bleary-eyed and bewildered. "What the—?"

"Sounds like a storm," Anders yawned, stretching languidly beneath their threadbare covers. "Good morning. Or..." His eyes rolled towards the window, gauging the light—or lack thereof. "Morningish?" Another roll of thunder shook the old wood of the house, the rain now audible as it beat a steady rhythm against the roof of the shack they'd been staying in.

"Ugh. Storm. Great." Hawke flopped back upon the pillow, dragging Anders down with him. "Back to sleep," he mumbled, nosing Anders' hair.

He couldn't argue with that, he was tired and Hawke was warm and soft. "Agreed," he sighed, curling into him. They'd had precious little opportunity to just lie together like this, always on the move as fugitives, always sleeping rough.

His eyes slipped comfortably shut again, drifting easily back towards slumber... and then came the dripping. Slow at first, a faint plip, plip, plip, but then more rapid as the rainwater trickled through the holes in the roof. Anders cracked open one eye, but the drip persisted, the water finding a steady path down the wall and splashing upon the floor. Wonderful. At this rate, they'd be soaked come morning. Reluctantly, he untangled himself from Hawke and rolled from the bed, shivering a bit at the chill in the air.

"Where you going?" Hawke mumbled, reaching out for him. "Come back." He patted the spot Anders had vacated and made a pouting face when it stayed empty.

"The roof is leaking," Anders explained as he lit his hand, padding across the cold floorboards to find the source and check on their few lest they get soaked. "We need to patch it or we'll be swimming come morning."

He rummaged through their bags, grateful that Hawke had the foresight to pack a bit extra and stash it away somewhere for safekeeping. Despite his prior insistence, knowing that their belongings were safe and the hole wasn't huge aroused the lazy, groggy part of his mind and Anders found himself reluctant to go about the repairs. Instead, he tucked the bag safely back into its place and crawled back into bed.

Hawke welcomed him with a sleepy smile and open arms. "That was quick."

"I'm efficient like that," Anders teased with a yawn, pressing a light peck to the tip of his nose and settling back into the covers, his head tucked beneath Hawke's chin. "We can fix it later."

"Mmm," was all the response he got as Hawke drifted again, Anders close behind.

The thunder continued its distant rumble and the rain picked up, but Anders was too cozy to care, falling swiftly back to slumber. He didn't know how long he slept but the sound of a loud crash and the skittering of little feet across the floor woke him with a start.

"Agh!" Hawke shouted, bolting upright and nearly knocking Anders out of the bed. "Little bastard, you scratched me!"

"Me?"

"No, your little fleabags," he grumbled, rubbing the offending scratch upon his arm before scooping the frightened little kittens up off the bed, one in each hand, and depositing then into Anders's awaiting arms.

"Be nice, they're not used to thunder," Anders said as he took the mewling little babies into his embrace to calm them. "There there. You're safe," he whispered.

"Oh, I see. They get cuddled while I stay bloodied up? I see how it is," Hawke grumbled, but the playful—if groggy—tilt of his lips was evident.

Without even looking, Anders reached over to take him by the arm and draw it close to his face, his magic tingling as his lips grazed the cut. The tiny scratch was quick and simple to knit back together, but his lips lingered there a bit longer than necessary. "Happy?" He asked, glancing over at Hawke.

"Thrilled, actually." Yawning, he threw a heavy arm around his shoulders. "You know, I've got this splitting headache too," he hinted, nudging his forehead against Anders' cheek. "Just on the right. Think you could maybe...?" His head lolled forward onto his shoulder and he let out a pathetic, dramatic moan.

Anders rolled his eyes, kissing him on the forehead without a hint of magic. "Better?" he asked, not quite able to keep a smile off his lips.

"And my cheek took a terrible blow during my daring battle with that cat... Will I survive doctor?" He sniffled pitifully for added effect.

"I don't know, that invisible scratch does seem pretty serious," he teased back, laying his babies down on the pillow. He shifted closer to Hawke, letting him take his weight as Anders planted a kiss on both of his cheeks.

"I think the little buggers got my lips too. That one has a mean right hook," he said, pointing to the smaller and more docile of the two.

"Oh you poor poor thing, they've worked you over real good, haven't they? Guess I'll have to do something about that," he said, voice a playful lilt as he tilted Hawke's head towards him, letting their foreheads touch as they met eyes. Anders felt Hawke's lips turn up against his, smiling that crooked smile of his as their eyes slipped shut.

"I've got a few more places I'm sure you could—"

"Don't push it, Hawke," he said with a chuckle and a little swat to his arm. "Go to sleep. The roof isn't going to fix itself in the morning." Anders lay back down upon the mattress and settled under his blanket, tucking it in around the kittens to keep them snug and safe and warm. Hawke joined them a few moments later, spooning in close and laying an arm protectively around the lot of them.

Of course, the night had not been keen to allow them easy rest and this was no exception. The next jarring sound they heard came just as the dawn light filtered through dark clouds, but it wasn't the thunder that stirred them from slumber this time, but a great shudder and the sound of splintering wood as a it crashed upon the floor, followed by an upset yowl.

"Pounce?" Anders was on his feet in an instant, sleep all but forgotten as he ran across the rain-slicked floor. His heart was racing and stomach sick, expecting the worst, but he entered the living room to find what remained of the roof in a pile on the floor and Ser Pounce-a-lot perched atop it drinking rain water as it fell from the gaping hole in the ceiling.

"What happened!?" Hawke said, nearly slipping on water as he ran up, catching himself on Anders's shoulder and nearly dragging him down too. Before Anders could answer, Hawke craned his neck up. "I hope you're not still expecting me to fix this."

Anders sighed long and heavy. "A tent sounds really good right about now."

"Right now?" Hawke groaned, taking his arm off his shoulder to cover his face. "Do you have any idea how bloody cold it is outside? My toes will fall off." He sighed as he rubbed his tired eyes. "Oh, fine."

Anders bit his lip to stifle his laugh at how miserable Hawke looked and bent down to retrieve Ser Pounce A Lot and the others. "It's not that bad. We've been worse places, you and me." He pressed a grateful peck to his cheek. "Thank you. It won't take long, then we'll be back to sleep in no time."

"You'll make it up to me, right? Lots and lots?" Hawke said as he returned from fetching their bags, draping himself dramatically over Anders's shoulders and wrapping his arms around him from behind as they headed for the door.

"I think having a dry place to sleep and warm feet are already more than fair recompense," he said through a light smile before shrugging him off.

"I can think of plenty of other things we can do on a bed roll," he teased, his lips quirking.

"Right, like pillow fights, playing cards, building a tent castle..."

"Oh, that last one sounds fun," Garrett teased back with a playful elbow as they made their way out into the cold, dreary, muddy morning.

"Consider it done," he replied with a cheeky grin, casting one last glance up at the sky. The rain had begun to lighten up some but it showed no signs of stopping any time soon. He let the fearless Ser Pounce A Lot down to walk beside him while he tucked his babies back inside his coat to keep them warm and safe from the elements. He leaned on Hawke as they walked, tucking his free arm in his elbow as they walked up the muddy road towards the clearing they'd spotted when first scouting the area.

——————

The tent went up quickly, which was fortunate, considering Hawke's constant grumbling as they worked to stake it down and lash the sides with ropes. Thankfully they'd remembered to wax it before they'd packed up the first time, the water running harmlessly off of the material without seeping through. They set up their bedrolls and moved their bags inside to prevent any damage to the precious few possessions they had then settled down beside each other, shivering and twining together for warmth.

"Mmmm," Hawke hummed in Anders's ear, his hands snaking under his shirt.

Anders made the most pitiful sound, something between a squeal and a whimper. "Your hands are freezing!" He protested, wriggling to free himself. "Hawke, get those things away from me!" He fought with his hands until he managed to wrangle him down, pinning his hands on the ground as he lay atop him to keep him still. "You're terrible."

"And you're warm." He grinned as he wrapped his legs around Anders's waist, making sure he couldn't squirm away. He looked up at him, his expression warm and adoring, as he wiggled his fingers in an attempt to reach his bare skin again.

"Don't even think about it," Anders warned. "Here, give me your hands." He shifted to offer his hands palms up on either side of them, opening and closing his fingers until Hawke placed his within. He held them tight, stroked his thumbs over the backs of his hands as he warmed them with his magic. "Better?"

"Much," Hawke said with a small sigh and a soft, happy smile. "Have I ever told you you are far too good to me? And that you are positively gorgeous? And—"

"I forgive you love, no need to suck up to me now," he said through a little smile, pressing a brief peck to his lips. "Now sleep."

"Is it really sucking up if I mean it? And Maker, I mean it. Especially the gorgeous part." Hawke's hands were finally warming, and Anders loosened his hold a bit as the heat from his magic radiated within. "Now maybe you could warm the rest of me up?"

Anders, exhausted as he was, didn't even pretend to misunderstand the suggestive tilt of his voice. He glanced towards the tent flap and then back down at Hawke, the rain still drumming steadily overhead. "I suppose sleep could wait..." He leaned in for a longer, more sensual kiss, so ready to lose himself within Hawke when, as their luck would have it, Ser Pounce A Lot got a little too curious—or perhaps he had a taste for sabotage—and slipped from the tent to whack at the ropes securing it to the stakes. Of course, Anders was too lost within Hawke's lips to pay it any mind until, all once, the tent came down upon them, sending them into a heap of limbs and canvas.

"Ack!" Hawke cried, trying to dislodge himself from where he'd gotten pinned beneath Anders. When he succeeded he propped himself on his elbows, staring disbelieving at the heap around them.

"Well... sleep it is..." he sighed, lowering himself back on to Hawke with the tent still around them, head resting against his chest, and then laughing long and hard at how utterly ridiculous everything had become in the past twelve hours or so.

Hawke joined in, taking him by the face and pressing their foreheads together. "Let's."

[vikhyatr]

Riding the Waves: Exploring Bali's Best Surfing Beaches

Introduction:

Bali, the Indonesian island paradise, beckons adventurers with its stunning beaches, vibrant culture, and an array of thrilling adventure activities. Among its many attractions, Bali stands out as a haven for surfers worldwide, offering a diverse range of breaks suitable for everyone from beginners to seasoned pros. Whether you're seeking the adrenaline rush of challenging barrels or the serene experience of gentle swells, Bali has something to offer every surfer. In this comprehensive guide, we delve into some of the best surfing beaches in Bali, exploring their unique characteristics, ideal conditions, and the adventures they offer to surf enthusiasts.

I. Kuta Beach: The Surfing Hub

As one of Bali's most popular beaches, Kuta Beach attracts surfers from all corners of the globe. Its consistent waves and sandy bottom make it an ideal spot for beginners looking to catch their first wave. However, its popularity means it can get crowded, especially during peak seasons. Nevertheless, the vibrant atmosphere, affordable accommodations, and bustling nightlife add to its allure, making it a must-visit destination for surfers and beachgoers alike.

II. Uluwatu: Where Legends Are Made

Uluwatu is synonymous with world-class surfing, offering some of the most challenging waves in Bali. Perched on the island's southern tip, this iconic surf spot boasts powerful reef breaks that attract experienced surfers seeking adrenaline-pumping rides. The famous Uluwatu wave is a long, barreling left-hander that demands respect and skill from those who dare to ride it. Surrounded by breathtaking cliffs and overlooking a majestic temple, Uluwatu provides an unforgettable surfing experience amidst awe-inspiring natural beauty.

III. Canggu: The Hip Surfer's Paradise

Nestled between Seminyak and Tanah Lot, Canggu has emerged as Bali's trendiest surfing destination in recent years. With its laid-back vibe, bohemian cafes, and vibrant street art scene, it has become a magnet for the hip and adventurous. Canggu's beaches offer a variety of breaks suitable for all skill levels, from mellow rollers to fast, hollow waves. Echo Beach and Batu Bolong are popular spots frequented by both locals and travelers, providing a perfect blend of surf, relaxation, and socializing.

IV. Padang Padang: The Jewel of the Bukit Peninsula

Tucked away behind a narrow entrance, Padang Padang Beach is a hidden gem waiting to be discovered by intrepid surfers. Located on the Bukit Peninsula, this picturesque cove boasts crystal-clear waters and a reef break that produces world-class waves. Padang Padang is best known for its left-hand barrel known as the "Impossibles," which offers a thrilling ride for experienced surfers. While the waves can be challenging, the stunning scenery and tranquil atmosphere make it a rewarding destination for those seeking adventure off the beaten path.

V. Medewi: Bali's Longest Wave

For those in search of long, peeling waves, Medewi offers an enticing prospect. Located on the island's west coast, this remote surf spot is renowned for its consistent swells and long rides that can stretch up to 400 meters. The gentle slope of the reef creates a forgiving wave ideal for longboarders and cruisers. While Medewi lacks the amenities and crowds of other popular beaches, its rustic charm and untouched beauty make it a favorite among surfers looking to escape the hustle and bustle.

VI. Dreamland: A Surfer's Paradise Rebor

Dreamland Beach, once a well-kept secret among Bali's surfing community, has undergone a transformation in recent years. Once a secluded hideaway accessible only to intrepid adventurers, it is now easily reachable via a paved road, drawing crowds of surfers and sunseekers alike. Despite its newfound popularity, Dreamland retains its natural beauty and offers consistent waves suitable for surfers of all levels. With its golden sands, clear waters, and stunning sunsets, it remains a dream destination for those seeking the perfect wave.

Conclusion

Bali's diverse coastline offers an abundance of surfing opportunities for enthusiasts of all levels. From the legendary breaks of Uluwatu to the hidden gems like Padang Padang and Medewi, the island's beaches cater to every surfing style and preference. Whether you're a seasoned pro chasing barrels or a novice eager to learn, Bali's surf spots promise unforgettable experiences amidst breathtaking natural beauty. So pack your board, wax up, and get ready to ride the waves in paradise.

[monterplant]

Convalescence – Jake Fox’s comeback

Convalescence – Jake Fox’s comeback

From Knolly Bikes: “In the late afternoon of July 6 2021, Jake Fox broke his neck riding an airbag landing. He had a small slip up on a backflip tuck no hander resulting in him going over the handle bars off the end of the landing. Jake was then rushed to hospital to undergo surgery The post Convalescence – Jake Fox’s comeback appeared first on Bikerumor. (more…)