#wid talks books

[notanactressyay]

— ༉‧₊˚. 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐞

— ₊⊹ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 . Natasha Romanoff x reader

— ₊⊹ 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 . Natasha always patched herself up. she never even allowed anyone near when she's hurt. you, on the other hand, made her a bandage and even discovered a little more about who she was.

— ₊⊹ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . implied violence, bullet wounds, blood, bruises, talks of the red room, cursing, emotional moments, caring for baby Natasha.

— ₊⊹ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 . finishing that a year later. yup, that's me. but that's just too special for me to drop it.

fic started: july, 08, 2023, 1:06pm. | finished: june, 23, 2024, 9:29pm.

dividers belong to: @saradika-graphics — ₊⊹

you're at home, reading a book as you usually did. the day was calm, tranquil, and it didn't seem like anything bad would happen. the sun rays came in from the gap between the curtains and shone right onto your face.

little did you know what was going on out there. the avengers were looking for the Winter Soldier, and well, the search wasn't going really good. cars crashing, civilians injured. and the target out there, no signs of him.

your best friend, the Black Wid— Natasha, had been as reckless as she always was, and attempting to protect a citizen, she took a bullet on the shoulder. and instead of getting immediate medical attention, she used her bleeding arm to fire a shotgun and throw a few more punches here and there.

Steve wanted to get her to a SHIELD facility, but she knew their usual procedure — they'd have her arm cut open to remove the bullet, stitch her up, and keep her in observation. she didn't want any of that. too much physical contact for her liking.

so she thought of the only smart way she could make this play. she couldn't simply go to her house with a criminal running around, in the middle of a mission. and her team would go looking for her there. not a smart choice. so she went to you.

not that she wanted to be taken care of. not that she needed to be taken care of, due the intense amount of pain going through her system. she'd just go to your house to hide, yeah.

the knocks on your door sounded heavy and urgent. you placed the book down, walking to the entrance and looking through the peephole — finding yourself in front of a bleeding, broken Natasha Romanoff. the door almost flies open, and she doesn't give you time to ask questions, stumbling inside and kicking the door shut.

"shh, keep your voice down." the redhead whispers weakly. regardless of the pain, she tries to be sarcastic. "don't be too loud or they might find me."

"your arm!" you whisper-yell, ignoring everything she had said. you ran to grab a cloth, pressing it against the wound. Natasha hissed loudly. just then you realized it was a bullet. "holy shit, i'm so sorry."

"i'm good." she weakly reassures, grabbing the cloth from your hand, taking a step back. she applied pressure to stop the bleeding — but she was barely standing. "just a tiny scratch,"

"shut it." you shake your head and carefully lead her to the nearest couch, helping her to sit down. by now, you'd have already called an ambo. but like she said, she was being chased. "spit it out, c'mon."

"mission went wrong." she sighs, allowing her eyes to close for a moment, then opening them again. when she feels you sitting down next to her, she instinctively scoots over, as if to create some distance. "the most of it is classified. but it went wrong. that's all i can tell you,"

"alright, Natasha. but you got to go and see a doctor." you chuckle humorlessly, pointing out the obvious.

the redhead was sweating, expression showing clear pain. even if the bleeding on her shoulder had stopped, she was still weak. it didn't matter she was trained for that. she was still a person.

"i can handle it." she tries to smile, but feels the uneasiness again. her eyes feel heavy, and she wants to close them. but she knew that meant passing out, going to the hospital. "just get me a first aid kit and i'll be okay."

"god, you're stubborn." you murmur. you'd probably give her a speech, but not now. "hang in there, i'll be right back."

you quickly went to the bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet, placing it on the living room's coffee table. you also grabbed a water bottle and a bag of cookies you had, in case she wanted to eat later.

you just didn't expect her to push you back when you reached out to touch her arm.

"just give it to me," she extends her hand towards the kit box, coaxing a small, incredulous laugh out of you.

"you expect me to let you do it yourself? in that state?" you ask, genuinely concerned now. you sit down by her side once again, slowly. she gulps.

Natasha was your elusive superhero friend, so you never really had that much of physical contact before. you didn't know about her past, either. you didn't know her fear of people touching her. her fear of being vulnerable. because back then, she wasn't allowed to be vulnerable.

widows never failed. widows never got sick. if a widow had an injury, that meant victory. she'd have to heal herself and focus back on the mission. so simply putting, Natasha didn't know what it was to allow someone to care for her.

but now... she was almost passing out. really. she also knew damn well you had no intentions of hurting her, nor reasons to do so. or else, she'd have distanced herself a long time ago. so she sighs in defeat.

"... just make it quick, okay?" she shifts, allowing you in her personal space.

you sigh as well in relief, opening the first-aid kit box and grabbing a wipe, putting some hydrogen peroxide on it. the blood under the cloth had long dried. you carefully unwrapped it from her arm, setting it aside. you examined the wound closely. the bullet went through, it was good, somehow. you wouldn't have to magically learn how to make a surgery.

Natasha's eyes followed your hand, as it wiped away the blood covering her arm. she was so tense at the beginning. but time went by, and her brain slowly registered the fact she didn't have a reason to be tense. her shoulders visibly eased up.

"the bullet's not here," you whisper, throwing the dirty wipes away and grabbing the ointment, the antiseptic, and the bandages. "i'll patch you up for now, but Nat, you seriously need some stitches."

she's relieved. the pain is still strong, but she's relieved, with you. only if you knew how bad she was trying not to cry right now. her voice quivers, as she points to something inside the box. "i-is that aspirin?"

you frown, stopping the movements. "it is. do you want some?"

"mhm." the russian hums, unable to stop the little tear from rolling down her cheek. with your help, she takes a couple of pills and swallows it with the water you grabbed earlier. "thank you,"

"you're welcome." you murmur back, softly smiling at the sight of Natasha's tender side starting to show up. you continue, applying the ointment on her skin and carefully spreading it.

"i never had this before," Natasha says, almost inaudibly. her head lowers itself to your shoulder, surprising you. "did you know that? because back then, getting hurt was a good thing. they made us believe that, i mean."

you listen to her soft rambling, humming to let her know you heard. you finish wrapping the bandages around her arm and shoulder, and put some band-aids to keep it secure. in response to her leaning against you, you carefully, gently wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

"i'm glad you know that's not true anymore." you comment, and she nods. her lips quiver more. my, she looks so.. broken. and you'd do anything to fix her. at least try. "you can cry, Nat. let your pain out."

she sniffles, her one good arm circling you as she weakly buried her face on your shoulder, allowing the tears to flow freely. her body trembles, so you hold her closer, tighter. your body heat comforts her.

after a while, she certainly doesn't want to talk. her sobs quiet down, and she tries to cuddle up against you. " 'm tired, wanna sleep."

"i know." you say, pressing the back of your hand against her forehead. she surely had a fever. but the aspirin she took before would help, in a few hours. "you can take your rest now."

Natasha whimpers quietly — which was supposed to be a yawn — and allow her eyelids to finally shut. she clings to you tightly, as if genuinely scared you would disappear if she let you go. but you never would.

not after seeing such a thing. she did something major today. and you treasured it with your whole heart. you pressed a kiss on the top of her head and held her — having no idea if the SHIELD spies would come after you. nah, probably not. Natasha knew what she was doing.

[superm4ks]

https://twitter.com/SCUDERIAFEMBOY/status/1807432876402651271?t=zV8VmYFyZj_RxA5tCYpNxQ&s=19

Just like a general f1 question, what do they mean with moving under braking? Is it literally moving while in braking in the car like I'm understanding from what max is saying? I also hear people talking about 'moving in the braking zone' which would imply that there's just an area around a corner that is considered the braking zone in which u can't move? Also, is what max is saying legit lol?

'Braking zone' just the parts of the track where drivers have to slow down to take a corner. So 'moving under braking' refers to suddenly changing ur line after u already started braking. Its seen as something that falls under 'erratic driving'. Like for instance u leave space in the zone, the car behind goes for the overtake and u just suddenly steer to make them yield that corner. Now whats the difference between that and defending ur corner? Good question. Well stewards claim to look to the original line taken by the 2 cars, and whether or not the attacking car was along side the one defending when they moved. If it seems ambiguous thats because it is.

Personally, and mind u this is my opinion, 'moving under braking' is one of those early Verstappen inspired muzzles where u get to throw the book at a driver for hard racing. Its as subjective and reactionary as it gets and usually theres no consensus because the point isnt to have consensus, its to put the penalty over their heads and make the driver in front more inclined to let the other car pass.

The way I c it Lando's attempts to overtake were mostly clumsy and half committed from the middle of the corner and all Max did was either go straight or follow the line he'd already been taking. Thats anything but erratic. About the t3 touch, Max got ten seconds on his head and two penalty points for it. Lando wasnt even penalized for track limits until after he retired and they considered it served. Lando is walking from this wid nothing because he cud not get past Max wid fresher rubber. Thats it. If he wants to put that on Max and act like he was just robbed of something he was entitled to, then perhaps he misunderstood Max as a driver. And f1 as motorsport

[cartermagazine]

Today We Honor Oluale Kossola, Renamed Cudjo Lewis

Zora Neale Hurston tells the story of Cudjo Lewis, who was born Oluale Kossola in what is now the West African country of Benin in her book “Barracoon: The Story of the Last “Black Cargo.”

A member of the Yoruba people, he was only 19 years old when members of the neighboring Dahomian tribe invaded his village, captured him along with others, and marched them to the coast.

There, he and about 120 others were sold into slavery, after the “Act Prohibiting the Importation of Slaves" took effect in 1808 slavery was abolished, and crammed onto the Clotilda, the “last” slave ship to reach the continental United States.

The Clotilda brought its captives to Alabama in 1860, just a year before the outbreak of the Civil War. Even though slavery was legal at that time in the U.S., the international slave trade was not, and hadn’t been for over 50 years. Along with many European nations, the U.S. had outlawed the practice in 1808.

After being abducted from his home, Lewis was forced onto a ship with strangers. The abductees spent several months together during the treacherous passage to the United States, but were then separated in Alabama to go to different owners.

“We very sorry to be parted from one ’nother,” Lewis told Hurston. “We seventy days cross de water from de Affica soil, and now dey part us from one ’nother.”

“Derefore we cry. Our grief so heavy look lak we cain stand it. I think maybe I die in my sleep when I dream about my mama.”

“We doan know why we be bring ’way from our country to work lak dis,” he told Hurston. “Everybody lookee at us strange. We want to talk wid de udder colored folkses but dey doan know whut we say.”

Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered in April 1865, Lewis says that a group of Union soldiers stopped by a boat on which he and other enslaved people were working and told them they were free.

He and a group of 31 other freepeople saved up money to buy land near Mobile, which they called Africatown.

CARTER™️ Magazine

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

so benjamin zephhaniah passed away yesterday.

though id reckon more people might recognise him as jeremiah jesus in peaky blinders, he was also a writer and a dub poet, and he was unquestionably one of the best british poets ever.

i dont want to write like a whole biography for him in this post because other people have done that much better than i can, but instead i just want to recommend his work. he has countless books, plays, poetry collections, albums, etc.

one of my favourite things about his poetry is how accessible it is and how he writes poems the way he speaks them, and in regard to that, i just want to share one of my favourite poems of his, Dis Poetry:

Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots Dis poetry is designed fe rantin Dance hall style, big mouth chanting, Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep Preaching follow me Like yu is blind sheep, Dis poetry is not Party Political Not designed fe dose who are critical. Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed It gets into me dreadlocks It lingers around me head Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike I've tried Shakespeare, respect due dere But did is de stuff I like. Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina book Still dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involved An if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved, I've tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for me So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry, I could try be more personal But you've heard it all before, Pages of written words not needed Brain has many words in store, Yu could call dis poetry Dub Ranting De tongue plays a beat De body starts skanking, Dis poetry is quick an childish Dis poetry is fe de wise an foolish, Anybody can do it fe free, Dis poetry is fe yu an me, Don't stretch yu imagination Dis poetry is fe de good of de Nation, Chant, In de morning I chant In de night I chant In de darkness An under de spotlight, I pass thru University I pass thru Sociology An den I got a dread degree In Dreadfull Ghettology. Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walk An when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk, Dis poetry is wid me, Below me an above, Dis poetry's from inside me It goes to yu WID LUV.

[sneverussape]

walpurgis

another one that's been in my drafts for a while. it's just a lil ficlet so don't expect much hehe

@greens-your-color prompt # 25: DEATH EATER (scenario 1)

summary: a group is taking over the Wizarding World's news by storm and severus is naturally curious

--

“Lily?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard of these? These Knights of Walpurgis?”

Lily turned to look at Severus only to give him a disdainful eyeroll. “What do you want to know about them for?”

“Well, who are they even?” Severus was more than a little curious, but he was also apprehensive.

“Nobody special. They’re just a bunch of people who believe in a load of malarkey.”

Severus frowned. That certainly wasn’t the description he expected. “Malarkey? Like what?”

This time, Lily granted him a heavy sigh from behind the heavy tome she was reading. “Honestly, Severus, you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Prophet. They’re just a group acting grand. Rich tossers who have too much time on their hands.”

“But is it true though, that they have access to hidden magics and things?” Severus felt his fingers itch at the notion. He was already taking advanced lessons in both Potions and Transfiguration, with both Lucius and Andi’s support and none of McGonagall’s and Dumbledore’s knowledge, and he was eager to learn beyond what books held, although he was careful to never share the reason. The few people who mattered would figure it out soon enough, but he avoided voicing it out loud to avoid any pretenses of hope. He was convinced mixing modern medicine and magic was the key to managing or even completely curing his condition altogether. Very few wizards in the past had already done so but they were all at least a century old. He had vowed to himself that he would engage in the same practice to figure out a cure, or at the very least die in the attempt. But he wasn’t going to tell Lily that, of course.

He asked her instead, “Do they know things beyond the books and the stuff they teach us? Like deeper magics? Blood magic?”

“Who told you that?” Lily looked at him this time, a frown twisting her features.

“Lucius,” Severus said before he could even stop himself. When he saw Lily’s expression darken, he caught himself and backtracked. “Not that it means anything, he was just talking shop…keeping me interested throughout lessons. Oh, don't make that face, Lily!”

“You’re fourteen and not living in the Wizarding World, he shouldn’t be telling you that.” Lily had snapped her book shut and was already making her way out of the plush armchair she had settled in. “I’m telling Mum and Dad—”

“No—!” Severus blocked his sister before she could make her way out of their father’s study. This conversation certainly wasn’t going the way he wanted. He had thought it was a simple enough question. “You don’t have to tell them, Lils, c’mon, I was just curious…”

Lily had grown an odd shade of red, as though she was angry. But why? Severus didn’t understand.

“The Knights of Walpurgis,” she spat the name as though it left a bad taste on her tongue, and her voice had dropped down to a hiss, “is a dangerous group, Severus, and you shouldn’t discuss them so casually.”

This time, it was Severus’ turn to frown. He could feel his dreams crumbling to dust before his very eyes. “I thought you said they were just a bunch of tossers. Why are you making it sound like they’re more than that?”

Lily shook her head vehemently. “Forget I said it. Don’t talk about them, Sev. I mean it. Lucius should not be talking about them to you.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Defiance surged within him; Severus had never really liked being told what to do, especially by his sisters. It just wasn’t in his nature. “He’s my tutor, it’s his job to tell me things.”

“Not about this he isn’t! You wouldn’t understand…”

He caught her insinuation immediately and felt his face grow hot. “Because I’m not at Hogwarts, you mean? Or in the Wizarding World? I’m as much a wizard as any of you lot!”

Lily looked as though she had been struck. Her eyes widened comically wide. “That’s not what I meant!” she said, although her expression said otherwise. Lily had always been a terrible liar.

“That’s what you wanted to say,” Severus said, unable to control the bitterness in his tone. “Out with it then, Lils. You probably don’t even see me as one of you, because I don’t go to school in a magical castle and learn amongst giants and goblins and pixies. I probably don't even hold a wand right in your eyes.”

This time, tears welled in Lily’s eyes, crystal against vibrant green. “That’s not true, stop it, Severus! I have never thought that, and I never will!”

His chest had grown tight and Severus felt like crying himself. He knew Lily wasn’t trying to be mean, but somehow he also couldn’t help but feel the stab of self-pity that came at his own accusation. If his own sister thought he was beneath knowing something that was apparently commonplace news in the Wizarding World, what did the other kids think? Did they think he was some sort of…some sort of second-rate freak? Did Lily?

Severus tilted his chin up as he sniffed. He looked down at Lily with what he hoped was an imperious glare as he said, “Forget I asked. I shan’t bother you about it again.”

He stood and turned to stomp out of the room, tuning out Lily calling out to him. He shouldn’t have asked her. He shouldn’t have asked any of them. He should have just asked Lucius. Lucius would know. Lucius always answered his questions. Lucius wouldn’t think he was a freak.

As he walked away, Severus unconsciously scrubbed at the tears that were gathering at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve.

[rael-f-wae]

This was ever Brutax’ problem: ere he chase murloc or goblin, the quickly creatures run away. Brutax isn't fast enough, or they are made of quicker stuff. "Still and still," Brutax nod -- "They leaved the place where they had trod -- now Brutax trod upon their sod." Their eggy eggs, or goblin nuts, Brutax entered and ate up. So, biteless, Brutax had orc's fill, and marched home, grim grum gruff and satisfied -- for eggless murlocs, woe betide -- thinked he, "Na busy laying -- na more good hogs will be taken." But saw he saw, a-coming back, an old strange shaman in his shack. "I hope he not much hungry, he -- not much in Brutax' shack there be." But he had come on stranger searching. He had tasteth eerie sign, and needed orc of constant mind, who disdained them fools full-pursed and had him ax of mighty girth. An orc, who honest watcher be, who could turn a watch with he, so neither would be sleeping never and a watch would keepeth ever -- long as it musteth be, long as he wid crack in earth or air, an all-removed something there, which itched his wid like nothing else. Such an orc -- so Brutax was -- He grabbed all three goodest axes, all his hogskins, and dried cactus in with fat of pork bepounded. He filled up his sixteen bladders with rooty cactus cider gruff, strapt ax-o-grim on adder belt, strapt rest of axes to hog-pack, which, made of quite colossal swine, even when well full of stone Brutax could well bear alone. Strapt him hobs on, him ruddy toughest, and his second in the pig stuft. Lastly in, his sharpening stone, with which Brutax always at home. Brutax a-cast a grimmer face, and casted sand on his hearth-place. Off in the night, the two were led by shaman's torch, a-burning red. "Mighty big day," Brutax said to me one day from on his mat. Brutax is not big for jawing but sometimes in his sleep be talking. So sometimes I do sit I there, see him dream of boar or bear, and listen for what he grumbleth out -- though that I could sleep, I do doubt -- that's how this book doth come about. Quickly through the dark did lead that shaman's torch that Brutax heed to where the shaman tied his steed, a boary boar-o-boar so big that never the like had Brutax wid. Brutax and boar eyed him each other -- Brutax a-grimmed, and that boar snuffed -- for both were gruff and grimsome creatures -- that grum shaman his old rod tapped -- that grim boar snuffed, quick-turned his back, stood gruffly snouty, in his pride, and Brutax, hesitant, did him bide, and grim-regard his scarry hide. Good he was tied far away from where his juicy cactus lay. That shaman tapped his rod again, and the boar sat down so that the shaman could grip upon his back. For one a good boar must strong hold -- Rushy creatures, good in tunnels, but best for those with good strong stomachs. The shaman must have a fine hair tugged, for off and off that boar did dust kick up and up from busted crust as zig-zag-yackward he did rush -- Brutax eyed the shaman's light, and it before too long stood still, far O far on yonder hill. Brutax well he knew the way -- it was straight across the clay -- thus far, thus far, anyway -- Brutax make yon hill by morning, but much further, he had not been.

[royalcaredisabilitiesservices]

The Benefits of NDIS Community Support

The National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) offers participants a variety of community access activities to help them build relationships and increase their confidence. These activities are also a great way to get involved in recreational and social events.

NDIS community participation supports can be included in your Core Support budget or as a capacity building support. They can be used to pay for activities that help you learn new skills.

Increased social and community participation

Community participation in NDIS services can help participants build trust and a sense of belonging. These activities promote social interaction and offer a variety of benefits, including increased self-confidence and improved health outcomes. They also help people develop more meaningful relationships with their family members and peers. This is especially true if families are involved in the process of planning and implementation. Moreover, they can share their thoughts and opinions with other stakeholders.

The NDIS offers many different support items to help with increasing community participation, including Core Supports and Capacity Building. These supports can be used to pay for a range of activities, such as art classes, sports coaching, and vacation activities. However, it is important to note that the activities must be reasonable and necessary, and must align with your NDIS plan goals.

Choosing the right community participation services is crucial for your well-being and quality of life. If you are unsure what is covered under your NDIS plan, talk to your local area coordinator (LAC), NDIS planner, or psychosocial recovery coach for more information.

Person-centered planning

Person-centered planning through NDIS community support involves exploring the unique goals and interests of participants. This can help them develop a positive vision for the future and identify their strengths and preferences. It can also encourage the development of social networks and relationships. This approach is a crucial part of ensuring that NDIS services meet the individual’s needs.

During the process, participants should involve their family members and friends in person-centered planning, even if they are not legally authorized to make decisions for them. The NDIS should also provide training and resources for family members and carers to help them navigate the complex process.

The NDIS provides a range of community participation supports for people with disability, including physical spaces, cultural activities and digital platforms. These can promote inclusion and diversity in local communities. They can also boost confidence and build new skills. In addition, they can connect people with local communities and encourage them to explore their interests.

Access to community services

NDIS community support aims to help people with disability participate in activities in their local communities. This can range from recreational pursuits such as sports or art classes to social activities such as attending an event with friends. These activities can boost a participant’s self-esteem and improve their wellbeing.

Community participation support is currently provided through the NDIS’s Navigation

Function, but we have heard from participants and their families that this is inadequate for navigating complex service systems. NDIS’s local community engagement teams prioritize information sharing and active listening, with gathered feedback feeding into ongoing Scheme improvement projects.

It’s important to choose a community support provider that shares your interests and can connect you with others who share those same interests. This way, you can have fun and feel more connected with your community. To get started, check out Mable, where you can book a support worker who shares your passions. It’s also a great place to find someone who is reliable and can help you achieve your goals.

Support items

The NDIS funds a wide range of support items. These include daily living support, core supports, and capacity building supports. These support items can help participants navigate the NDIS system and develop their self-advocacy skills. This is important because the NDIS requires participants to be able to advocate for their own needs.

NDIS payments are made against a set of support item numbers, which can be found in the NDIS Pricing Arrangements and Price Limits and the NDIS Support Catalogue. Providers must claim payments against the correct item number, which accurately reflects the service they are providing. If a participant has their funding managed by a plan manager, they can assist with selecting the right line item, which aligns with their services and goals.

Support items with a Custom Price can be added to the NDIS Direct Client Funding record using the Add a new Support Item form. When this is done, the Custom Price will appear in the NDIS Support Allocations in Activities report for all future allocations of that Support Item.

[memurfevur-archive]

A text from Nix: "Hey Dez, I think there's some stuff that me, you, and Crimew need to probably talk about. Are you free?"

"OH ZHIT. OKAY DEZ, PLAY IT COOL."

NO. IM TOTALLY BOOKED, YA KNOW, WHAT WID LIVING INZIDE AN IZOLATED VOLCANO IN DE MIDDLE OF NO WHERE. MY BUZINEZZ IZ JUZT TOO HOT, NIX, GOTTA MAKE AN APPOINTMENT. >:P

[the-everlasting-downpour]

VI. – Gordian Naught.

The subway, on the Treeangle platform, was empty and cool. Rare people and shapes walked around the platform, looking at the beautiful deep bas-reliefs with folkloric stories, throwing coins or putting bills in mugs, hats, containers to the beggars who, huddled against the walls, stood on the stairs, and the street performers who created a cheerful, joyful or melancholy, sad atmosphere; rare people and shapes sat and stood, eating, drinking, sleeping, talking, reading printed books and articles on the phone – rare people and shapes spent their time waiting and relaxing.

But in the tunnels, from which the invisible tracks stretched, cutting through the standing iron air and impenetrable blackness, the underground worm trains raced, delivering carloads full of passengers. There, seated and standing, cramped, leaning against each other, existed a shapeless huddle waiting to arrive on the platform. The single chest of the whole huddle rose and fell gesturally, not allowing fresh air to circulate, and it was unbearably hot and stuffy in the carriages – comparable to M.'s August trip.

He sat dressed in high boots, an unbuttoned jacket, a white shirt, and pants clinging to his body. At his feet was a roomy bag containing many new things from Nördpeak – he wanted to remember the city more often. Beside him, leaning against his shoulder, Marci was breathing, quetly softly – she was asleep, dressed in a down jacket, jeans, and fleece boots, a bag at her feet, too, with everything she could take from Nördpeak.

His eyes were running, his trembling fingers were tingling, his heart was pounding hard in the chest – M. was nervous, but it was not visible. Thoughts were running through his head, and it was a strange sensation, for M. had never felt this way before. Trying to calm himself, he breathed measuredly, found points of interest in people, and occasionally glanced at Marci. The flame of her head bobbed gently in time with her movements, sometimes touching M.'s cheek. He held her to him, wrapping his right arm around her back; his left hand was in his pocket, fumbling for the cold, invigorating metal. Soon his heart stopped burning his chest from the inside with its bright flame, and his thoughts stopped running in the endless space of his mind, and M. almost immediately began to arrange everything in its place.

But then the train began to slow down, and soon the platform appeared. M. sighed, woke Marci up with a slight movement, and stood up with her and threw the bags over her shoulders. In the crowd, in these unfamiliar jackets and faces, in this tense silence, a feeling comparable to claustrophobia to leave this space, this stuffiness, this anthropocentric heat – M. felt and saw it, because it is impossible not to notice this invisible smoke of seething desire.

The train stopped and opened its doors. A moment after, the crowd poured out, joining together in a huge layer of unfinished lives, in this river, drawing in all the tired passengers-it, this river, seemed endless. M. and Marci also entered it, with a single desire: to leave the subway and go out into the street, to breathe in the cold of the capital. Beyond this desire, however, M. had a purpose.

Spotting the right coat shake among the people, M. grabbed the leather hilt. Step by step in the slow crowd, he moved closer and closer, and when the distance between them was gone, when the whole crowd seemed frozen by a thousand colorful statues-when no one saw or understood anything, M. plunged the knife into his neck.

The knife blade went in softly, piercing the skin like some hidden fruit. Pulling out the knife, M. let out a few drops of blood, they fell somewhere on the floor. The man, fatally wounded, dropped his body on the cold platform and tried to cover the wound with his hands, but even through his hands the blood from the punctured arteries and veins, from the cut muscles, beat with every beat of his fast, cooling heart. When he opened his eyes wide, he saw the walls collapse, the ceiling above opening – and he saw God extending his hand, calling after him.

M. grabbed Marci's hand and hurried with her to the surface. They did not go up the escalator, which was very slow, but ran. Very quickly they left the station without turning around, and just as quickly they went out into the street, where snow was falling heavily, where in the distance the street lamps glowed with cold light, where people walked in down jackets and coats, where the sky was black and endless – where it was winter and where the time was only 2:59 AM. Hurrying through the canvas of snowfall, not trying to reach the distant black sky that didn't even have the moon on it, they quickly turned one of the corners.

There, hiding from the unknown, M. peeked out from around the corner periodically. When something came out of the station building, walked across the square in front of him, when that something began to look for him, M. put his bag aside and began to take off his jacket. Marci, who had little understanding up to that point, at first decided not to interfere, but then said

— It's cold outside! Are you trying to get sick?

— That's not the point, dear, – M. said.

M. turned around and handed her his jacket. When he turned back to look out into the street, she saw a carbine – a simple AR15 rifle, with a magazine inserted, with a vertical rubberized handle and a flash hider – hanging behind his back. Her heart skipped a beat, she took a few steps back; unrecognizable terror began slowly bubbling up in her head. M., however, without noticing, took a step away from the edge himself, pulled the rifle from behind his back, checked the chamber and was ready to engage into the battle, but before he left, he turned to Marci and said:

— Everything is going to be okay.

He came out from around the corner. A second later a succession of measured shots rang out, loud as the echo of thunder on a black day. Marci covered the places where her invisible ears were and squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to hear what was going on right around the corner in front of her. Various scenes were drawn in her mind that included the brutal massacres of M. and of her, the scenes changing, as if lost in some dance of thoughts, and everything that presented itself to her closed eyes, to her girlish gaze, for a split second, made her want to scream – so that everyone could hear it.

The gunshots had stopped for about ten seconds, but Marci continued to keep her ears and eyes closed. M. contemplated the murder scene – four men in black military uniforms, blood pouring out of each, staining the snow maroon, each with a pair of holes in his head, the exit of which had massive injuries, bits of brain and skull torn out. Convinced that the bullet that had gone through the last mercenary's head had finally taken his life, he returned as quickly as possible to the corner.

When he returned there, he saw Marci huddled in the corner, her eyes squeezed shut and her ears closed. She was scared – she was even shaking slightly; tears were almost beginning to flow from her closed eyes. M. put the rifle on the safety, shoved it behind his back, walked over to Marci, and put his hand on her head. The flame of her head went in between the fingers. She opened her eyes and saw the familiar beard and long hair – her joy was disproportionate, but M. stopped her.

— We have ten minutes, – he said, – before things go much worse. Hand me my coat.

Marci faithfully handed him his outer garment. Slipping his hands through the wide sleeves, M. hung the bag on his shoulder and, holding Marci's hand, left the scene as quickly as possible.

Monday was difficult for everyone – for the workers, for the unemployed, for the trainees and the trainers. There was a perpetually tense atmosphere in the TSC, as if someone had strung an invisible string so tight that one touch would start an eruption of emotions, a torrent of seething feelings and boiling thoughts. The students walked along this string, stretched on every floor, trying not to touch it, knowing that an Armageddon of universal proportions was about to begin.

For Amin, Monday was a particularly difficult one. It was his last lecture of the day, where he spent the rest of his energy trying to nicely explain the «mess of the nineties», although knowing that not many people really cared. After all, they did not live when there were mafias, OCG, PMCs and other organizations, the foundation of which was the elimination of unnecessary and interfering with the receipt and laundering of money by all means. He knew that this was not the end, because after the lecture he always had to fill out the logbook, work with debtors and other things.

At one point, however, his speech was interrupted by a phone call – not from the amphitheater, but his phone, in his department. He walked over, picked up the phone, looked at the caller. His heart skipped a beat at the name, but after informing the students to sit quietly while he was gone and stepping out of the auditorium, he still took the incoming call and put the phone to his ear.

— Yes? – Cudda asked.

— Greetings, my friend, – the man on the other side said. – How are things at the TCS?

— Same as usual, – replied Cudda nonchalantly. – Routine. Why are you calling me?

— I want for you to do me a favor... – the man on the other side said. These words were followed by a succession of terms familiar to Amin, terms used to disguise the state of affairs. The man on the other side spoke for about a minute, and then, as he finished his monologue with a question to Amin, he heard the answer:

— Look, I told you I'm out of business, alright? If you had called me a couple of years ago, I would have said «yes», but the times are now different and...

— I understand what you're saying, Amin, – the man on the other side said. For a moment he sounded as if he really empathized with him. – But I have no other choice. I cannot use my assets, for they are either dead, or have never worked in such serious operations, or are not conscious and competent enough. You are my only chance, Amin. I’ll make it worth your trouble. Ask me anything of your desires.

— Anything of what I desire? – Amin asked; there was a spark in his eye.

— Anything of your desires, – the man on the other side replied.

— I desire for you to fuck off, once and for all. I said, like a man to a man, that I am out of this shit.

The man on the other side hung up. With a strange peace of mind, Amin put the phone back in his pocket and returned to the classroom, where there was a truly soothing silence.

As Amin thought, that would be the end of it – that brief call, lasting a minute and a half, in which he dotted all the I’s for whoever was calling him. In the car he didn't think about the past call, finally leaving the worries of his former self behind – the kind of self that, for a good price, ended the life of someone who gets in the way and sticks in the wheels of someone else's friendly business.

Arriving in his bedroom neighborhood, Amin pulled over in a vacant spot by the curb and shut off the engine. His eyes were slipping and his body, already used to the seat, didn't want to get out of the car and walk up to that apartment building on the right, with only a heavy entrance door visible. But he, perked up, opened the door and left the car; walking around it, Amin moved toward the heavy entrance door, pressing the door-lock button on the car keys at the same time. When he reached the door, he opened it with a slight gesture and stepped inside.

The entrance was cold. The stairs went twenty-six floors above, identical to this floors – the first floor. The elevator did not work as usual – the cab's cables had torn and the cab had fallen down into the deep blackness. The light bulbs hanging from the ceiling burned dimly, warmly but lifelessly, calling after them. Amin walked up the stairs, shuffling his feet, dragging his feet heavy on the steps.

When he reached the fourth floor, greeted by the number «4» kindly scrawled with black paint, he walked to the black metal door, which gleamed faintly under the dim light. With a familiar gesture he fumbled for the keys in his jacket pocket, pulled them out, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of the past day – first a dilemma with one of the students in the morning, then some problems in the afternoon, and after that, the clingy but damnably attractive Vice Principal of some part trying to get him to come to her place for the evening. To get rid of them, Amin, who had already taken off and thrown his white shirt on the sofa, went to the kitchen, where he pulled out a cognac and a glass from a special shelf. He poured himself a full one, drank it in a gulp, and then poured another, but took it with him into the study.

There he sat down in a comfortable chair, looking at the things on the table and at the pictures and awards on the walls, drank some cognac, put the glass on the table and got to work. An hour had passed, and most of the documents had already been dealt with, but Amin felt sleepy – the distant northern fields called out to him, the beautiful shores suggested he lie down by the ocean and leave all his worries here in the real world. He didn't give in for a long time, but he soon bowed his head.

He was awakened by the vibration of the front door opening.

Amin woke up abruptly, as if he hadn't slept at all, as if he'd just closed his eyes for a few minutes. The clock read 2:32 AM. The cognac had long since evaporated, but my senses and feelings remained sharp. From the living room, through the ajar door, came the sound of slow walking. Sensing that a battle was imminent, Amin opened his desk drawer, drew his revolver, checked its cylinder and rose from the table.

He walked slowly to the door and stood on the hinge side of it, leaning against the wall – that way he would not be spotted before the needed moment. Now it was only a matter of time before someone showed up here, but for now Amin tried to calm his mind lest he make some fatal mistake that might draw the government agencies here. The curtains fluttered gently in the night wind, the office was eerily cold, and Amin's body sometimes shook under its influence.

The door opened slowly, and a black-clad shape stepped inside. The uniform was familiar to Amin – he'd seen rows of it, seen the faces of those who wore it – an absolute lifeless something, capable only of killing for a token fee, for the rest didn't really care. The shape lowered its weapon, leveled itself and began to look around at the table, which was piled high with various documents from the TSC. Meanwhile, Amin, aiming for the shapes’ head, slowly walked over and put the gun to the back of its head.

The shape slowly raised its hands. Barely turning its head, it saw the target, the one who was now holding it at gunpoint. Amin put his finger to his mouth, telling the shape to be quiet, and then pointed to the floor; the shape quickly understood and began to sink to the ground, but as it knelt, Amin hit it in the neck with the hilt, knocking the shape out. The body fell to the ground with a deafening thud. Amin took his rifle off the body and left the office. In the corridor, on his way back to the living room, walked a similarly clad agent – he was shot in the back of the head and taken off at once. Though the rifle was fitted with a silencer, the shot still rang out under the arches, complete with the falling shell on the laminate flooring. Sounds were heard in the living room, and then Amin decided on a crazy prank: he accelerated, jumped from the corridor, turning on his back, and, upon landing, completed the lives of two agents.

Those bodies fell with a rumble comparable to the fall of a stack of books, where all the books fell at the same time. Blood, the black substance of life, poured onto the parquet flooring. Amin's back didn't appreciate the prank, but he got up through the pain. Trying not to step in the pools of blood, he disarmed the dead men and stacked all their weapons in his storeroom. As the last gun disappeared into the blackness, he went back into the living room and began to think about what to do next.

The right idea came only after ten minutes of sitting on the couch with his hands clasped together and his elbows pushing into thighs. He found a bundle of big black trash bags and tried to improvise on the theme of body bags, hiding the bodies on both sides with those trash bags and wrapping a hiking rope in the middle to fixate the structure. After tying the last corpse, he began dragging them outside, where he placed them in the trunk of the car.

The total weight of the dead mercenaries was enough to make the car sag in the rear wheels. After closing the trunk, Amin got behind the wheel, looked around, started the car, and drove out of town.

It was 3:08 AM on the clock. Amin's face looked utterly lifeless. His hands rested weakly on the steering wheel, the sound of the calm ocean coming in through the open window before his blank gaze, watching the waves, glistening in the headlights, rise and fall sharply near the shore. He didn't want to get up at all – just as at his house, just as he had wanted to collapse on the steering wheel late that night and relax completely so he wouldn't have to think about anything. But the weight behind him, floating in his head, made him wake up, open the door, and leave the car.

Walking around the car, he went to the trunk and, reluctantly, opened it. Four corpses, wrapped in small bags on both sides and wrapped with twine in the middle, lay in the dim light of the only light bulb in the trunk. Slipping his hands under the uppermost corpse, Amin pulled it out, walked with it to the beach, and laid it on the cold sand. He did the same procedure with the other corpses.

The ocean became more turbulent, and that meant something – some message of bad news, like oranges in an old movie, but Amin did not give it much meaning or pay much attention to it, for he was too tired and his mind was empty. After looking at the black surface of the water, at the sky, just as black and indivisible from the ocean, Amin returned to his car.

There, pulling an empty bottle and a clear silicone tube from the passenger compartment, he closed the door and opened the gas tank. The tube went inside; Amin sucked the air until he could taste the gasoline – then he took the tube out of his mouth and shoved it into the bottle, and spat the gasoline out as best he could. After filling the bottle, Amin pulled the tube out of the gas tank and closed it.

Amin, after looking at the flammable liquid, screwed the bottle cap back on, got up, and moved toward the corpses. They were still lying there, each in its own place. The ocean was raging furiously, and the sky seemed blacker than usual. Opening the bottle, he doused all the black makeshift bags, covered with a quality rope in the middle, with gasoline. Discarding the empty bottle, already good for only one thing, he set the corpses on fire.

Bright flames in the night illuminated the large space around them. Up soon pulled acrid black smoke, invisible in the night. Amin doesn't know how long it will last, but he is willing to stick around to get rid of the bodies as quickly as possible. He watched and watched the plastic die, and then returned to his car to work out a plan. There, reclining in his chair, he fell asleep again.

The time was 6:57 AM. It was already slowly dawning, and in the dim light one could see the scene of the next crime. Amin reluctantly left the car and moved toward the burn site, where only bones and other unburned items remained. He rushed to the car for a bag and gloves, gathered up the remains, wiped up the sand, picked up the bottle he had left behind, and put it all in the trunk and drove home, back to the city.

The diner chosen as the meeting place was quite noisy, which was quite reassuring – no one would hear what Amin was about to offer him. There was a line at the cash registers and interactive monitors; not far away there was a group of people waiting for orders placed on their smartphones. People were eating and drinking and talking noisily, and the kitchen was flooded with sounds ranging from sizzling butter to the electronic sounds of some kind of notification.

Amin walked past the people like a ghost and sat down at an empty table. Looking at the time on the clock, he waited. In the atmosphere of the commotion, Amin and his empty table were like a bastion of salvation from a sonic headache. Amin himself didn't know much about such concepts, though he was interested in philosophy and everything around it. He had an idea in his head to ask a man about the best philosopher to begin with, but it had been stuck in his head for months.

He hasn't been able to sleep for three days. For the third twenty-four hours he had been losing his senses, waking up to some strange sound coming from the living room or from his office, where the doors were open. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he fell asleep – every time in the blackness of his unstable mind he always heard a familiar phrase, uttered by a voice he had long ago heard on the other side of invisible radio waves from afar:

— There is no room for two of us here, my friend.

And each time he wakes up, as if from some terrible nightmare. His body goes numb, but his mind doesn't draw any images, so it's not sleep paralysis-it can't be sleep paralysis if his very cortex is affected. He went to psychotherapists, but they could not give an intelligible answer, for they themselves were afraid of giving the wrong diagnosis, which would make Amin suffer even more. The only thing Amin could do was to be patient.

For the third day now, he drank coffee in the morning. This was the third day he was confused about things. For the third twenty-four hours now, he can't get a single lecture right. He's nervous for no reason, constantly looking back and forth at the closed door of the auditorium or at his students. He can't keep in contact with his loved ones and colleagues. He cannot concentrate on his work even at home, where a revolver lies in his desk in his office, seemingly the possible outcome of all that is going on. The only thing Amin could do was to be patient and hopeful.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by what he saw: a man entered the diner and walked slowly along the tables, looking around at the people around him. That man was familiar to him – the uniform, the way he walked, that nervous and devastated look, behind which there seemed to be nothing. Maxim was already fifth day drinking vodka in the morning, on the instruction of his brother Igor, and tenth – missing lectures in the agony of his own consciousness.

When he saw Amin, he greeted him by the hand and sat down in front of him. The general noise of the eatery allowed him to talk about anything his soul desired, be it forbidden fruits, novelties in art or nationalist movements.

— You are capable of lockpicking, are you? – he asked.

Maxim was taken aback, his pupils narrowed.

— Yes, I am, – he answered, a little nervously. – Why’re you asking?

— Here's the deal, – he began. – I need you to come with me to one place and pick the lock to one apartment. Simple, straightforward.

Maxim looked out the window to the outside, where he saw only cars and people unaware of what was going on inside, then turned his gaze toward the rest of the diner, where there was its own bubbling oily life. Realizing he had no way out, he twitched, folded his hand over his arm, and asked:

— Going back into the business?

— I found out that there was no point running from it, – Amin said. – So I decided to end it, once and for all.

Maxim was silent for a few seconds.

— And what I’ll get out of it? – he asked mercantly.

— Cash, – Amin said. – And I'll save you from the trouble in the college. Does that sound good?

Maxim was silent for a few more seconds. His nervous mind tried to properly process all the possible outcomes, but the words about money and solved problems overshadowed the process.

— It does, – he replied.

— Good. Do you have the right tools now?

— Of course I do.

— Then let's get moving, – Amin said and got up from the table.

They left the establishment. The hubbub continued as if they weren't there.

A huge bedroom community on the south side of the capital greeted another black car in a row of similar cars. Amin and Maxim left the car and looked around-it was exactly where they needed to go. Checking the maps on his phone, Cudda immediately went in the right direction, and Max had only to keep up with his fast, long-legged walk.

These residential neighborhoods are no different, and Max and Amin understand that. The same buildings, the same playgrounds and nearby parks, the same independent publishing houses, music labels, studios, micro-print shops, and other things related to culture and the arts, set up in the same apartments, with the same people who go to the same jobs and drink the same beer in the same eateries – simply put, the south is not and never will be different from all the parts of the capital named after the sides of the world. The wheel of routine has closed, and people have no choice but to live and suffer in it, trying to untie the noose around their necks and wondering whether it is worth breaking or tightening the knot.

Amin and Max had reached their goal. A huge, typical twenty-seven-story building towered as a ziggurat of northern urbanism and metropolitan Soviet brutalism. It was digging its roof into the sky like teeth, trying to tear it as the blunt obsidian needles of skyscrapers tried to do. Hurrying as fast as they could, but keeping a slow, pedestrian pace, Cudda and Maxim entered this building, climbed to the first floor level, walked to the elevator, and took it up to the sixth floor.

There, they stood at one of the doors they needed. It was no different from the door on the right and the door on the left (it was meant to be), but for Amin it was special – behind it was something that would start a new milestone in his life.

— This door, – Amin said.

Max nodded, sat down by the lock, pulled out his tools, and began to crack it. Meanwhile, Amin, with a glance at the empty staircase behind him, pulled a revolver from a holster inside his coat. Checking the cylinder, he stood against the wall and waited.

— What kind of revolver? – Max asked, continuing to hack away.

— Taurus Raging Judge, – Amin answered. – .454 Casull.

— The biggest gun? – Max asked, standing up and looking at Amin with a smile.

— I don't think it's the biggest, but it's powerful – and that's enough.

Max stepped back and gestured for him to come inside.

— Is it over already? – Amin asked Amin a little surprised.

— Yes, – Max answered. – Though I took them out one by one, it was quick. The locks are from honest people, in the end.

Amin thanked Max and sent him downstairs. Max, though he had a seething desire to go inside (he also had a weapon with him), he wished him luck, got into the elevator he had called and headed for home.

Amin pulled the trigger, opened the door, and took aim at the dark hallway. He went inside, locked the door, and walked deep into the apartment. The lights were off everywhere, the windows, still with their curtains drawn, were black with deep evening darkness. Nothing of interest was found in the kitchen, nor in the living room – there was a closed bottle of milk on the coffee table, and Amin, guided by a strange feeling, put it back into the refrigerator, which had quite a lot of different food in it.

Upon entering the room, the first thing Amin noticed about the room was the decorations. On the wall on the left was a black painting, either a still life or some kind of night landscape, or something Amin could not understand. The bed was cleaned as if it had never been slept on before; the closet was also clean – evidently the man who lived here was not in a hurry to get anywhere in life. By the right wall was a desk with a computer, over which there were shelves. The window, also uncovered with curtains, showed only blackness.

Amin walked over to the desk, opened its first drawer, and saw a stack of different documents. Confident of his long loneliness, he pulled out the stack and began to sort through it. Most of them were various reports, some manuscripts (a novice writer?), drawings, made with a fountain-pen in the hand of an obvious amateur – the highest skill was not noticed. There was nothing in this stack that I needed, so Amin returned it in its original form, closed the first drawer, opened the second drawer and took the stack out of there. All the documents and folders were mostly just paperwork, so Amin, with little hope, put the stack back and opened the third drawer.

There, under all the documents, lay a folder. It was hard, cardboard, black, and had "Golden Wing" written in white marker. This interested Amin, though there were two opinions in his mind: one – knowing already that there were manuscripts among the folders, this folder could be the same manuscript, and two – perhaps this was exactly what Amin was looking for. A sense of curiosity overcame him, and he opened this folder.

The reports, in veiled language concealing the fact of various horrible deeds, caught Amin's attention from the first lines. He read the lines and tried to find the meaning between them, turning the pages carefully, so as not to let his thoughts on the other side of the sheet break off. All that he learned from this one folder was enough to start a full-scale war.

He left the folder on the table, took the revolver in his hand, and sat down on the bed. Now he had to wait for the target to show up. And while she wasn't here yet, Amin thought – hard and hard. The information in the folder was not systematic – the dates on one page were not connected in chronology to another, and the reports themselves, which stretched only a couple of pages, were not linked in style: one was a listing, another was a description, and a third was a mixture of both. From the material received, a full picture emerged in Amin's mind, the starting point of which was in the nineties, even before the Las Void Independency Conflict.

The door opened ajar, and a shape stood in the doorway. A young guy, dressed in a sweatshirt, jeans, and high army boots. It was Yen, just the man Amin needed. Looking up and seeing him, Cudda stood up.

— Don't tell me anything, – Yen said, rather menacingly. – For what you came here, what you found and appropriated – I know all of it. Too bad, you've come a long way purely to come in for a disappointment.

— Why’s that? – asked Amin.

— I am a mediator in my brother's affairs. He entrusted the capital to me, not knowing what the fuck was going on in here. Apparently, he'll know now.

— Elaborate.

— My death won't do you any good, – Yen said. – What's more, it'll justify your death. There's no point in killing me, I could just go home.

— You could, – Amin said.

— And I’ll make it worth your while, – Yen continued. – The folder and what I know, but it's not written down anywhere, will be in your pocket. And the war you're planning will only last a few days.

— Hm. The human element, – Amin hinted.

Yen was silent, looked away, pondering his answer, and then continued:

— Do you think I would betray you?

— Of course, – said Amin. – You Russians only know how to do that. You sell weapons to some people, and then those same people die with those same weapons in the hands of other people. It all depends on the size of the fee. No more than that.

— Come on, – Yen said, smiling. – You really think I don’t get shit to do?

— That's not the point, – Amin said. – I've got a personal score to settle, and the list starts with you. The best thing you could do, Yen, is admit your defeat and think of the smile you'll give Yastreb in heaven.

Yen looked away for a moment, then glanced at Amin sideways and said:

— You go to hell, you fucking vigilante.

Amin didn't respond. Yen put his hand behind his back.

— You and Yastreb are not much different from each other, you know that? – Yen said. – I would ask you to leave me alone, but... you have your own plans. And so do I.

Everything happened in the span of four seconds. Yen pulled a gun from behind his groove and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit Amin in the stomach. With his back against the wall, he took aim and shot at Yen's head, whose body fell deafeningly to the parquet floor.

Amin took the folder and left the room. Walking out into the living room, he left the folder and revolver on the table and removed his pierced coat and shirt. Blood kept gushing out, no matter how much Amin clamped the wound on his skinny body. He went into the bathroom, and there he began the healing process. First he rinsed the wound. Then he used forceps to remove the bullet and most of the splinters. After that, he took an anesthetic found in a cabinet behind the mirror; there he also found bandages – first he applied a pad soaked in medical alcohol to the wound, and then he bandaged the wound tightly, in several layers.

While self-medicating, Amin felt different types of pain. They were sharp, aching, flaring, and slow. One pain, however, remained in his head, even after all the processes, even after all the pangs of pain remained only a nagging, unpleasant, but not interfering pain – it was pain for his loved ones. He knew what he was getting into, he knew it would start a series of events little controlled, but did it stop him? No.

His clouded mind prevented him from seeing the full picture. Not only is he reprisal for those who were once his friend or colleague, directly or indirectly related to the hotbed of all trouble – he is also trying to get his friends out of the same trouble. In his lucid mind, having learned this, he wanted only to score everything and let the unchanging Death come earlier by a few decades, but now he sees a unique opportunity to solve everything and at once – by their actions he and his friends can give a push to the state machine, which will purge its insides of the state apparatus and the body of the country from OCG, PMC, mafia and other organizations, in the pillars of which lies death and money.

With a little weakness in his body, he returned to Yen’s room, where he found a clean T-shirt. It proved to fit his lean body, and he slipped into it without any problem. In the closet he also found a black blazer, whose color was familiar to him. He put it on, too – the jacket was smaller, but that didn't stop him. Stepping over the dead corpse, which had already, for the third time, he took the folder, the revolver, his blood-stained clothes, and left the apartment.

— Boss, I have some bad news.

— What is it?

— The mission to intercept the target in the subway has failed – the target has been killed.

— What?! By who?!

— We don't know. The man acted professionally, killed with a precise hit of a thick knife in the neck. The man also shot an interception team of four – all with bullet holes in their heads and necks.

— So...

— In addition, the murder of Cudda Amin, our former colleague, was also botched. The team that went to his apartment never returned. No bodies, no identifying marks of any kind were found. It was also recently reported that Yastreb’s brother, Yen, had been killed in his own apartment – most likely by Amin.

— Good God... Okay, how many of us are left?

— According to the last census, there are... fifty-two people. Minus a group of six on special assignment. Minus eight men lost. That's not good.

— I know... All right, we'll make it out. Go... For fuck’s sake, where's my phone...?

...

— What do you want?

— I have a business proposition for you, Nechayev.

— Make it quick.

— I need your people.

— Oh. Alright. You’ll get them, but I know, that it means armed conflicts. And if that’s true, then it's on my terms.

— ...Alright. I’m listening.

— Among your company is creating a division of Neo-Spartans, commanded by me and me alone. Your role is to supply the division with equipment, weapons, and a month's pay. I hope I'm speaking in a language you understand.

— Look, who are you talking to right now?

— I am talking to a fucking psycho who wants to completely destroy the country by taking over the capital in order to take over everything so he can feel like... I don't know, like Putin. That's not gonna fly, buddy. These are my people. This is my responsibility. Do you understand?

— ...Understood.

— That's good! Tomorrow, in the center of the capital, at six in the evening, we'll discuss all the details.

— All right... You… bloody bastard, Nechayev... Whatever, I’ll make it count.

do not fret, my dearest friend as the serpent coils around your neck. while you are asleep, it tightens it's grip, so you wouldn't see the blood, so you wouldn't see the casings, so you wouldn't see the bullets fly, so you wouldn't see the bodies drop, so you wouldn't have to live through these maliceful days, so you wouldn't watch the death take its pay again.

To the Table of Contents. / To Ch. V. / To Ch. VII.

[catchmewiddershins]

ahh ok ok, it's good !! i'm only halfway thru but mAN, i'm hooked HAHA, and abt the type, mmm i don't really have a preference tbh, i just take a look at the blurb and if it's interesting to me, then i send a message to my mom n she decided whether to buy it or not

as for recs, i've only gotten into reading recently, but i have a few that i've been wanting to read

- agatha christie seems to be pretty popular, and i think she writes on horror, so i'll look into that

- there's also this guy, anthony horowitz, and i'm very interested in reading a book of his, the word is murder (it's out of stock on our local bookstore, so i'm just waiting on it)

- one of us is lying and one of us is next is popular with my friends and classmates, so i'm interested in it as well

but do you have any book recs? i'd like to get more into it, but i haven't been able to find a lot of good ones ; i dont mind the genre, i just get at what seems interesting to me, so feel free to drop your favorites :D

HMMMM IMMA CHECK THAT ONE OUT :DD

ok so what you got sounds good I'll give you some basic recs because I want to explore the genre a bit more myself lol (my sister also really wants to read One of us is Lying lol)

Classics (not old but like... famous):

- an Inspector Calls - a play that's quite famous, it's a script so it's all dialogue and the story is revealed through an interrogation it's a classic for a reason :) - An inspector comes to the house of a rich family in the (oh dear) like mid 1800s? Anyway he claims that they are all guilty of driving a working class woman to suicide and the whole story is slowly revealed it's so GOOD

- Oedipus Rex - ok this is an old classic but :)))) what can I say - it's another play and it's good! Technically it's a tragedy but the plot of the tragedy is Oedipus trying to solve a mystery - chances are you know the ending but that's the point, knowing the ending creates tension as he tries to figure it out and you wonder when the ball is going to drop

- Sherlock Holmes - I... I haven't actually read these but one of my best friends has and she KEEPS bugging me to read them so it's on the list because it's a classic and also my bestie likes them

- Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde - Pretty short! And so so good! You probably recognise the story and it has it's fame for a reason... t's written from the POV of this Judge? I think? I can't remember his career, anyway he becomes involved in these murders and he decides to find out who's doing it and then track the perpetrator down and it's also sci-fi and psychological I believe anyway definite recommendation

Lower level (so like ages 11 - 15? I mean that's the age I was when I read them so):

- The Mysterious Benedict Society series - honestly? I want to reread these because a television adaption is coming out and I'm mad about some of the cuts they made - it's about a group of children recruited to stop someone from brainwashing the world

- the Lady Grace mysteries - definitely around the 11/12 age when I read these so they're quite an easy read but what can I say I still like them and easy reads are good and fun - it's set in the late 1500s and the main character is Grace, goddaughter to Queen Elizabeth the first, and she becomes a private detective for the Queen for various murders happening around court while outwitting the official (male) detective who thinks that her observations are worth pretty much nothing - she also has to keep it a secret from the other Maids of Honour (like ladies in waiting but... nobles)

- Orphan Monster Spy - ok I loved this when I read it at... 13/14/15? Anyway it's about a Jewish girl in WW2 who goes undercover at a school for nazi's children to gather information it is very good

- The murder most unladylike series - OK this I read at 10/11/12 as well but just because books are for younger audiences doesn't mean they aren't gripping and they're often more creative! My sister is reading this atm and she loves it ehe - it's two girls at a boarding school that start solving mysteries together

Higher Level (so like... 15/16/17? When I read or have been recommended and all that jazz):

- Oryx and Crake - This is written by Margaret Atwood which means it's good. The woman is a legend! Handmaid's Tale COULD be considered thriller or smth like it's sci-fi but like... cmon so that's another rec by her. My English teacher and my mum keep recommending me this but I haven't started it yet... general consensus is it's good though!

- Jane Harper - She's an author who's mysteries are apparently pretty good? I have one and they all seem to be popular sooooo a recommendation :)

- The Declaration + sequels - These are written by Gemma Malley and ALL I CAN REMEMBER ABOUT HOW GOOD THEY ARE is that when I was taking my GCSE mocks (I was 15 half of us were 16) we had to do revision in an exam hall and um anyway I read this book and the Resistance instead and did not do any revision I was hooked - not really a mystery or crime technically I don't think but definitely that vibe - Basically it's a future world where children just aren't a thing? The government has designed drugs for longevity and kids born outside of the law become 'surplus' and are all housed together but this girl meets a boy from outside (I cannot for the life of me remember if they get together or not) and they escape and go to investigate the government and where these drugs are coming from

I'll add more if I read them... IDEA! This list will have a tag (#wid's book recs! and #wid's mystery recs!) so I'll add recs to it when I get them so it'll be constantly evolving and I'll do the same for other genres at some point! I had a few more that I wanted to add but I forgot and the cat is being clingy

[superm4ks]

~personally~ of course as someone who is very interested in 3344 i would love to hear from lewis what his perspective is on max, who is compared more to senna, who is lewis' hero within his senna stannie fan card. like if senna wrote the fucking book max wrote the smash remake. like obviously humans are messy and complicated but like in ur pysche if the guy you "hate" is cut from the exact same cloth (and even sharper!) than the guy you love hmmmm. there's a lot of things to be talked about when drivers talk about who they idolize and why (or don't idolize). but i also love what u posted form that 1991 article bc f1 has never not been messy and human and solely about "wheel" or whatever and that makes it more interesting.

This is such supermaks bait anyway lets TALK about it 🌷

Literally thats the whole thing wid Canada that really stuck wid me after Max broke Sennas most wins oat, like Lewis' lil selfie wid him and his 'this is a pretty iconic podium' and that whole sloppy toppy moment wid fellow old Dawg Nando ((yall remember Nando podiums . damn 🕊️)) like theres a certain gravitas here. Max ended the most dominant streak by an f1 driver in the most controversial, soul crushing devastating fashion and followed that shit wid his own brand of dominance. That is fucking brutal lmfao. U said it like this is thee smash f1 remake this is textbook Senna, we've seen the script, we know what kind of driver it takes to enact the script. Its not gonna be a nice lil driver, its gonna be somebody who has a deep cynicism for the whole thing while simultaneously being unable to not execute it to perfection. That is Senna. It is Lewis. And it is Max. Max is, by all measures, in his current form, wid this red bull team, driving this car, untouchable. Bro is the final dawg. And the way that he still drives bro, that aggressiveness he has, that unwillingness to give up the line, thats every ((good)) drivers' dream to face a driver like that and come out on top because, ironically, thats as close to racing as it gets and it is old school. It does emulate a different time, a time that Lewis not only grew up watching but contributed to himself. It is about 'wheel' in the end but theres also a person in that car that can break you, which is like an extraordinarily human thing.

I've always found Lewis' bias for Senna very interesting because I think prolly until he was 25, and mind u I havent watched every Hamilton title winning season only 2008 and then obvi 2020 was my first so like obvi really influences how I c him, but he had that same restless nature. The shouts Max was getting even in 2021, Lewis got them too, including being a risk to his own peers, being rash, arrogant, etc. But then Lewis moved past Senna, imo, and became ‘Hamilton’, took over his own narrative, his team, made his own legend, wid his own dominant cars, and like he was settling back into that. Max came in at a point where u thought a Senna-like figure had no more space in f1. But Max created room, literally by force, and is also slowly outgrowing that to become ‘Verstappen’. I think thats the thread that wont snap between them, the knowledge that they are the last true protagonists of their respective eras. I have in faith in sharl, I think sharl wid a competent car, a good team, can achieve history too, but I dont have faith in Ferrari. Ferrari cannot perform to that level rn. So u have this monster at 25 whos like alone in his greatness and refuses to act the part. I get why people who dont fw Max's achievements might not like it, but that doesnt keep him from being the racing driver he is. That has no bearing on it, on him. Its a complete fabrication from fans. That is why Max feels so inevitable, and like, genuinely upsets people who dislike him by saying or doing anything because he will always own up on track and like theres an almost existential horror u cause haters wid that type of aura. Lewis is that same breed of driver, so he recognizes it, he knows what it takes be f1's villain. U cant cast a shadow on something u dont stand over.

After Silverstone he said: 'for a long, long time we’ve had periods of dominance. I’m lucky to have had one with my team. Michael Schumacher had it, Sebastian Vettel had it, and now Max’s period has arrived.' Just now in Hungary right after taking pole he said some shit like 'Max was doing 'Max things' in quali' which is a lil crazy to me. 😐 when the fuck did u ever hear Lewis Hamilton refer to a 'Max thing' except when Max has his ((much beloved)) category 5 Jeddah moments or bullies him during fp1 because he liked dared to breathe in his direction. Like since when is 'Max thing' a compliment. Like something shifted here and part of that is Max's inevitability in this car but also like how Lewis perceives that inevitability. Yk personally I cud only ever measure myself thru the people who beat me. In sports truly competition is all that is, u find somebody better and u chase after them. That's what Max did. He's rewriting those same records, because he can. And everybody who was ever somebody in motorsport did the exact same thing, including Lewis. And Senna right up until he died, because of the way it happened too, unfortunately, changed not only how u saw motorsport but also how u saw the person inside the car.

sharl was recently asked about lewis and max and had a very Leclerc type answer that I found very interesting:

Q: You were able to beat both Verstappen and Hamilton, who is more difficult to deal with?

Charles: "Both of them, they have completely different driving styles. Max always goes to the limit, I like his approach. He is aggressive and creates spectacular fights. Lewis on the other hand is very clever. In the way he positions the car after a corner, for example. He is less aggressive but thinks more. If he doesn't overtake you in one place, it's because he's thinking of an easier one in which to attack!"

Like is this not the most senna prost shit you've ever read in your entire life 😭😭. I think it comes down to how u approach a race and what u do wid the machinery ur given and faced wid certain track-specific challenges. Like look at this Spa weekend and you'd think it's the opposite of what sharl described, but it isnt. Max and Lewis can both be very aggressive, they just came up in the sport differently and established themselves wid different cars. Also neither of them about to let checo catch a break djdkdkd. In CONCLUSION ‼️ motorsport in general is a narrative driven competition wid a mechanical element that can make or break anybody no matter how good they are. Max himself becoming part of the mechanical element is unique to him, tho. Its above and beyond. Trust that the driver who became synonym for dominance in f1 is definitely paying attention lmfao

[lgbtlunaverse]

I often get a little annoyed when I see posts that are something along the lines of "Y'all have GOT to learn to engage in media without shipping. Art is not just for shipping. If you get into art for shipping and nothing else that's bad and you have no media literacy why won't you care about THEMES?" because, yeah, they are technically correct. If you only egage with art in this one hyperspecific way you're going to miss out on a lot of good art and miss a lot of good things about the art you do like because you're only busy shipping.

But also... it is literally impossible to tell if someone is doing that based on a tumblr blog. "Everywhere I go I can only find people shipping why doesn't anyone care about anything else?!" A lot of them probably do, they're just not talking about it on their ship blogs.

This is a fanfic focused blog. Fic, and shipping by extension, are a very specific way of engaging with a work that I only use with a small amount of the art I experience. You know what my favorite book that I read this year was? Piranesi. Favorite movie? Everything everywhere all at once. Favorite series? Midnight mass.

And guess what? I'm not gonna write fanfic about ANY of those. And while I'll reblog posts about them that cross my dash I am also not going to seek out other fans on tumblr for these works specifically. And so, from looking at my blog, you'll have no idea that I read and loved these works, or that I spend a lot of my time thinking about them, their atmosphere, characters, and themes.

And that's just the narrative art I loved most. I've also gone to museums, and I'm definitely not writing any fanfiction about mondriaan's paintings.

You know what work I'm thinking about most these days? The book Flatland by Edwin Abott Abott. (Yes he is named Abott twice) a book about A Square (first name A last name Square) living in a two dimensional world being visited by a sphere from our three-dimenaional world. I read it several years ago, interested in the mathematical aspect, because by looking through A Square's perspective of meeting a creature from a world with a dimension he cannot fundamentally comprehend, we can imagine what the fourth dimension might look like to us.

I read it, loved the mindfuckery aspect of it, but was at various points annoyed at the horrible misogyny. The men in flatland are polygons with social status based on he number of sides and the widness of their angles, circles on top and triangles at the bottom. But the women are all simple line segments, automatically lower in society than even the lowest ranking men. A Square tells us women have to emit a "peace cry" when they walk, because walking into them (due to their sharp point) can be deadly, and if they don't do this they're executed. And women with any sickness that causes "involuntary motions" which can be as little as sneezing too hard, is instantly killed. He seems to think these are rational laws in the interest of public safety and also in the best interest of the women themselves. He also says that due to their lack of angles, women "are wholy devoid of of brainpower, and have neither reflection, judgement, nor forethought."

Yikes.

"I like it, but you can definitelly tell this was written by a man in 1884" I remember telling my mom.

Well guess what? This year I found out that flatland isn't just about having a low-level existential crisis at imagining the fourth dimension (beings from the 4th dimension would be able to directly see and touch our insides guys. Like. Just entirely bypass your skin and poke at your spleen) it is also a satire and social critique of victorian society. The misogyny is there to criticize victorian concept of gender roles! The bogus and violent laws that are shoddily justified to be for "public safety", the complete exclusion from women in the advancement and social class, the made up standard of angles and sides pretending to be biologically sound such as to "scientifically" justify their oppression. That's misogyny, baby! It's on purpose!

And it's a flawed attempt. A Square, as a man of his time, has no respect whatsoever for women and the few female characters the book has get barely any pagetime. This is accurate for the sexist pov the story is written from, and Edward Abott Abott, in a foreword of a revised edition, makes it clear that thay was exactly his intention. But it does mean that we never get to actually hear what any of the women of flatland think about living in this horribly misogynistic society. It's intended as a critique of misogyny, but any misogynist reading the book who doesn't find the sexism of flatland all that outlandish, can read the whole book with those assumptions going unchallenged. The satire only works if you already agree women are people.

But it's still good, insofar as portraying a ridiculously sexist society and the mind bogglingly stupid and arbitrary justifications mysoginists try to give for their bigotry, it is accurate. By removing it from our own world and putting it in flatland, we can more clearly see that connecting social status to wideness of angles is ridiculous, and the misogyny has no material basis. As a person who does agree that women are people, and is no longer under the impression that, because it was written in the 1880s, the misogny must be genuine, I can now, on a reread, appreciate the satire.

Prior to this post, looking at my blog, YOU WOULD NOT KNOW THIS. And I don't plan on posting many essays about flatland in the future. I read it because my mom recommended it to me, and so the way I discuss my thoughts on it is mostly with her, in real life. And I enjoy that more than I would posting about it here.

So yes, people SHOULD approach media from different lenses than shipping alone. Because shipping only works well for a subset of all art out there, and it is only one of the many ways to engage with it. But posts on tumblr are not solid proof of whether people are doing that or not.

It's also funny because a lot of the complaints of "why is everyone only interested in shipping for X" are about, like, adaptations of ya novels or comic books or god forbid shounen anime. You know, the shows with huge casts of usually likable, attractive and varied characters? Where a big part of the appeal is the entertaining dynamics those characters have which each other? Aka prime material for shipping?

Like, yeah, it can suck when it feels like the rest of the fandom is too busy smashing fictional barbie dolls together to have interesting conversations about the things you liked about the show. But please don't watch the Ship Show and then complain that everyone is shipping.

I wanted to end this post by telling you to go read flatland because there's no fanfiction of that but there are, in fact, over 40 works on ao3 for flatland by edwin abott abott and over half of them are gravity falls fics. It completely undermines my point but it's too funny to leave out.

[taylors-fourth-cat-meow]

Rereading ACOWAR, and Feyre compares everything about the Night Court and the Spring Court to make Night seem better. It’s genuinely excessive. Like, she even compared the food and how it’s plated. I mean, girl- 💀✋

Hi anon!!

Ikr 💀🥲

She says ik I shouldn't compare but then proceeds to compare?

It's so immature she is this close 🤏🏼 to taking out a measuring tape and seeing whose dick is longer Rhysie or Tamlins

And not to be that anti but srsly can we talk about how shallow it is to do that?

Tamlin's court was ENSLAVED. It suffered Amarantha's sole attention and wrath being the only court not utm. Tamlin and his sentries are working damn hard to protect the borders in book 1. It's been mentioned multiple times that Amarantha sent her cronies to destroy the spring court time and time again. On the other hand, Velaris was unscathed. Instead of providing protection to innocents,( and I am not even talking about people of other courts, Rhysie did not provide refuge to HIS CITIZENS) Velaris remained hidden and unscathed from Amarantha's horrors OFC ITS FUCKING BETTER THAN A SLAVE COUNTRY FEYRE!!!!

No but I get why sjm felt a need to reiterate at every opportunity that the Night Court is better than the Spring court. She goes out of her way to point at the most irrelevant differences and then manipulate the reader into thinking the nc was better because of it. Like at one point I remember she said that Lucien looked suprised while eating food because in Spring Court everything was like very lavish and cooked in butter and shit and in Velaris everything was very simple and nice...there was also something about the beans being different- and I was just like girl whawt? 💀

See, in my opinion and ig the opinions of many before the acomaf manipulation everyone wud have chosen to live in the SC over the NC any day cause like let's be honest meadows and fields and flowers and willows >>> a modern city wid a stupid river and what i can only presume as the Northern Lights every friggin night.

So you see how important it was for sjm to make everything about the Spring Court shit to make the NC seem better?

[cartermagazine]

Today We Honor Oluale Kossola, Renamed Cudjo Lewis Zora Neale Hurston tells the story of Cudjo Lewis, who was born Oluale Kossola in what is now the West African country of Benin in her book “Barracoon: The Story of the Last “Black Cargo.” A member of the Yoruba people, he was only 19 years old when members of the neighboring Dahomian tribe invaded his village, captured him along with others, and marched them to the coast. There, he and about 120 others were sold into slavery, after the “Act Prohibiting the Importation of Slaves" took effect in 1808 slavery was abolished, and crammed onto the Clotilda, the “last” slave ship to reach the continental United States. The Clotilda brought its captives to Alabama in 1860, just a year before the outbreak of the Civil War. Even though slavery was legal at that time in the U.S., the international slave trade was not, and hadn’t been for over 50 years. Along with many European nations, the U.S. had outlawed the practice in 1808. After being abducted from his home, Lewis was forced onto a ship with strangers. The abductees spent several months together during the treacherous passage to the United States, but were then separated in Alabama to go to different owners. “We very sorry to be parted from one ’nother,” Lewis told Hurston. “We seventy days cross de water from de Affica soil, and now dey part us from one ’nother.” “Derefore we cry. Our grief so heavy look lak we cain stand it. I think maybe I die in my sleep when I dream about my mama.” “We doan know why we be bring ’way from our country to work lak dis,” he told Hurston. “Everybody lookee at us strange. We want to talk wid de udder colored folkses but dey doan know whut we say.” Confederate General Robert E. Lee surrendered in April 1865, Lewis says that a group of Union soldiers stopped by a boat on which he and other enslaved people were working and told them they were free. He and a group of 31 other freepeople saved up money to buy land near Mobile, which they called Africatown. CARTER™️ Magazine carter-mag.com #wherehistoryandhiphopmeet #historyandhiphop365 #cartermagazine #carter #cudjolewis #blackhistorymonth #blackhistory #history #staywoke https://www.instagram.com/p/CkViP5vuxtp/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[cygnetofthesea]

Happy Mother’s Day, Iris

In honor of Mother’s Day, here’s a little bit of Iris celebrating with her family. Happy Mother’s Day to all the loving, doting mothers and mother figures!

On AO3

It was the smell of fresh coffee and the touch of soft lips pressing against her cheek and lips that woke her up. She kept her eyes closed as a smile broke across her face and the kisses traveled up to her lids.

She sighed in complete and utter contentment, reaching up to thread her fingers through her husband's hair. She stroked the thick locks, feeling his hum against her skin.

"Happy Mother's Day," he greeted her softly

"Thank you. How are the babies?" she murmured, her voice raspy from lack of use.

"Perfect as always."

Iris burst out laughing, finally opening her eyes to see Barry sprawled horizontally on his side of the bed, fully dressed and his legs dangling off the side. She leaned over and kissed the space between his brows, endeared by his goofy smile.

"Perfect, huh? I mean, they are perfectly beautiful but well-behaved? I don't know about that."

"They sure take the 'terrible twos' to the next level," he agreed. "The parenting books definitely were not written with them in mind. Want to sleep in a little more? You might need it."

He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead as she shook her head. "Uh-uh, I want to see the tornado twins."

They shared a smile, remembering how Cisco gave Nora and Bart the nickname after they had started vibrating slightly in place. They found that when the brother and sister were together and playing with McSnurtle, their excitement went up a level that caused them to vibrate in place. Barry and Iris had lunged to grab them before anything else could happen but it was safe to say, they kept the babies' interaction with McSnurtle to a minimum until Cisco finished his dampening bracelets for them.

Barry's smile dropped slightly, looking off to the side. She knew that look: his speed force senses were tingling, which meant the babies were acting up again.

Barry sped away and in a flash brought back little Bart and Nora in his arms as Iris sat up in bed. Her face lit up, any traces of grogginess washing away at the sight of her gorgeous babies. Her heart felt like they had doubled in size as she reached over to grab the nearest baby, Bart.

He made grabby hands at her, settling them on her hair and locket when she kissed his chubby cheeks. She leaned over to smooch Nora's too as Barry settled in next to her.

"It’s like      your    speed force senses were tingling," he said with a chuckle. "They spotted McSnurtle."

"Mama, Snurtle play!" Nora squealed before leaning over Barry's arm and turning to her mom as though she had the turtle she so coveted.

"Sn-snurtle play, Mama," Bart repeated looking at his mom inquisitively.

Iris smooched both her babies again after brushing their wispy curls. "Not today, babes. We're going to try to make it without incident today. Ok?" she asked, nodding with a smile.

The twins were only two-years old but it didn't stop Iris from talking to them like they understood complex language. She just loved the wide-eyed looks they gave her in return. Plus, Barry more than made up for it in the baby-talk department.

Case in point, he was leaning over Nora just then, adopting a goofy voice. "You wanna pway with McSnurtle the turtle? You want to pway wid him? Yes you dooo."

Nora just gave him the same wide-eyed look Bart had just given her. "Snurtle!" she repeated as though attempting to conjure him up.

Barry turned Nora to face Bart more fully and Iris did the same with Bart. They found when they didn't get their way, the best thing to do was let them play with each other and they'd forget all about their baby plights.

Barry grinned at Iris crookedly as the babies fought against their holds to play with each other. They released them, keeping a careful eye on their crawling bodies.

"I wanted you to have breakfast in bed without interruptions," Barry said, taking hold of her hand.

It was only then Iris noticed the familiar rolling breakfast tray covered with an assortment of her favorite foods and a single frangipani that could only be found in Bali. She spotted some familiar foods that definitely were not from Central City.

"Oh my god!" she squealed, drawing the attention of her babies before they turned back to their light wrestling. "Is that pan au chocolate from Gérard Mulot?" she asked in a perfect French accent.

It was her favorite bakery in Paris that she took Barry to on their third anniversary. She had fallen in love with the place that Barry made sure to get it for every special occasion or really, whenever Iris was in the mood for it.

Barry rolled the tray over her and let her dig in. "Yup and the one from Marais, too. Nothing but the best for my beautiful baby mama," he said pressing a kiss to her cheekbone.

She groaned in pleasure as the smooth, dark chocolate blended perfectly with the warm, flaky croissant in her mouth. "Holy sh-crap. If the kids weren't here, I'd pounce on you."

"Oh that can most definitely be arranged," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her. He took the piece of pastry she offered, licking the chocolate from her finger. "Tonight, after the portraits and dinner, it's just you and me. I have a whole day planned with us and the kids, it'll be enough to tucker them out for the night."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, sliding a grape in her mouth as she looked at from underneath her lashes. "And what exactly is going to happen once the twins are asleep?"

He peeked at said twins—they were happily occupied with a Flash plush toy, squealing "Dada!"—before leaning over to lick at her lips, taking any of the residual pastry with him. He kissed her, letting his tongue slide into her mouth to taste her.

"Oh I don't know, maybe we could watch Inception and light up that oyster candle thing," he said in a deep and husky voice.

She knew he was using his bedroom voice and normally it would make her body tingle enough to tackle him, but his words made her giggle against his lips. She leaned into the kiss some more, tilting her head to take in his lips because yes, despite the humor his words evoked, she would always want him.

She pulled away slowly, watching as he took his time opening his eyes, the flutter of his lashes making her heart clench.

"You still really think it was that combo that knocked me up?"

He looked at her, his cheeks flushed with desire, but he looked sheepish. "Hey, the guy said oysters were an aphrodisiac." The guy being a young waiter at the Japanese restaurant where Barry had gone to pick up their takeout.

"Please babe, as if we ever needed any aphrodisiac. Your libido is plenty." She pulled at her lower lip. "So is mine, come to think of it. Who knew nerds were my weakness. Or maybe it's just you."

"It better just be me," Barry growled, pretending to bite her. She pushed at his shoulder with a laugh.

"Besides, it's the act of      eating oyster     that's supposed to be the aphrodisiac, not sniffing an oyster-scented candle. Which I still can't believe you tracked down."

"Ok, we can skip the oyster candle," he amended.

"Please."

"And how about I give you a nice massage instead."

"Yes, please."  

 "With Inception on or off?"

Iris snorted. "Definitely off. I don't need Hans Zimmer making our lovemaking feel dramatic and scary. But we are watching it first."

"You got it." He kissed again and then grabbed a familiar looking album. It melted her heart every time she saw it and remembered the first time Barry presented it to her.

Iris has been four months pregnant with the twins and hadn't even thought of Mother's Day other than to buy flowers for Nora and Francine's graves. Despite her mother being absent in her life, she was grateful that she had at least given her Wally and been a mother to him. She had brought the flowers home only to be greeted with a huge arrangement sitting on their dinner table next to a brand new photo album.

She looked at the arrangement curiously before turning to Barry who was bringing over a matcha mille crepe cake from her favorite place in New York City. She had been craving matcha anything as of late and Barry never hesitated to speed over to Prince Tea House over in East End to get them for her.

"Hey babe, I already got the flowers," she said, gesturing at the bouquets in her arm.

He beamed at her, his eyes soft. It was that look he always gave her, that was reserved just for her: as though she was a marvel he couldn't believe existed. As though she was the impossible and not him and his speedster abilities.

"They're for you. Happy Mother's Day, Iris."

 Maybe it was her hormones—most definitely—or maybe it was that look he was giving her, but Iris could feel her eyes welling up. Barry immediately set the mille crepe down and gathered her in his arms, the flowers crushing in between them.

"You're a mom, Iris. A beautiful, wonderful one at that. You have been since the moment Nora walked into our lives that day and you deserve to be celebrated."

 She sniffled and gave him a watery smile. "And you're a dad."

Barry shook his head. "It's not the same. I…I wasn't there for Nora like I should have been, the way you were," he said with regret and residual grief. "But I'm going to do better this time around. I will be anything you and our babies need."

Iris cupped his cheek, stroking the five o'clock shadow there. "I know you will."

She knew it in her heart that he would do anything and everything for them. She kissed him softly, savoring the moment with his scent mixing with the flowers around them.

She pulled away and looked at the album. "But what's that?"

He grabbed the album and presented it to her. On the front cover, he had placed a candid picture of her, smiling brightly with a frangipani tucked behind her ear and a bundle of them in her hands. Barry had made it a habit to collect a bundle of flowers that surrounded the resort where they stayed. It was a large and private area that made it feel like they were in their own little world.

"I want to commemorate every moment of this," he said. "Just like I want to honor every single moment of our lives together. You're the most incredible woman, Iris West-Allen, and I know you're going to be the most incredible mother. I want our children to be able to see their mother every step of the way. How she carried them with love and nurtured them with the utmost care and compassion. Even while they were wreaking havoc on her hormones."

He had looked like he was going to say more, but Iris couldn't wait any longer. She took the album from him and set them on the table with the flowers and kissed him with everything in her.

When she eventually pulled away, she pressed their foreheads together, their heavy breaths mingling together.

"I love you Barry Allen."

"I love you, Iris West-Allen."

And so began tradition. Barry had taken a portrait of Iris with their camera, her wedding ring sparkling brightly as she rested her hand on her belly, curving around it as though protecting their babies. And she was protecting them, just as Barry would protect her.

This Mother's Day, they would be adding a third picture to the album, with the twins slightly bigger than the last photo.

Barry hugged her to him, the album against his chest with her image on the outside. "Ready to add to this?"

Iris glanced over at her babies fooling around on their bed and then turned to her husband, her heart full. She felt like the luckiest woman in the world.

"Always."

[shingia]

9 and 4!

GOD I WAS WAITING FOR THESE : THANK YOU WID

9. tag 3 fic writers you think are underrated in the fandom

@voxamcris god i hope i’m not being annoying but honestly: i’m never gonna stop talking about how incredibly talented yuki is. reading her works doesn’t even feel like reading a fanfiction, it’s like reading a published book. i’m a fangirl

@kaguol ok i don’t know if i’ve ever talked about kon’s works on my blog. but if i haven’t : it’s a SHAME because kind of like yuki, his writing skills are really really impressive and i would be the happiest girl on earth if i ever got to that level <3

@catwithangerissues before anyone says it : i am NOT biased. i’m only starting Facts here : kitty has written some of the best sakusa fics i’ve ever read. and yes, i have the links for you : here’s when you’re home, and here’s fireplace i love you’s. GO READ THEM NOW 😠

I KNOW I WAS SUPPOSED TO ONLY TAG THREE PPL BUT I COULDNT RESIST :

@kohi-zeri i can not express how PROUD i am to have witnessed the « birth » of her blog. because i knew she was outrageously talented from the moment i received her request for her selfship playlist with akaashi. YES, I CRIED. IT WAS BEAUTIFUL. GO CHECK OUT HER WORKS RIGHT NOW.

4. link your three favorite fics right now

ok i couldn’t find the title but this kuroo imagine by @neoheros (and literally all of robin’s work. i think i can say without a doubt now that her works are my #1 faves. big fangirl energy here oopsie)

do you think the moon is jealous of how pretty you are? - by @hajkyyuu . honestly i didn’t even realize how much i loved this fic right after reading it. but it didn’t leave my mind for almost three days after so~ <3 maybe it’s because i was in my feels while reading it for the first time but it really hit diff 🤧 also, i don’t read many tsukki fics so this one was a very pleasant surprise!

10:20pm - by @bellesowl. i’m not gonna lie : i was in the middle of a huge akaashi kinnie moment (also called a breakdown <3) when i stumbled upon this fic and it made me feel so warm inside?! i remember crying even more but it was.. a positive crying? it was probably not written to be a comfort fic but it immediately became one of mine! also : i’m a sucker for fics that show the complicity of two lovers. and this is a perfect example.

BUT BASICALLY EVERYTHING I REBLOG HAS A SPECIAL PLACE IN MY STONE COLD HEART <333