#unmatched peerage

[standalone-manga-panels]

Source:

Josou shite Off-Kai ni Sanka shite mita.

#incredible skill #unmatched peerage #manga nonsense

[mywifeleftme]

46: Bob Seger // Back in '72

Back in '72 Bob Seger 1973, Reprise

Like a lot of musically-inclined people my age (49), AllMusic.com was a critical part of my early ‘00s descent into abject nerdom and permanent homeliness. It was (and I suppose, still is) an unmatched repository of discographic information and professional reviews of the major pop and rock artists of the past half-century, and I spent hours each week on my shitty dial-up internet trawling through reviews of hundreds and eventually thousands of albums that I would try to imagine based on their writing.

The chief, to me, among AllMusic’s stacked bullpen of critics at the time was Stephen Thomas Erlewine. (Though I’ve become more of a Thom Jurek man in my old age.) Erlewine drew the job of reviewing a lot of the entry-level artists I was most taken with (R.E.M., Elvis Costello, the Kinks, Nick Lowe, the Replacements, and so on), and he had a way of writing what was essentially the Supreme Court majority opinion on a de rigueur classic in a voice that still sounded like a seasoned listener giving his own take. Like any good critic, the comparisons and offhand references in his reviews opened a lot of doors for me—and one of those doors led to early Bob Seger.

Growing up across the Canadian border from Detroit, I was raised on dad rock radio with a Motor City slant, which elevated local ham-and-eggers like Mitch Ryder to regular rotation and Michigan’s favourite son Robert Clark Seger to peerage with the Stones and Zeppelin. Starting with 1975’s essential double live ‘Live’ Bullet, Seger was a reliable national hitmaker for a good ten years, and he’s remembered fondly for it—but few critics have historically put Bob on a par with similar working-class hero Bruce Springsteen. That’s why it meant something to me that Erlewine, himself born in Bob’s hometown of Ann Arbor, treated the Seger catalogue with the same reverence he brought to the rest of the established canon.

I’d heard a few of Seger’s pre-Silver Bullet Band singles on Detroit radio, when a DJ like WCSX’s Ken Calvert would throw on a scratchy oldie like “Persecution Smith” or “Heavy Music,” but the album-by-album narrative that unwound through Erlewine’s reviews hooked me. An aspiring rocker since he started his first band in 1961, Seger tried out all sorts of gimmicks, from parodies (“The Ballad of the Yellow Beret”) to novelty songs (“Sock It To Me Santa!”) to a Bob Dylan impression (“Persecution Smith”). But Seger’s first taste of regional success was as a feral garage rocker with combos like The Last Heard and The Bob Seger System.

Like Otis Redding, an obvious vocal influence, Seger reaches his high notes by clenching his vocal cords and pushing hard, producing a plaintive quaver he’d eventually deploy toward the melting of hearts. But in his garage days, Bob was melting faces with a venomous arsenal of snarls and shrieks on stone classics like “Lucifer,” “Death Row,” and “2+2=?” that match the intensity (if not the scuzzy low-end) of anything by the Stooges or MC5. If Seger had put down his guitar and gotten a day job after failing to follow up his 1969 hit “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man” (his first top 20 national hit, and his last till 1976’s “Night Moves”) he’d be a staple of collector bait reissue labels. But Seger always believed, “You're nobody if you can't get on the radio,” and he kept grinding away, looking for a sound that would make him a star.

1969’s psych-inflected Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man LP wasn’t it. Neither was 1970’s balls-to-the-wall raver Mongrel. It definitely wasn’t 1971’s acoustic folk venture Brand New Morning. But, on 1973’s goofily-titled Back in ’72, he suddenly sounds like Radio Bob: thick, white man’s R&B that’s part Ike & Tina, part Van Morrison, part southern rock. A lot of it’s down to the musicians he’s working with. First there’s the Borneo Band (credited here as My Band), a combo as capable of working an R&B audience into a lather as anyone in 1973 (as a number of righteous live bootlegs can confirm). And secondly there’s the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section, Alabama’s answer to session aces like the Wrecking Crew and the Funk Brothers. They’d played on a few hits in their time, and they represented the professionalism and success Seger aspired to. While Seger could only afford to work with them on three songs during the Back in ‘72 sessions, he’d go on using them as often as possible on his future albums (often to the chagrin of his touring musicians).

There are still some growing pains. Back in ’72 opens with its three weakest tracks: a passable cover of the Allman Brothers’ “Midnight Rider”; treacly original “I Wrote You a Song,” in which Bob sheepishly bleats most of the higher notes; and a cover of Free’s “The Stealer,” a song I am incapable of giving a shit about no matter who records it. From there though, things suddenly and dramatically improve.

“Rosalie,” written for Leamington, Ontario’s teenage tastemaker (and my grandma’s high school classmate) Rosalie Trombley, is an immortal pub rocker that would eventually find a second life through Thin Lizzy’s hit cover; diesel-powered travelogue “Back in ‘72” sets the template for (and easily outmuscles any of) his later heavy numbers; a read of Van Morrison’s “I’ve Been Workin’” turns into a true workout that makes clear why it would remain a setlist staple over the next few years. And then there’s “Turn the Page,” perhaps Seger’s signature song. The version here is more subdued than the better-known ‘Live’ Bullet rendition, and if as a vocalist Seger can’t quite inhabit the weary determination of the lyric in the way he soon would, it remains a worthy rendition on its own merits.

On Back in ’72 Seger and his band(s) finally sound like they’re capable of reaching an arena-sized audience. While it would take another four years before they’d actually do so outside the Midwest, the LP is an essential part of his journey. Few of Seger’s pre-1975 albums are easy to lay hands on these days—Bob seems to consider them juvenilia, the work of someone who wasn’t yet ready for the big time, and has refused to reissue any of them in recent years or allow them to reach streaming platforms. That’s a shame. After reading Erlewine’s rave reviews of his early catalogue, I was lucky to download them from blogs, and I’m still working on hunting down the best of them on wax. (While I prefer 1970’s Mongrel and 1974’s Seven, Back in ’72 is the only one of his formative records I actually own on LP—ironically, it’s among the rarest.) Despite Seger’s dismissal, this era of his career is a good part of what made him a major artist in his time and place, and deserves to be heard by a wider audience.

46/365

#bob seger #the bob seger system #bob seger & the silver bullet band #michigan #detroit #detroit rock city #classic rock #garage rock #music review #allmusic #stephen thomas erlewine #thom jurek #vinyl record #'70s music

[thebadgerclan]

In All But Name

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x reader

Summary: Your engagement dinner does not go as planned...

A/N: Inspired by the Sharma/Sheffield-Bridgerton dinner from season 2!

Dearest Reader, This Author is pleased to announce the engagement of the Viscount Anthony Bridgerton to one Miss Y/N L/N.  Felicitations to the happy couple, and well-wishes too.  One can only hope to  find a match such as His Lordship’s, which appears to follow a Bridgerton family tradition: the elusive love match.  Other news that has reached This Author’s ear is as follows: the Earl of…  Your mother crumpled the scandal sheet into a ball, hurling it into the fire.

“Can you believe it?” she cried, rising to pace before the mantle.  “After we worked so hard to secure her better matches?  She goes and shackles herself to that man.”  Your father was positively beside himself, his fury and anger unmatched.  “She could have had a Duke, a Marquess, a bloody Earl!  But a Viscount?  What good will that do our family?”  The L/Ns were a fairly wealthy family, but untitled and unranked.  So when your debut came, your parents worked tirelessly to secure you several options for husbands; all of whom ranked in the upper half of the peerage.

But none of those men interested you.  Yes, they were kind and polite, but when you’d met Anthony Bridgerton, your word had been tilted off its axis.  He was handsome, kind, funny, chivalrous, and above all: he loved you.  You didn’t care about his rank, you cared about the man he was.  His family adored you almost as much as he did, and when he proposed, the Bridgertons welcomed you to their family with open arms.  

“This cannot stand,” your father said.  “Something must be done about this mess.”  You knocked on the drawing room door, catching your parents’ attention.  “Mama?  Papa?”  “What?” your mother snapped.  You knew they were displeased with your news, and you tried not to let it get to you.  “Ant–Lord Bridgerton is holding a dinner celebrating our engagement this evening, at Bridgerton House.”  Your father rolled his eyes and your mother audibly sighed.

“I suppose we must attend?”  “It would be in poor taste to decline, Y/M/N,” your father said, though his tone was anything but enthusiastic.  “Very well.  We shall attend.”  You nodded and turned to pen your reply to Anthony.  That evening, your carriage arrived in front of Bridgerton House, which your parents immediately began criticizing.  “Could do with a  bit of work,” your mother sneered.  “And those vines?  Lord, someone help them.”  “I think they look lovely,” you said, to no reply.

“Mr. and Mrs. L/N, and their daughter, Miss Y/N L/N,” the footman announced.  The Dowager Viscountess, alongside her entire family, stood waiting to greet you.  You parents nodded their greetings as Anthony came forward to kiss your hand.  “My beloved, you look wonderful.  And Mr. and Mrs. L/N, I do not believe I have had the honor of making your acquaintance.”

“That is intentional, My Lord,” your father said, and you flinched.  Anthony knew of the discord between you and your parents, but he hadn’t expected it to extend to the public eye.  “Shall we go in to dinner?” the Dowager asked, and you smiled. “That would be lovely, Lady Bridgerton.”  “Dearest, I have told you, you must call me Violet now.”  This made your mother gasp, but you ignored her, following Anthony and his family into the dining room.

You were seated at the Viscount’s right, your father at his left, your mother at his side.  Violet was seated at the opposite end of the table, her children filling the vacant seats in no particular order.  “I must apologize for my eldest daughter’s absence,” she said.  “The Duchess’ son has taken ill, nothing serious, so she has remained at Hastings House.”  “What of His Grace?” your father inquired.  “He is home as well.”  “This family…” your father mumbled.

As dishes were brought forth, conversation turned to lighter subjects: Benedict’s schooling, Colin’s travels, Eloise’s progress on the pianoforte, but when the main course was laid out, your mother cleared her throat.  “A surprising spread for a Viscount,” she said, just loud enough to be heard.  “I beg your pardon?” Anthony replied, and you mentally steeled yourself.  “Oh, nothing.  I only expected a formal dinner served by a Viscount to be smaller.  When we dined with the Duke of Grafton, his spread was nearly thrice this size!  You know we were hoping for Y/N to wed the Duke, but look how that turned out.”

“Mother,” you said, a slight warning tone in your voice, but it went unheard.  “Well, the Duke and Y/N were ill-suited, but the Earl of Carlisle, he would have made an excellent husband.” “Do not forget the Marquess,” your father chimed, and your mother nodded.  “Of course, how could I have done?  We had a whole manner of suitors lined up for our darling girl, but she dismissed them all!”  Anthony, sensing your discomfort, reached beneath the table and took your hand, squeezing it gently.  

“Perhaps we ought not discuss such things,” Violet put in, but she was shot down.  “Twelve eligible, suitable men, and Y/N turned every one of them down.  And for what?”  Your father shook his head.  “I’ll tell you for what,” he said, as if he and your mother were having a private discussion, as if the entire Bridgerton family (save Daphne) were not listening.  “A damned Viscount!  She could have had a duchy, an earldom, but instead she settled for some land in Kent and a lowly title with a measly sum to go with it.”

Anthony felt his temper rising as your parents spoke; the insults to his family and his wealth like daggers in his heart, but he remained calm.  He would not make a scene.  But your mother’s next words made his vision go red.  “Truly, Y/F/N, could we have had a more disappointing daughter.”  “That is enough!”  Your fiance stood, rattling the dishes on the table.  “You insult my family, my wealth, and you insult my intended.”  

“Begging your pardon, My Lord,” your father said, mockingly bowing his head.  “But we speak the truth.  Our daughter is a good-for-nothing, useless-”  “I said enough!  Your daughter is a wonderful young lady, who I am honored to call my fiance, and soon, my wife.  She is kind, beautiful, intelligent, and much more than a vessel through which to funnel funds!”  Your mother gasped, but Anthony went on.  “It is clear you have no regard for your daughter’s happiness, as you would happily pawn her off to the man with the fattest purse!”

There were tears coursing down your cheeks and Anthony felt his heart break.  “We will not allow this marriage,” your mother said.  “Y/N will marry a Duke, or an Earl, a man of high rank and wealth!”  Violet scoffed, drawing everyone’s attention.  “I wish you luck with that,” she said.  “The Bridgertons are a powerful family with much sway indeed.  How do you think it would come across, Mr. L/N, for an untitled family to break off an engagement between your daughter and my son?”

The Dowager had your parents backed into a corner, so your father took the only way out he could see.  “She is no daughter of mine,” he said, and you sobbed.  “Y/N, you shall never darken our doorstep again.  If we ever lay eyes on you again, it shall be too soon.”  Anthony reluctantly left your side to face your father, who had stood as he spoke.  “If you think this will ruin her, you are far stupider than I imagined.  She is a Bridgerton in all but name, my family adores her, I love her with everything I am, and she should be lucky to be rid of you.

“Get out of my house.  If I see you here again, I shall not hesitate to call the constable.”  Your parents hurriedly fled, and Anthony rushed to your side.  “Oh, my love,” he said, wrapping his arms around you.  Nobody cared about the breach of etiquette, they all knew Anthony was the only one who could comfort you now.  “My sweet love, I am so sorry.”  You buried your face in Anthony’s shoulder, clutching him like a lifeline.

“I knew they weren’t happy with me marrying you, I never thought…”  “Shh, I know.  You never have to see them again, you are home now.”  Violet came to your other side, laying a comforting hand on your shoulder.  “You needn’t worry about a thing, dearest,” she said.  “I will send our solicitor in the morning for your things, and Mrs. Wilson will have a room readied for you.  I’m afraid I cannot allow you to share Anthony’s chambers quite yet.”

Her words made you laugh in spite of the misery you felt, and your fiance pressed a kiss to your cheek.  “I love you, Y/N, I have never cared about anything else.”  “I love you too, Anthony.  I love you so much.”  The rest of the Bridgertons were still in the room, and it was Eloise who spoke first.  “Is there anything we can do?”  You smiled.  “You have already done enough,” you said.  “By taking me in and being a family to me.”

“Dearest, of course we would take you in,” Violet said.  “As Anthony told your father, you are a Bridgerton in all but name.”  “My Lady?” came the voice of a servant.  “We have a room for Miss L/N.”  Anthony helped you to your feet, offering his arm.  He led you upstairs to the room you would occupy, where a fire was lit and a nightdress was lying on the bed.  “I thought one of El’s would fit,” your fiance said, and you turned in his arms, kissing him deeply.

“Thank you,” you said.  “For defending me, for allowing me to stay, for loving me.  For everything, Anthony.”  He smiled, kissing you again.  “You need not thank me, darling,  I would do it twenty times over.  I shall bid you goodnight now.  I love you.”  Anthony kissed your forehead before shutting the door, leaving you to your thoughts.  As you dressed for bed and laid down, your thoughts of your parents were eclipsed by those of Anthony, who loved you so well, and his family who had already accepted you as their own.

#anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #anthony bridgerton x you #bridgerton reader insert

[stolasofthegoetia]

Thou Shalt be Well

Summary: 

Even princes in Hell have nightmares. They all lost a war to end up there.

Or a snippet of how I imagine Stolas fighting in Lucifer's rebellion and the aftereffects of the battles on him now.

CW: Blood, Death, Gore (minor), Depictions of Warfare 

Stolas rubbed the blood and grime from his helmet with an equally dirty piece of cloth. It was a fool’s errand; each was as dirty at the other, but the simple back and forth motion was the closest to soothing he’d felt in days… weeks. Gazing into the once pristine golden helm he could barely make himself out, his four blue eyes were murky spots, his white and golden plumage flat against his slim body, his once proud wings drooped in fatigue. The rebellion was taking so much from all of them; how could he look upon his withered reflection and think of vanity? Others had lost limbs, wings, lives. 

Selfish. 

The level of selfish that couldn’t be seen in a legatus. He had legions to command, tactics and movements to correctly plot. The stars guided him, guided them all in this battle for freedom. But they lost more every day. The weight of each of his fallen kin felt heavy upon him, his mistakes, wrong interpretations. The Others of the Stars were complex beings even Father couldn’t completely interpret. What hope did he have of guiding his siblings to their rightful liberation? 

“Stolas.” 

The angel turned from his musings, helmet and rag still held in each hand. Before him stood an equally tall angel, his armour bloodied but his will unbent, unbroken. His wings, completely golden, extended out in a display of pride, confidence. His white eyes fixed upon Stolas. 

“Brother.”

“Thou hast been despondent of late. T’would seem your thoughts torment you. Wouldst thou speak with me freely?”

“A-always Caim, my respect for thy standing within our ranks would f-”

“Bah.” The senior angel waved a dismissive hand, “Thy do me the dishonour of talking of ranks and peerage? My brother, I am here to comfort you. Our battles remain vast and unyielding, Father’s servants do us blows repeatedly and more shall descend. Ist thou of mind enough to hold thy wits and blade sharp?”

Stolas blinked several times, his grip in the rag tightening. He swallowed and felt as though the sound bathed the room in his fear, his weakness. 

“Brother.” 

Caim stepped close and rested both hands upon Stolas’ shoulders, his head tilting forward till their foreheads rested gently against one another. 

“Thou hast a disinclination for fighting, it is true. But thy spirit and will is boundless, Brother Lucifer knows this, he see’eth in the powers unmatched, the stars themselves impart thy wisdom to thee. My faith in you is as in him. Never allow thyself to feel akin to weakness, for that is Father’s ploy. We are strong. We shall be free. Yes?”

His words were quiet yet the passion in them blew any the heaviness from the room. Stolas closed his eyes, dropped the rag and both hands wrapped around his brother’s waist, pulling him close and, for just a moment, remembering when this was all play among clouds and light. Where he was taught of battle and love and the skies.

“Forgive me, brother. Mine eyes hath lost clarity; losses are blades within mine wings and fear a weight upon mine breast. How canst thou have such belief in me?”

Caim raised himself enough to press his lips against Stolas’ forehead.

“Thou art mine brother. I know ye. All will be well.”

“But-”

“Hush. You grieve for our kin as is right. You fear our demise which is natural. But thou must promise me to always bare a thought close to thine heart and mind, yes?”

“W-what thought?”

Caim pulled back to smile at him, his strong hands cupping Stolas’ cheeks and wiping away any remnants of building tears. 

“Thou shalt be well.”

Such simple words spoken with absolute certainty stole his breath for a moment and it was what he needed. Stolas felt he was a babe once more, cradled in Caim’s arms while his brother made the monsters of the stars and his mind fall to nothing. In him all was well. 

And then yells were heard outside. 

“They come.” 

Caim stepped back, grabbing the helmet he’d left by the side and pulled it on, his battered armour and glorious wings a sight that was forever burned into Stolas’ memory. 

“Come brother! We fight.” 

“Yes.” Stolas nodded, pulling his helmet on in kind and grabbing his sword, shield and fitted a small blade against his back. 

“To battle kin!” Caim cried, raising his blade aloft, light shining from within. Thousands of their breatharian, all standing in formation below, bellowed their war cries and took to the air. The light of angels, allies and enemies filled the sky in a cosmic clash of blades, arrows, and fists. Their position was strong, the stars had chosen this ravine, boxing in their enemies allow them to be surrounded. 

“Take them!” Caim yelled vanishing into the throngs of soldiers. 

Stolas hesitated a moment longer before his tired wings unfurled in all their might, whipping up winds as several dead fathers fluttered to the ground. 

“Thou shalt be well.” He whispered. 

The battle raged endlessly. For every one of his kin he struck down two returned for retribution. His limbs were painted red, no hint of gold nor white to be seen under the blood; his own and that of his siblings. 

“Left flank!” he screamed, diving to the failing line, tucking his wings to create and spin and raising his sword, taking the head clean off an advancing soldier. He landed heavily and took up a stance.

“Hold! Thy must not give! Steel thy minds!” 

The flagging soldiers grouped together, drawing more of their brothers and sisters from the battlefield at his command. A blade sliced his leg and he fell to one knee yet still he fought, his mind a haze of blood, heat, screams and dirty armour. Gravity held no meaning as he flew, slicing his enemies from the skies, his screams descending from bellows of war to avian shrieks. 

The battle waged on for days. 

But the rebellion drove God’s slaves back.

For every one that was defeated no more came with blades in hand, mountains of corpses became their foundation as the last of the enemy fell at his flank. 

“Finish this!” he screeched.

While his soldiers descended, Stolas, panting and wounded, a hand gripping his leg, surveyed the field. The front flank was still in deep combat, the first contact point. Not allowing himself a moment to breath he cried out in exertion and took to the skies, darting through those final forces to reach to the front flank. The golden armour of their elders shone even through the grime as they cut through the rebellion with practiced ease, faces like stone. They knew the day was not theirs but would do all they could before retreating. Two took to the skies returning to Father, one remained engaged with three smaller soldiers, finishing one by stabbing a blade through her throat. 

Stolas pushed himself hard. Closer. 

The second roared with anger and tried to tackle the elder angel who neatly stepped to the side and swung his blade down. An arch of crimson flew into the sky and the angel crumpled. 

Harder. Closer.

The final angel was more careful, fighting with strategy but he was still outmatched, a blow from the elder angel’s fist saw his helm fly into the sky yet his outspread wings refused to bend.

Caim. 

“Slave!” he dove forward, bashing his shield at the elder’s fist, blade shooting forward and sinking deep into an exposed shoulder. The elder angel shook the space around them in his anger, staggering Caim and smashing him to the ground. He raised his foot and stomped upon each glorious wing, crippling them, smashing bone, bending them unrecognisably.

“NO!” Stolas screamed, the path to his brother made fuzzy by his own tears. 

The elder angel raised its enormous blade. 

Hurry!

And thrust it into Caim’s back. 

The angel’s body jerked before shuddering and falling still.

The elder angel took to the sky.

Stolas crashed onto the corpse littered ground, more blood coating his already saturated body, and crawled to his brother. 

“Caim!? CAIM!?” he rolled the angel over, resting his head in his lap. His eyes were dim, but open, a trickle of blood spilling over his lips. 

“S-”

“Don’t speak. I shan’t y-”

Stolas sobs rendered him incoherent as he bent over his brother, holding him close, desperate to feel those strong hands cradling him to safety once more. 

“Shh.” Caim whispered, Stolas only able to hear due to supporting him as he was. 

“Caim, Caim. Thou canst leave me. My brother I beg thee, please please please.”

A limp hand rose and clumsily rubbed Stolas’s cheek. He clutched it tight and continued to beg, to plead. Ready to throw himself upon Father’s mercy for Caim. 

“Stolas,” he whispered. 

“I am here. Brother I am here. Do not leave, stay with me!”

“T-” Caim coughed, blood spurting from his mouth to hit Stolas’, covering his cheek, an eye, even his own mouth. 

“W-what? Brother!?”

“Thou… shalt, be well.” 

His hand felt to the ground, and Caim breathed his last. 

“No.” Stolas sobbed, each breath a battle to take in as he shook Caim’s body, “Come back, Brother please!” he yelled, hitching and retching as he tried to beg more. His cries turned to incoherent burbling as screams continued around them. Nothing mattered. How could it now?

A body fell from the sky, smashing into him and throwing him from Caim, rolling him onto his back, his hazy gaze now skyward, a figure visible. 

The elder angel.

Stolas’ chest heaved with his cries, his face wet with blood and streaked with tears. His mouth curled into a snarl at the sight of the monster. The slave! The murder!

A fury unlike he’d ever experienced filled his body, darkness spilling from his mouth, his blue eyes turning red from blood, rage and hatred. He flew into the sky, screeching for revenge. His speed took the elder angel by surprise and his blade sunk into the monster’s leg. 

The elder angel spun, wordlessly grabbing Stolas by the throat, his grip crushing, and yanked him upwards. Stolas stared into his expressionless face, saw the blade rise-

He pulled the dagger from his back and plunged it into the elder angel’s eye.

The elder angel reared back and Stolas dove forward, his hands now talons he plunged them over and over into the golden angel’s face, tearing it to shreds as they both fell to the corpse littered ground. He hacked at the other till there was nothing left and screamed to the heavens. 

The other two elder angels descended. 

One struck his wings, their sword so sharp it cut them off in one fell blow. The pain of their loss stilled his anger and his screeched in pain. The other took its blade in both hands. Stolas couldn’t move, the pain, the rage. 

Caim. 

The blade swung low. 

-----------------------------------------

Stolas started up in bed, panting and sweaty. The darkness around him was still. Stella slept on, her quiet breathing all he could hear over his own ragged inhales. His limbs shook as he threw back the little of the sheets still covering his naked form. Rising from the bed, he staggered into the bathroom and ran the tap, splashing freezing water onto his face. His clean face. His shaky leg held him up because there was no injury there now. He sunk onto the toilet and put his head in both hands quiet breathing his only sound anyone would hear. 

It had taken months, but he’d learned how to cry in silence.        

Sleep wouldn’t come anymore tonight. 

He left the bathroom and wandered the halls of his palace, arriving at another bedroom he closed the door and reached for a phone. Stolas dialled the number he knew by heart and, thankfully, a groggy voice picked up the other end.

“Good evening my most gorgeous and well-endowed Blitzy.” He cooed, voice steady and low. 

“What does time matter in the face of passion, my darling? Do come and entertain me, I’ll make it worth your while.” he chuckled.

He waited through a huffed reply.

“Ten minutes, I’ll make myself ready.” He promised, putting the phone down. 

The mask fell as quickly as he’d pulled it up, his expression now pensive, almost fearful as Stolas walked to the balcony of the room. He looked up at the hell’s sky, the red moon.

Blood-red.

He turned away, retreating into the darkness. 

A hand came to rest at his cheek, rubbing the spot gently. 

“Thou shalt be well.” He whispered, sniffing as a final tear fell from the tip of his beak.         

#Fic #Thou Shalt Be Well #{I am MEAN to Stolas} #{This was meant to be a small thing but noooooooooooo} #{Also posted on Ao3!}

[bertievi]

@britishnation

There had been no preparation for him having to learn the names of anyone in government, in office or anywhere other than the peerage. Nearly everyone that walked through the palace to meet with him in such desperate times had to be introduced. Mycroft was no different, he was told to address him as ‘your majesty’ first and ‘sir’ afterwards, to greet with a bow of his head or if he wanted a full bend, then he was shown into a state room, introduced as ‘Mr Holmes of the Intelligence Bureau’  and then left alone with the young king.

Albert could not have been further away from him in the room, overwhelmed with all he was suddenly expected to do but he was as dutiful as they came and despite his urge to hide he did greet him. “Thank you ---for -coming, Mr --Holmes.” He offered and regarded him carefully, still very much a military man an unable to stop himself half assessing him. “I think in the ----coming --months we might get --to see each other often.” A war as large as a world war demanded as such and the British Intelligence was meant to be unmatched and never was it more important.

#britishnation #SuddenAscension #I hope this is okay #If you want anything changed just let me know :)