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tisfan · 4 years

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Title: Flickered Upon Ocean’s Insanity Written by: @tisfan Card: 3023 Square: R4 - SoulBond Rating: Explicit Triggers/warnings: enthusiastic dub con, sex pollen Tags: hydra has issues, Bucky Barnes! Winter Soldier, Sentinel/Guide AU, Forced Soulbonding, ambiguous ending, dub-con, sex pollen, bottom!bucky Created for: @tonystarkbingo Word count: 3560

A/N Title from poem by Munia khan

Tony Stark was not quite twelve when he manifested as a Guide. Youngest ever. With all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities that such a position had.

He started drinking too much by the time he was twelve and a half, and by fourteen, had such a bad reputation as being a troublemaker that no respectable Sentinel would even consider him as a partner. He’d gotten himself thrown out of not one, but three different training academies for Guides and his father threw up his hands, called him a miserable failure, and ignored him as much as possible.

So, Tony went on to MIT at fifteen, continued drinking, studied robotics, and blew stuff up on a regular basis.

It was a good life, he’d decided.

The drinking kept him from feeling other people’s… well, feelings. He had a good friend in his across the hall dorm mate, and by sophomore year, he and Rhodey were living together. He had his robots that didn’t have any messy human feelings at all, and he was as happy as it was possible to be.

Except for the hole.

Everyone had always told him that, as a Guide, he would be incomplete, part of him forever missing, without a Sentinel to protect him, without a purpose for his empathy.

Twelve year old Tony had told people to leave him alone.

Fourteen year old Tony was even ruder, told people to kindly fuck off, only, not kindly.

Sixteen year old Tony mentioned a few times that he knew how to fill that hole just fine.

Eighteen year old Tony was beginning to wonder if everyone had had a point. But it was too late to worry about it now. He had no training, he was a shitty empath, he pretty much hated people, and he was very, very bad at calming himself down, much less anyone else.

So, drinking turned to drugs and an excess of sex, turned into endless nights in the lab trying to figure out the latest puzzle.

He was fine.

That’s what he kept telling himself, anyway. He was fine.

Four days after his parents’ funeral, he was still telling himself he was fine.

His father’s business partner, Obadiah Stane, walked in, supposedly to console Tony about his parents. Or maybe to talk about the business. Tony didn’t know; he was stupidly drunk. And he didn’t much like Obie anyway. There was nothing much wrong with him, exactly, except that his emotions always seemed a tad on the slimy side. Tony ignored it, or drank his way past it. Obie was family.

Except this time, when he came in, Obie had a half dozen mercenaries behind him. “That’s him,” Obie said, and he held out a hand. A dark-haired man with scruffy good looks and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, handed Obie a briefcase.

“Obie, what the hell is going on?” Tony asked.

The scruffy man punched Tony in the face without hesitation, the steady buzz of his emotional state not flickering even a bit. While Tony was spitting blood and trying to crawl away, the man tied him up, gagged him, and stuck a canvas sack over his head.

“We good?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow at Obie, who was counting through bound bundles of hundred dollar bills.

“He’s all but worthless,” Obie said.

“Obviously not,” the man said. “We paid you.”

“No complaints.” Obie ignored Tony’s yelling, pleading, cursing. Patted him on the cheek – as bad as Tony’s face hurt from the first blow, it was as good as a slap – Obie just grinned. “It’s about time you earned your upkeep.”

“Is it ready?” the man carrying Tony like a sack of woozy grain asked. Tony was struggling as best he could, but the man didn’t even seem to notice.

“Body’s planted,” someone else. “They’ll think he got drunk, set fire to the house by accident. He’s always blowing stuff up. No one will think twice about it.”

“Good.”

Tony was shifted in the man’s grip. Another man came up, eyed him. “Let’s keep the noise to a minimum.” He pulled something out of a case and–

The last thing Tony remembered was the glint of reflected flames on the needle in the man’s hand and an acidic, garlic taste in the back of his throat.

“Count backward from ten, please–”

The Soldier was waiting.

His new Guide was being prepared for him.

This one… was different.

He’d been dismissed by the Handler. Which meant the Soldier could go to the gym and practice his fighting. He could go to the training room and oversee the Red Room students. He could report to the range and practice with his weapons.

He could, in fact, sleep, if there was nothing else that occurred to him.

But he was waiting.

Finally, finally, the technicians left the room. The Soldier waited until they passed, and then went to the maintenance room. His Guide was there, shivering, dressed in hospital scrubs. He was soaking wet, coughing, spluttering, on the floor. He’d been uncooperative, the Soldier thought. But as soon as the Soldier made a sound, his feet scraping against the linoleum, the Guide scrambled backward until he hit the wall. There was nowhere to go, and– the Soldier looked. The reactor was already in place, the skin around it puffy and red, a few staple-stitches where they’d made the initial incision.

“Guide,” the Soldier said.

The man blinked at him, eyes red and furious and hurt, and the Soldier realized that he was young, not even twenty, more than likely, more boy than man. “No, I don’t do that, I told them, I told them, I don’t do that,” he said.

“You will,” the Soldier said. “For me.”

“You’re a Sentinel?” the man’s scepticism was palpable. “You can’t be, you’re a–”

The Soldier waited for the Guide to finish his observations, the enamel smooth wall around the Soldier’s mind that kept him safe. The Guides had made it, the Guides would maintain it. No emotion in or out. No being overwhelmed by his senses. No zoning.

“You will be my Guide,” the Soldier repeated. He reached out his hand, not even close enough to touch the Guide. But he wanted to. It was strange, wanting a thing. He wasn’t supposed to want things. He ate when fed, slept when told, fought and killed under orders. He didn’t want things. He was the Fist of Hydra.

There was something, though. Something about this beautiful boy. And the Soldier wanted him. Wanted to take care of him and comfort him and keep him from being hurt ever again.

“I don’t do that,” the Guide repeated. The mask that was keeping him upright crumbled a little as he stared around the room, cold walls, the instruments of torture and pain. The water trough. Everything he had been through, before and after, the reactor was implanted. And he probably didn’t even know what the reactor could do to him. His lip wobbled. “I don’t even know how.”

“I will teach you,” the Soldier said, infinitely patient. There was a thread in his mind, one that had never been there before, and he reached for it, tiny, and frail thing that it was. Like a silver strand that went straight from him, to his Guide. “I will protect you. Take care of you. Come with me.”

When the Guide raised a weary hand to let the Soldier help him to his feet, the thread thickened, strengthened, until it was not a mere spider’s web connecting them, but a rope, coiled, tying them together.

The Soldier lifted him up, and caught him when he swooned. Scooped him up in a bridal carry.

The Guide looked up at him with wide, dark eyes, fragile like a deer’s. “What’s your name?”

The Soldier had a feeling this was not a question he was supposed to answer, but he couldn’t deny his Guide anything that was in his power to give.

“James,” he said. He tasted it on his tongue. Not quite right, but close. “My name is James.”

“Tony,” the Guide said. He paused, then, gently, very, very carefully, he asked, “What happened to you? What’s… what’s wrong with you?”

“A great many things,” James said, and he wasn’t sure which question he was answering.

Tony let the man who called himself James practically carry him, too weak, too tired, and too damn scared to do anything else. He thought he could be strong for torture, and he had. Denied them everything they wanted, with smart assed remarks and swears. He didn’t beg, although he did demand, when they asked him questions, who they were working for, why had Obie done this.

What he didn’t ask was what they wanted.

They were pretty fucking clear on that. They wanted him to serve as Guide to their strongest Sentinel.

Tony didn’t do that. He told them he didn’t do that.

It didn’t seem to make them stop. He would do it, or he would suffer.

“What is this?” he asked, tapping on his chest. It hurt, but not as much as he might have expected. He could feel the taps deep in his chest, like someone was playing the drums on his heart. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling, and the humming that the thing made wasn’t comforting.

“Arc reactor,” James said. “It keeps you alive.”

“Funny how I was doing a great job of that on my own,” Tony muttered. It was sarcastic, but it was all that he could manage. He wobbled, knees going weak. He didn’t want to know how the machine in his chest was keeping him alive. It implied that someone could make him dead in a push of a button or something.

Not that that had never been untrue; pull a trigger, poison a meal, cut a throat. It was amazingly easy to kill a human being by accident. It made one wonder why they kept doing it to each other on purpose.

Still, he’d have to know, eventually. If only because the first mandate of a prisoner was to escape.

James brought him to a room. It wasn’t a very nice room; smooth cement walls, a trifle colder than was comfortable, especially since Tony was still wet. No windows. Slick, linoleum floor.

Not terribly well stocked with furniture, either.

Tony found himself staring at the huge bed that dominated the room, a king sized at least. White, hotel-style sheets, a thin blanket, and a truly ridiculous amount of pillows on top.

No table, no dresser, no chairs. Off to one side was a door, and through that door, Tony could see a shower, stacks of towels.

“What is this?”

“Bonding room,” James said.

As if on queue, the door slid shut behind them and three deadbolts slammed home, one after the other, clack, clack, clack. Like nails in his coffin.

“But we did that,” Tony protested, his brain still stuttering on the stark reality of the bed, the lack of other amenities. A bonding, between Sentinel and Guide was often strengthened through sex; Tony knew that. Everyone knew that.

But Tony wasn’t sure that the bond between them could be any stronger than it already was. He’d never seen a bond like that; he’d never even read about one. Although, like all geniuses, he knew how much he didn’t know.

Tony uttered a cheerless laugh. “So, you’re going to what, fuck compliance into me?”

James blinked at him. “I can’t hurt you, you’re my Guide.”

Tony tapped the thing in his chest harder. “Hate to break it to you, pal, but I’m already pretty damn hurt.” What was he doing, he wondered. Asking to be, what…. Raped? Stockholme syndromed? Good cop, bad cop, Tony goes with and does what the nicest person who kidnapped him says? Yeah, Tony had always known he had self-destructive tendencies; he just hadn’t known it was that bad.

“I can’t–” James touched Tony’s chin, lifted it gently with a strangely cool finger. Tony kept his eyes downcast because he didn’t want to look, and then–

“Holy shit, you have a metal hand?”

“Arm,” James said, softly. “Goes up to the shoulder.”

“That’s… okay, I’m not going to lie, that’s kinda awesome,” Tony admitted.

“Tony, I won’t hurt you, I promise. You’re my Guide. I’m going to take care of you. Just like you take care of me.”

“You keep saying that like your people didn’t just rip a hole in my chest,” Tony screamed, nails digging into his palms as he struggled with what he rather reluctantly concluded was going to be a complete emotional breakdown, and fuck it, and fuck everything, he fucking deserved to have one.

James’ eyes widened a fraction, and he took Tony’s hand, gently opened it up. Tony didn’t want to let him, didn’t want– he didn’t fucking want any of this, but James’ touch was kind and soft and Tony was going to end up sobbing into James’ shoulder, he just fucking knew it was going to happen. Once his hand was flat, James dropped a soft kiss into the center of Tony’s palm, looked up, and spoke in a bare whisper, the most perfect Italian Tony had heard since his mother used to sing him to sleep – before his father sent him off to the first of many terrible boarding schools. “I need your help,” he said.

Tony blinked, stunned out of his breakdown. “What?”

“We can work together, us against them.”

He kissed Tony’s palm again, the feel of his lips were smooth, subtle, sensual. Tony felt a stirring in his groin that he wasn’t prepared for. “What’s happening?”

“The air,” James said. “It’s coactusol. I can smell it. You will comply. I will comply. But I won’t hurt you. I’m… Tony, I am sorry.”

Tony snapped his hand back, used it as a shield over his mouth and nose, but he knew, he knew it was already too late. Fire was building in him, and he knew about coactusol. Alchem-X had gone under because of lawsuits involving their libido enhancing drugs. Supposedly a better Viagra, that worked on women, too, it was supposed to be for people who suffered from lack of interest, or other medical dysfunctions. Instead, it worked like some sort of sex pollen, forcing people to copulate or suffer from cravings, need, and eventually cramps and agonizing pain.

But it did create an urge, and Tony was feeling it. He panted for air and found himself pressing closer to James’ body, eager for skin to skin contact. He couldn’t stop looking at James’ mouth. “Jesus, the stuff works, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” James said. James nudged in, a little closer, nuzzling at Tony’s face until Tony helplessly tipped his chin, giving James access to his mouth for a sweet, utterly necessary, kiss. “I won’t hurt you. I want… I need it, you need it. We’re bonded. They don’t have– they don’t have to do this again, but it’s procedure.”

Those words should have been terrifying, and to some degree they were, but Tony hooked on the word – again.

“Do they do this to you? Before, I mean?”

“Every time.”

“What happens to your guide?”

James drew in a deep breath, let it out with a slow shudder. “Failure is punished. I fail, I fail them.”

Tony’s eyes ached, how wide was he stretching them open, and James’ hand came up to rub against his groin, which felt good, so good that he was almost sidetracked from their urgent conversation. “If they’re killed because of you, how are you supposed to protect me?”

He wasn’t even sure he cared, he needed, he needed. James was already peeling out of his clothes, tactical gear and underclothes. It didn’t take Tony even half the time, a simple hospital gown and his drawers.

By the time James got his pants off, Tony was so hard that he ached, rubbing fitfully at himself, fucking up through his fist. James had a gorgeous cock, thick and smooth, bent a little to the right, a proud curve jutting against his belly.

James tugged Tony in, licking his way into Tony’s mouth. Between frantic, needy kisses, he offered a handful of promises, he’d protect Tony, love him, take care of him.

And Tony let him, because he didn’t know what else to do. Good cop, bad cop, aphrodisiacs in the air, death threat hanging over his head, it was all gone. Everything that was left was feeling and need, a fountainhead of emotion that was nothing he’d ever understand. Tony didn’t know where it was coming from, or what would happen when this was over, but right now, he needed.

“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you,” James swore, and in that moment, Tony believed it.

He could feel, a bit, James’ emotions pushing at him, the senses dialed up to eleven, the heat of Tony’s skin, the smell of his breath, the sound of his heart, the taste of his mouth, the sight of him, naked and quivering. James keened, breathing coming faster, his heart pounding, too much, too much. He was trying to focus on one sense, to block the others out, but Tony could tell it wasn’t working, that he was an inch away from being lost to sensation, to zoning out, to being useless. Staring at the wall, unable to move, or think, until something broke it.

Tony couldn’t afford that right now, and neither could James. If James zoned out while they had coactusol in their system would be painful for both of them. Looked like Tony was going to have to drive. Or, leastways, he didn’t want James to be topping when he went into the zone. That was a good way for everyone to have a bad time of it.

“Shhhh,” Tony said, and he brought James in for another kiss. “It’s okay, close your eyes, you don’t need everything right now. I’m right here.” He guided James to the bed, pushed him down lightly on it. “You just close your eyes, relax. I’ll take care of everything.”

There was lube next to the bed, and Tony supposed he ought to feel some measure of gratitude that they – whoever they were, really – didn’t expect them to go through with it with just spit. Although Tony absolutely would have, or a blow job, or something, because if he didn’t get some, and that right soon, he was going to explode.

Prep wasn’t tender, or playful; it was raw and unrestrained, and James was writhing against the sheets in no time, moaning. There was a small part of Tony’s backbrain that was protesting this; but really, it wasn’t like he hadn’t had sex with less consent. Drunken yes still means no and all that. James was eager, he was wanting it, and it really, in the end, didn’t matter.

They were bonded, they were probably going to end up fucking sooner or later, might as well be sooner, right.

“Promise you won’t hate me once the afterglow wears off,” Tony muttered.

James made some wordless, needy noise under Tony, and it was too late to worry about consent, too late by far to do anything about their situation.

He wondered if it was always like this, for James. Quite frankly, as strong a Sentinel as he was, he’d practically have to bottom, just because the temptation to zone out would be too strong to resist. Tony knew he didn’t want to be fucked by someone who might hit a zone out and be too distracted to stop. Or might hurt Tony.

I’ll never hurt you.

“It’s okay,” Tony crooned, pushing in to that slicked, heated clutch. “I’ve got you, you just let me take care of you.”

James shifted, lifted his hips a little, urging Tony on. His breath sawed harshly in his throat and he thrust in, burying himself to the hilt in James’ compliant body. Gone was any thought of kindness, of tenderness. He was lost in the rhythm, pumping furiously, their bodies slapping together like slow applause.

James reached backward, hand groping for Tony’s and Tony laced their fingers together, used that grip to drive himself even faster, harder, deeper. It didn’t take long until he was on the shuddering edge of it. “Your turn,” Tony whispered, and he guided James’ hand under his body. James seemed to get the idea, what to do, stroking himself almost punishingly hard.

Tony clenched his fingers against the flesh of James’ thighs, watching as the skin turned red, then white, then red again. He’d probably leave bruises and he didn’t care at all.

A harsh, shaking groan forced itself out of Tony’s throat, and he came like he was breaking in half. Crying out, sharp and shuddering, Tony came, spilling himself into his Sentinel.

And James was his, even as much as he was James’. It didn’t matter that it was what Hydra wanted, it was fact, and Tony couldn’t change it.

Not without breaking them both into pieces.

Afterward, James managed to roll over and Tony found himself cradled against a warm, sated body. “We’ll probably go again, a few times,” James said, stroking Tony’s cheek, the side of his neck, down his arm. “They won’t let us go, until they’re sure.”

“I’m already sure,” Tony said.

“Me, too.”

#tonystarkbingo2020 #Sentinel/guide #sex pollen #lemons #winteriron

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qqueenofhades · 7 years

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Medieval cosmetics: The history of looking good

So, I recently saw a post on my dash with someone lamenting the fact that in the medieval era, they would have been considered ugly as there was no makeup, and someone else offering a well-meant attempt to reassure them: that since they’d have no pox scars, rotten teeth, filthy hair, etc, all medieval men would think they were amazingly hot. While I appreciate the sentiment, there’s.... more than a little mythology on both sides of this idea, and frankly, our medieval foremothers would be surprised and insulted to hear that they were apparently the stereotyped bunch of unwashed, snaggle-toothed crones who put no care or effort into their appearance, and had no tools with which to do so.

(Or: Yep. Hilary Has More Things To Say. You probably know where this is going.)

I answered an ask a couple weeks ago that was mostly about medieval gynecological care and the accuracy of the “mother dying in childbirth” stereotype, but which also touched on some of the somehow still-widely-believed myths about medieval personal care and cleanliness. Let’s start with bathing. Medieval people bathed, full stop. Not as frequently as we do, and not in the same ways, but the “people never washed in Ye Olde Dark Ages” chestnut needs to be decidedly consigned to the historical dustbin where it belongs. “A Short History of Bathing Before 1601″ is a good place to start, as it follows the development of bathing culture from ancient Rome (where bathhouses were known for their use as gathering places and influential centers of political debate) through to the modern era. Yes, common people as well as the nobility washed fairly frequently. Bathing was a favored social and leisure activity and a central part of hospitality for guests. Hey, look at all these images in medieval manuscripts of people bathing. Or De balneis Puteolanis, which is basically a thirteenth-century travel guide to the best baths in Italy. Or these medieval Spanish civic codes about when men, women, and Jews were allowed to use the public bath house. There was also, as referenced in the above ask, the practice of washing faces, hands, etc daily, and sometimes more than once. Feasts involved elaborate protocol about who was allowed to perform certain tasks, including bringing in the bowls of scented water to wash between courses. They associated filth with disease (logically). Anyway. Let’s move on.

Combs are some of the oldest (and most common) objects found in medieval graves -- i.e. they were a standard part of the “grave goods” for the deceased, and were highly valued possessions. Look, it’s a young woman combing her hair (that article also discusses the history of medieval makeup for men, which was totally a thing and likewise also suspected of being “unmanly.”) The Luttrell Psalter, now in the British Library, includes among its many illuminations one of a young woman having her hair elaborately combed and styled by an attendant. There were extensive discourses on what constituted an ideally attractive medieval woman, and the study of aesthetics and the nature of beauty is one of the oldest and most central philosophical enquiries in the world (as were beauty standards in antiquity). Having a pale complexion was a sign of wealth (you didn’t have to work outdoors in the sun) and women used all kinds of pastes and powders to achieve that effect. Remember the Trotula, the medieval gynecological textbook we talked about in the childbirth ask? Well, it is actually three texts, and the entire third text, De ornatu mulierum (On Women’s Cosmetics) is dedicated to makeup and cosmetics. What weird and gross sort of things do they advocate, cry editors of “7 Horrifying Medieval Beauty Tips You Won’t Believe!”-style articles? Well...

First come general depilatories for overall care of the skin. Then there are recipes for care of the hair: for making it long and dark, thick and lovely, or soft and fine. For care of the face, there are recipes for removing unwanted hair, whitening the skin, removing blemishes or abscesses, and exfoliating the skin, plus general facial creams. For the lips, there is a special unguent of honey to soften them, plus colorants to dye the lips and gums. For the care of teeth and prevention of bad breath, there are five different recipes. The final chapter is on hygiene of the genitalia. [...] A prescription said to be used by Muslim women then follows.[...] The author gives detailed instructions on how to apply the water just prior to intercourse, together with a powder that the woman is supposed to rub on her chest, breasts, and genitalia. She is also to wash her partner’s genitals with a cloth sprinkled with the same sweet-smelling powder.

Wait so... hair care, skin and facial creams, toothpaste, lipstick, and sexual hygiene?? With the latter based on that used by Muslim women??? Zounds! How strange and unthinkable!

L’ornement des Dames, an Anglo-Norman text of the thirteenth century, offers more tips and tricks, and explicitly references the authority of both the Trotula and Muslim women: “I shall not forget either what I learnt at Messina from a Saracen woman. She was a doctor for the people of her faith [...] according to what I heard from Trotula of Salerno, a woman who does not trust her is a fool.” So yes. The beauty regimes of Muslim women were transmitted to and shared by Christian women, especially in diverse places like medieval Sicily, and this was valuable and trusted advice. Gee. It’s almost like women have always a) cared about their appearance, and b) united to flip one giant middle finger at the patriarchy. (You can also read more about skincare and cosmetics.) Speaking of female health authorities, you have definitely (or you should have) heard of Hildegard von Bingen, a twelfth-century abbess and towering genius who was the trusted advisor of kings and popes and wrote treatises on everything from music to medicine to natural science (she is regarded as the founder of the discipline in Germany). This included the vast Physica, a handbook on health and medicine, and Causae et curae, another medical textbook.

Did the church grumble and gripe about women putting on excessive adornments and being too fixated by makeup and the dangers of vanity and etc etc? You bet they did. Did women ignore the hell out of this and wear makeup and fancy clothes anyway? You bet they damn well did. Also, medieval society was fuckin’ obsessed with fashion (especially in the fourteenth century.) The sumptuary laws, which appeared for the first time in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, regulated which classes of society were allowed to wear what (so that fancy furs and silks and jewels were reserved for the nobility, and less expensive cloth and trimming were the province of the lower classes -- the idea was that you could know someone’s station in life just by looking at them). These were insanely detailed, and went down to regulating the height of someone’s high heels. So yes, theoretically, the stiletto police could stop you in fourteenth-century England, whip out a measuring tape, and see if you were literally too big for your britches.

(”But, but,” you stammer. “Surely they had rotten teeth?” Well, this is probably a bad time to note that in addition to the five toothpaste remedies mentioned in the Trotula, there are even more. Jewish and Muslim natural philosophers and herbalists had all kinds of recommendations -- see Practical Materia Medica of the Medieval Eastern Mediterranean. Also, since there was no processed sugar in their diet, their dentistry was far better than, say, the Elizabethans, and white and regular teeth were highly prized. There would be wear and tear from grist, but since fine-milled white bread was a status symbol, the wealthy could afford to have bread that did not contain it, and thus good teeth.)

Of course, everyone wasn’t just getting dressed up with, so to speak, nowhere to go. What about sex? It never happened unless it was marital rape, right? (/side-eyes a certain unnamed quasi-medieval television show). Oh no. Medieval people loved the shit out of sex. Pastourelles were an immensely popular poetic genre which almost always included the protagonist having a romp with a pretty shepherdess, and anyone who’s read any Chaucer knows how bawdy it can get. Even Chaucer, however, is put to shame by the fabliaux, which are a vast collection of Old French poems that have titles so ribald that I could not say them aloud to an undergraduate class. (”The Ring That Controlled Erections” and “The Peekaboo Priest” are about the tamest that I can think of, but I gotta say I’m fond of “Long Butthole Berengier” and the one called simply “The Fucker,” because literally people are people everywhere and always. And yes, you perverted person, you can read the lot of them here.) This was incredibly explicit and bawdy popular literature that was pretty much exactly medieval porn (and like usual porn, did not exactly serve as any kind of precursor of feminist media or positive female representation, but Misogyny, Take a Shot.)

So yes. Once more (surprise!) the history of cosmetics goes back at least six thousand years, and is one of the oldest aspects of documented social history in the world. It existed broadly and accessibly in the medieval world, where women had other women writing books on it for them, and was just as much as a concern as it is now. People have always liked to look good, smell good, accessorize, dress fashionably, try weird beauty trends, and so forth. So if by some accident you do stumble into a time machine and end up in medieval Europe, you’ll have plenty of choices. Our medieval foremothers, and the men who loved them and thought they were beautiful, thank you for your time.

#history #medieval history #history of cosmetics #history of makeup #women in history #history of medicine

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understanding-agape · 7 years

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Forget about that Yurio

Translated from Spanish with the permission of the original author: gemini in tauro. (Thanks Sweetie!)

Title: Forget about that Yurio.

Disclaimer: I don’t know the name of the creator (since I’m still not interested a lot in the series), but I do know that Yuri! On Ice does not belong to me.

Comments directed to Princesa Andrmeda: Since your birthday is coming in two months and I have to give you something, I’ll give you something from the fandom that still gives me the oogie, so you can see just how much I appreciate you. I suppose you’ve already guessed where the title came from?

However, your condition for writing my Edward/Herman was that I read a Victurio, and I didn’t want the lemon so… well, here is my solution. I hope you enjoy your early birthday since I won’t give you anything physical because I’m stingy and… bye!

Fair warning: Like around 80% of Victurio fanfiction, this one won’t be “sugar n’ spice n’ everything nice”, and this is actually the first time I have written such sensitive subjects… on full. If necessary, please refresh the browsing window.

Fair warning II: Since I haven’t read anything of these two, nor seen the series, it is somewhat (very) possible I wrote them Out Of Character.

Forget about that Yurio

《 The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time are no longer the same.》

—Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines; Pablo Neruda .

Viktor Nikiforov entered tripping into the emergency room. It wasn’t very often he received news that had Yuri and the hospital linked, and so something in his brain balanced it quickly and made him overreact. As fast as the traffic jam had allowed him to arrive the place, taking huge breaths, looking to fill his lungs as he paid the cab driver and enter still running.

“Tell me in which room is he! ” He demanded, in a trembling mix of Japanese and his much accentuated mother tongue. Seeing him enter, with his disheveled hair and the mad look in his eyes, it would’ve made anyone just roll their eyes and pass him by as they deemed him insane. Nonetheless, the reception lady, who so happened to be learning foreign languages and having decided for the one to belonged to a famous person, had managed to understand him, and so she pointed out to him, with the utmost respect possible (Japanese overall), that he would have to wait a couple more hours in the hospital, due to the fact that the operation was yet to be done.

Hence you see him waiting.

What a pity he had wasted three hours of his life.

He hadn’t gone home immediately. Anyone could’ve predicted that.

And whilst he drowned emotions —which were idiotic, really, they took the fun out of everything he did. He could just imagine what he would be able to do had he not have such a huge ego, a slim figure to take care of and a small leftover of dignity… those three tied him up— in the first sake he managed to find —a bar was a couple of blocks away from the hospital, they apparently sold and lived good— he was going over and over again repeating the very same words of the doctor.

He wasn’t dead, no. Yurio was still alive, though unconscious. His mind had skipped all the technical stuff that he had yet to understand —and would probably never understand anyways— from the medical area and went directly to his keywords.

Apparent sleep. Zero activity on the left area of the brain.

Coma.

Not knowing whether his head was spinning from going so many times over those words or from such an enormous intake of alcohol, he passed a hand through his hair, he passed a hand though his hair, and gently tried to comfort himself, saying that he was acting wrongly, that his me from before, that ungrateful brat, would feel embarrassed to see him there, drink in hand, and he sighed.

Arriving to his apartment, he said hi to Makkachin, and Makkachin said hi to him too, eager to see his owner was back already. Viktor greeted him, not cheery in the very least. At seeing his owner’s state, the dog did the same, and tilted his head, confused.

Viktor didn’t think about it for too long, and decided that he would go directly to sleep. In the morning he would have the price of two sake bottles luring over his head, though at this rate it couldn’t feel good.

No, he couldn’t feel. Not even when the Swiss razor —quite an expensive birthday gift, exotic and of good taste… most of the time— had slashed through the flesh in his arm. He was pretty sure the color inside his bathroom would never be this pristine white again.

“Viktor-san… I received the message from Yuri telling me to… Viktor-san!”

And right after Yuuri had seen the disaster that he had made in his bathroom —poor white tiles, he would miss them— he had fallen into blissful nothing, dark and cold, just as he expected to.

Oh, how he would’ve wanted it to last.

He woke up hours later (though it felt like just seconds), with a strong smell of antiseptic, white lights blinding him and the loud beeping noise of the monitor, the one that checked the supposed beating of his heart, that at this very moment only lived with mechanical movements.

He would’ve liked to stay that way longer. The light was too brilliant and reality too dark.

What made him retreat from that peace that he had just found, was a tongue, raspy and full of drool and love. He pretended to be asleep for a few more seconds, even if the dog drool was starting to turn itchy. That had alerted the figure in the couch, who seemed to be glad his idol was still alive.

He would’ve liked for it not to be that way. He was pretty sure he would’ve left Makkachin in pretty competent hands, ain’t that right, Makkachin?

When the doctor, some Asaho Miyamoto —it was always the same thing with these Japanese guys, there was a Yama, there was a Moto, it was oh very obvious they loved hiking and books (there was a reason one of the characters that named the country was that of books)— arrived the room and explained to him that despite the fact that he was still alive, had Yuuri gotten to his apartment a few minutes later, he wouldn’t be there, with all the blood loss and all those technicalities that his brain decided to block yet again, Yuuri was still a newbie in all this, he thought, whilst he saw the guy nodding with energy and responded everything he said. Miyamoto- sensei said he would be let out when they considered he was no longer prone to have another “accident” like the one he just did, which would have to be approved by the psychiatric the hospital had —take a wild guess… he was named Tanaka (he must be one of those weirdoes of rice and swords, he could be sure of it).

He agreed, and the doctor bid him goodnight saying the nurse (whose name started with something… akin to tree) had his dinner. No razor-sharp cutlery, you know, only those plastic, made-for-children ones, really cheap at that too and so horribly big and annoying.

The dish in question was made out of red bean that according to what they said helped to the recovery of the so-called red-cells, but in that moment, sunk into its own juice along with a small dosage of salt and, he was sure, some sugar, gave his body an overwhelming sense of abandonment, that ran through all the arteries, veins and blood vases available in his body, in the same amounts as his blood. Who would’ve said that biology and philosophy were such great friends. Viktor couldn’t be sure, since the inside structure of the body was not really his forte and he failed every single letter in a poem.

Night had arrived, Yuuri said he couldn’t stay with him (compromises with whomever-he-was-with-at-the-moment-and-whose-identity-was-unknown) and said goodbye, sneaking Makkachin out along with him, promising to feed him in the morning. Viktor smiled, pretending that the Japanese had taken a great weight off his shoulders.

When the curfew arrived, Viktor was already into the fifth depth of sleep. Well, something like that. He changed depths. Now the first, now the fifth. Now resting, now staring at the ceiling. He had seen so many flaws within the white concrete that night that he would give a huge list to whoever was in charge of repairing the building.

Hours passed, and all his restlessness had made itself present in the form of insomnia and hyperactivity, he decided opening his eyes. Hardly, he had managed to get his hands over his head (and that would make the IV get out, but who cared anyway?), managing to find a more comfortable position to be in, and he smiled, somewhat void.

After some time of being in that same position, he turned his face to where a shadow was lurking, whom he recognized instantly, his blond hair had no comparison, his gaze a little dry and his skin seemed to glow. After staring a little, he returned his gaze to the ceiling and let out a condescending chuckle; a glas wen invading his face.

“Dear god… I must be losing my head, am I not, Yurotchka?”

The figure on the other side of the room didn’t laugh along with him —and he hadn’t expected it to, it wouldn’t have been his Yuri if he had—, instead turned to stare at him, so quietly that Viktor almost feared it was a hologram placed there by the doctors. To complain, he let out another condescending laugh—ah, how he hated it.

After a few minutes where there only the remnants of Viktor´s (now awkward) laugh could be heard; he decided to clear his throat. “Since I suppose this is a hallucination, might as well use it to my advantage. How have you been in your coma, Yurotchka?”

Yuri didn’t answer. Instead, walked a couple more steps to get closer to him, and Viktor felt that his heart could beat out of his chest at any moment. And not in the sense that he welcomed his closeness, but dreaded it to some extent, though he wasn’t quite sure if he liked that constriction in his chest.

“What makes you think that I am him?” He answered, the words had gotten out so serene from his lips, almost languidly so, that Viktor did not believe it possible that one person have such an aura that professed tranquility in itself, but that at the same time made him sick to the stomach and made him want to get away from him, as he approached the bed. “I’m your guide, Nikiforov Viktor, and there are people who wish harm to fall upon you by their own means.”

The person in the bed’s eyes widened, astonished. Though his unconscious was telling him to get away, that that creature could be one of those, the ones they said, that wished him harm. But neither his legs nor any other part of his body seemed to obey him, instead, he had sat and waited for him to come close.

“Are you” Viktor trailed off, one hand nearing that angelical, almost see-through face that was in front of him, and he became surprised as that same hand passed through his cheek, but, unlike all beliefs there were about ghosts (if he was one, that is), being his hand inside that plasma, he felt a warmth sensation filling him “…real?”

“Regularly, us guides, we adopt the image of someone close to whom we are supposed to protect, so that they will not feel scared upon seeing us.” Yuri did not seemed fazed by the fact that Viktor could go through his cheek. “There are times in which the person does not recognize us, because we protect them since childhood. But in your case… well, you hadn’t really needed protection… until more recent dates… I suppose you remember them, do you not?”

Viktor stopped paying attention to his hand that was between Yuri’s cheek and teeth. He stared at his bed, for a few seconds, embarrassed and nodded. “…of course I do…”

“I said it already and I do not plan on repeating it, Nikiforov Viktor,” Yuri went on again, this time staring at him with a mix of worry and fury. “What you were about to do wasn’t the smartest way to go about it. There are whom desire you, and I am no longer referring to those on the human world; they were dangerously close to achieving it were it not for the help of Katsuki Yuuri.”

“Yuri…”

The blond shook his head. “Nikiforov Viktor, many of my kind believe that you are not deserving of my protection, and after witnessing such attempt you did a few hours ago… I do not believe so either.” How could it be that he was able to be serene and at the same time, contain the fury of the 7 dark princes, contain God’s wrath, His holy punishment… all with only changing the tone those last five words had been spoken in? “I have favors to repay, however, so I find myself deprived from making that decision, and therefore must remain by your side, until the moment your soul has reached the time to part.”

Viktor gave a bursting, condescending laugh, there had been too much condescendence in only one night. “And now what? Are you going to tell me there is a paradise up there? That God waits for me to reach His side, never to leave it?”

“God only exists if you so wish to believe in him.” The figure answered, and even if the tone he was using couldn’t be classified as defensive, the gaze that Yuri was directing to Viktor looked more like a threat than an answer. “Unfortunately, it is not the same deal with demons. It is way easier to see them within people, than seeing those who have light inside them.”

“Way too deep coming from a creature willing to protect me,” he mumbled quietly to himself. “Yuri, listen, I…”

“Forget about that Yuri Plisetsky, Nikiforov Viktor. Forget about him.”

“But…”

“Or at least,” he interrupted again, “forget that I am him.”

Viktor started thinking. If it had been Yuri —his Yuri— by this point surely he would be already yelling, probably the same things (that he would forget about him, that he would not see him again), but he wouldn’t have that creepy aura around him, that seemed to consume everything inside the room, be it good or bad. It wouldn’t be warm touching him, it would be colder than his beloved Russia, his skin would not be shining, or at least not in the supernatural way this Yuri did—though it would also be a supernatural being’s one, thus that one objection did not fit in the frame at all.

“But… why?” His hands were damp, and his cheeks were two tear cascades. He belatedly realized it, the fact that he didn’t want to accept it.

“I was asked to protect you, as a favor to repay, but this is more than enough.”

“You,” he sniffled, he didn’t understand where those tears had come from, maybe a secondary effect of paranormal encounters, “the guides, do you only adopt the figure of… dead people, or could it also be of the quick?”

“If you had not known the answer to that, then you would not be expressing such razliubit.”

Viktor tried to smile, even though his lips had cracked into a grimace that explain all the things the face in front of him couldn’t.

Yuri sighed, and with one of his hand, cupped his cheek. Viktor felt his breathing come to a halt, surprised that he was able to touch him but he couldn’t touch him back, and saw in his eyes an all too familiar glimpse.

“The person who sent me, Nikiforov Viktor, asked me a last favor, something for you to remember them by,” Viktor didn’t understand it pretty well, even after those lips, so forbidden, so angelical, so glorious, softly pressed against his, so mortal and unsavory,

He had barely taken in the situation, the kiss had already ended, Viktor, as if getting out of a daze, had his eyes widened and observed Yuri , who stared back, as if inspecting the reaction of a really unstable experiment. Viktor felt his lips pucker slightly, not enough to be noticeable, but enough to send Yuri the signal that he had understood.

“Tell them that their gift is more than appreciated, to whoever sent you,” he answered, and he thought he had never felt so in peace with himself… with the world, the demons and angels inside him.

He couldn’t remember much of what happened the night after their encounter. He was pretty sure that the light coming from every single millimeter in the room was overwhelming, not like it was a new thing; he could listen to Yuuri coming and going to tell him good morning and to mention that doctor Miyamoto, as well as many of the nurses that had to tend to him because the alarm had activated, apparently his IV had gotten out.

“You know, Viktor-san? If it hadn’t been for Yuri’s message I wouldn’t have made it in time.” Viktor stopped pretending he was fine and started at Yuuri, confused. “Speaking of, how has he been lately?”

Viktor didn’t have the opportunity to answer, Miyamoto-sensei entered the room and said good morning, asked him if he had problems sleeping at night and if he needed everything.

“I just need one thing,” the doctor nodded and awaited for the order to come, “if I’m not mistaken, this is the same hospital where Yuri is, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Mr. Nikiforov, though I suppose a visit to patient Plisetsky would not be the most adequate thing in your state and what we are striving in this institution is…”

“I’m not talking about that, Miyamoto-sensei.”

“Huh?” Yuuri frowned his brow, unknowledgeable in regards of the situation. “Hospitalized? What do you mean?”

“Then, Mr. Nikiforov? What is it that your want?” Inquired the man.

“He’s suffering, and it pains me to see him in such state, I plead you to unplug him.” Yuuri stared incredulous, but dared not say a thing. The doctor looked curious, and then nodded.

“We received a call from his parents at dawn. We already had their permission but were not sure if you wished to know.”

The months flew by, and Viktor had learned to live with the spontaneous apparitions of Yuri . There were times where months could go on without a single trace, and others where on full weeks he was woken up by him in the middle of the night, daily, to find him to a small distance to him, saying he did that to make others know he was protecting him. And even though Viktor couldn’t see them (he did not have some super sense that let him know it) he believed him, because he was his guide. And that’s what guides were for, right?

It had been four months since the last time he had seen him. He touched his hair a little nervous, it was a little below the shoulders, even if he had tied it in a ponytail. He sighed, and in it he could appreciate the low temperature in the weather. Oh, how he had missed his beloved Russia.

Since he had arrived from Japan a week ago, upon arriving he had breathed in and had said so beautifully in his accentuated language I’m finally home.

After a couple of minutes of observing the establishment he decided to enter.

Despite everything that he had expected, it was warmer on the inside than the outside, and even if it came as a surprise, he couldn’t help but smile thankful.

He had no idea how much time had passed, with his skates echoing in the stadium, so big like his conscience and so void like his chest; but there was a moment, when he was able to see him again. After some long four months, he saw him again. Smiling like someone who just saw an old and longed friend, he saw him from the other side of the court and made him some gestures that he was coming over. In a matter of seconds —bless acceleration and gravity, things that he did understand— he was leaning on the railing.

“It’s good to see you again,” the other one nodded, and got close to him, so Viktor would no longer have to yell.

“There has not been anyone out there lately with plans to take you, so there was really no necessity for me to handle the situation,” he said, as if that explained completely his four-month absence. Viktor didn’t say anything to it, it was true that he hadn’t been assigned to him originally, so he could only thank that he was there, now. “As of now, there is only someone here that wishes something from you.”

“Are you kidding? And what would they want from me?” He imagined demons, those out of French or American videogames, great horns, half-goat half-human, grotesquely disfigured and arms so little they might as well be T-rex’s.

“They are on the other side of the stadium,” he declared, self-assured it was this way. “Though I can assure you they are no threat to you.”

“Do you think they will make themselves visible to me?” Viktor asked, with a feigned smirk. Yuri (like he had started calling him again at some point) didn’t imitate the gesture, but only nodded.

“If you wish to see them, you will take my hand and will be capable of it.”

Not having much to lose, he grabbed the offered hand and immediately saw him disappearing. He arched an eyebrow, confused, not knowing at the beginning what was happening. It was gratifying, months later, to know he hadn’t lost him forever, nor that they had fused together. For a moment, confusion was the only thing his brow had no qualms of showing.

As the guide had indicated, he observed the other side, where he supposed was whomever it was. His eyes widened in clear shock, though his gaze turned into a softer one quickly, sweetness, reminiscence and a melancholy he didn’t know he possessed.

Dressed in a white suit —a variation of the one he had worn at Agape — and hair so beautifully styled, was Yuri. And if it hadn’t been for the sound of the skates he would’ve though he was an angel, since from his suit wings were born and he was floating mere millimeters above the ice.

Tchaikovsky could be heard faintly, even if only Viktor’s ears were capable of relating such music —so tragic, so emotional, so beautiful— with such movements —calculated, graceful, divine— the blond was making. There were times where music could never be as emotive like the way it was played was capable of being. In this case, Tchaikovsky playing the last song of a swan, as beautiful as it was, could never match what Viktor saw Yuri was capable of showing, what he was capable of expressing. Tchaikovsky tried to imitate a swan, whereas Yuri had managed to turn into one.

And so, as the music neared its end, Viktor could see the figure of his dear kitten become see-through, and little by little, disappear; on such a point where, with his arms placed in position number five and his legs on position number four, Viktor could only be sure of having seen him one second… one… second, that he wished to transform into eternity.

“ ... До свидания… дорогая… ” he murmured, to the nothingness that had replaced the spot once belonging to Yuri in his heart.

He did nothing to avoid the sensation, it was calming and soothing, it was a realization, that even if you didn’t see it, it did not mean it wasn’t there. That even if you couldn’t touch it, it wasn’t only a product of your imagination when he could once touch his cheeks, and strived to confess. That just because it didn’t hurt him anymore, it didn’t mean he had stopped missing him, loving him.

Because he did —and he felt extremely cheesy for it.

《Years will trickle by. We will engage eternally in battle. We will never be together. We will die, again and again, longing for an impossible end.

But as I’ve said, you should know by now: I will never give up》

—Eternally Never Yours; EchoEternal .

Translations and/or clarifications:

(1) Glas wen : s. (from Wellish) Literally, “blue smile.” A smirk.

(2) Razliubit : v. (from Russian) “Falling out of love.”

(3) До свидания… дорогая: “Goodbye… my beloved.”

(4)Music Yuri was skating to: Suite from Swan lake.

Ending notes: thanks for reading until here, as I have already said up there, I'm not really fond of this fandom. It seemed too… um, false to me. Even though so, to Daniela it didn’t. That's why I’d like if you would (and I plead you to) respect the work. You can criticize my plots, my character management, my word management, but not the pairing. Just like you have one, Princess has one, and I would like that just as she makes the effort to respect yours, for you to respect hers; I apologize beforehand if spilling the soup like that, without having prior (direct) contact with the other participants in the fandom, was a little harsh.

If you liked it, I'm very glad you did, I hope to have the gall again to get into this small hole, maybe even staying.

Bye!

—gem—

#yuri plisetsky #viktor nikiforov #yuuri katsuki #vikturio #victurio #translation #russian weekend #victurio weekend #yoi #yuri!!! on ice

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