#vaguely sir john posting

[calciumdeficientt]

tuunbaq is for the girls ONLY (slides pathetically down an ice hole)

#the terror #the terror amc #vaguely sir john posting #the terror 2018 #idk where my brain was at in the creation process for this #tuunbaq

[sednonamoris]

love, too, will ruin us

Pairing: John Price x gn!reader

Summary: You and Price take advantage of a rare sunny day in England over leave. The brief foray into civilian life has your imagination running wild.

Warnings: Penetrative sex (vague), strong language, mild angst, fluff, two raging nationalists in a relationship

Word count: 1,497

A/N: Resposting the fourth installment of my ‘hellhound’ series (cross-posted to AO3) bc tumblr ate the end of the last one and I didn’t catch it until just now 🤦‍♀️ Reading the others isn’t technically necessary but they do provide context for Price and Hound’s relationship - cheers!!

—

It’s cruel to let yourself dream of domesticity, but when he fucks you slow in late morning light it’s hard not to imagine every day starting this way. Images of a shared flat join the stars behind your eyelids when pleasure overwhelms your senses. Breakfasts for two accompany the taste of him on your tongue. You hear phantom rows over whose turn it is to do dishes between hot breaths panted into your neck.

War brought you together, so long ago now, but who might you be without it? Is there a future where you won’t watch him bleed out full of bullet holes? Where you both come home for mornings like this and stay? 

John’s teeth graze the skin of your neck and you shiver.

“Distracted, are we?” he teases past the dark blue lust in his eyes. 

“Oh, you know,” you say like you weren’t just lost in maybes and almosts and wouldn’t it be nice somedays. “Fancied a birdwatch this morning, but someone just couldn’t get enough of me. All I’ve seen so far is the English Morning-Woodcock.” 

The roll of his eyes is heavier than the press of his warm body on yours, and you can’t help the grin that steals across your face.

“You think you’re so clever,” he groans. 

“Up here for thinkin’,” you quip back, half breathless. It becomes a moan when he pistons his hips into yours just so. 

“Down there for dancing, is that how it goes?” Smug bastard.

“We’ll make a proper Irishman of you yet.”

He shakes his head to hide a smile, crooked and unguarded in the lines of too-bright sunshine that peek through slatted blinds. “Shut up and let me fuck you.” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Cheeky,” he warns before kissing the smile off your lips. 

You can’t find it in yourself to mind as he guides your body to the peak of its pleasure, hands tracing familiar skin, scars, sins. Yours wander over him as well, fingers running against the hairs on his chest, palms smoothing over battle scars, nails raking down the span of his shoulders. He comes undone with a sigh of your name so sweet that the pleasant ache between your legs dulls in comparison to the one in your chest. 

You’ll never get tired of how much you love him. You’ll never not want to keep him here with you in these quiet moments forever.

But this, as ever, is a momentary reprieve. You settle back into crisp white hotel sheets and stretch your limbs after a morning spent twisted in every position. John presses a warm kiss to your forehead before he rolls over to use the bathroom. He comes back with a wet rag - just the perfect temperature - to clean you up. 

“Did you have anything else planned over leave?” you ask.

He looks up from between your bare thighs with a spark of mischief in his eyes. “The only thing I ever plan on is you, love. Could stay here all day if you let me.”

The smile that overtakes your face is wide and entirely sappy and you see it mirrored in the creases at the corners of his eyes. 

“Well I have plans,” you say. “Get dressed, you’re coming, too.”

—

“Please tell me your plans involve more than going to the chippy up the road,” Price says. 

“Obviously,” you roll your eyes at him as you join the queue. “We’ll have a nice stroll in the park, too. Can’t stay inside the one day it isn’t pissing rain in England.”

He shakes his head. “Coming from a Paddy.”

“Your Paddy, so watch it, cunt.” 

The woman behind the counter interrupts your bickering to ask after your orders. John pays for you both, but not without a cheeky comment from you about reparations that even the chip lady laughs at. 

When you step back out into the street the hustle and bustle of London greets you. The sun shines bright and unabashed by the smattering of clouds in the early afternoon sky - fluffy and white, for once. The shopfronts you pass by are crowded, full up with loudly dressed passers-by and lively conversations that echo across busy streets. Everyone and their mother is out enjoying the day. After so long on the job crowds like this can set your teeth on edge, but the park isn’t that far, now.

Parents and lovers and little old ladies have set up on blankets across the sprawling green lawns. Children race across the green with wild shrieking laughter. Some play tag and others pilot kites and more still chant childhood songs and beg their parents to join in. Wicker baskets with packed lunches wrapped in wax paper and love dot the landscape, one for every picnic blanket making its biannual appearance along with the sunshine. 

John’s hand is warm in yours as you drag him over to the one unoccupied bench. Dappled sunlight filters through the shade of the chestnut trees that line the little paved path and streaks the blue of his eyes with gold when he looks over at you. Side by side, the two of you enjoy the day. You eat your meal in pleasant quiet, occasionally stealing one of John’s chips just to see that fond exasperation he saves for you cross his face.

He takes the trash for the both of you to the bin once you’ve finished. You take the time to appreciate his soldier’s physique in light civilian clothes. His smile is warmer than the sun on his return, and you feel yourself burn up with it.

“Thank you for this, love.”

You lean into his side and watch the old man feeding the pigeons and the single mother wrangling her gaggle of children and the teens awkwardly holding hands. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget why we do it. What we fight for,” you say.

He hums something like an affirmative. 

“I like stealing moments like this,” you continue. “Neither of us is ready to retire - might not ever be, and that’s the truth - but it’s nice to imagine, you know? Getting old and settling down and doing daft shite like taking a weekend off and going to the park.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and squeezes, leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

“You could have that with someone else, you know,” he says with the quiet sadness that eats at him always. 

“What’s an old war criminal like me got to offer anyone but an old war criminal like you?” you scoff, only half teasing. He doesn’t laugh. “Thought you’d figured out by now, I don’t want that with someone else - anyone else.”

The sigh he lets out rattles his whole body. He turns, then, taking your hands in his and looking you right in the eye. You suddenly feel exposed in the wake of such a confession, even though you’ve lost count of the times and ways you’ve told John you love him. There’s a seriousness and gravity to his expression that has you holding your breath. 

“I love you, too,” John Price says. There’s an apology in the depths of his eyes - for taking so long, for wasting the time you’ve had together, for a thousand other things you’ve already forgiven him for - but all you can think is finally. Finally he says it. Out loud. In the park. Under the sun in the sky for everyone to see. “Can’t promise you anything but myself, and it’s a poor prize, but you’re just mad enough to want it.” 

You grin so wide it hurts, and he can’t help but mirror with a smile of his own, eyes crinkled and sparkling.

“Barking mad,” you agree, and kiss him before he can complain about the awful pun at a time like this. 

It’s chaste - you’re still in public - but it somehow feels more passionate than the open-mouthed kisses you’d branded on each other’s bodies just a few hours earlier with only skin to separate you. Right there on the park bench you tear your heart out of your chest and hand it to him, dripping and bloody and raw but his all the same. 

You’re still smiling when you pull away. He ducks his head, cheeks flushed. Even after so long together he’s unprepared to take the full force of your affection.

“In this imaginary retirement of yours,” he asks after a moment, “do we have a flat?”

You hum an affirmative. “A nice cosy one. In Ireland, obviously. You won’t catch me dead retired in fucking England.” 

“Oh?” he challenges with a crooked smile. “Had my heart set on Liverpool, right next to the stadium. I’ll get us season tickets, we can go to every game.”

“I’ll fly you out to every bloody game if that’s what it takes, just spare me, please,” you groan. 

He laughs. It’s a sound so easy to imagine forever to. 

For the second time today, you let yourself.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #fran writes #it was only missing a few lines but they are SO IMPORTANT OMG #anyways. have this again #cod x reader #call of duty x reader #cod mwii x reader

[captain-mj]

You know that post where its like the hitch hiker and the driver are like "what are the odds of both of us being serial killers?"

Serial Killer Price as the driver, and Serial Killer Graves as the hitch hiker

I loved that post so much! Content warning, they're serial killers and joke about some nasty stuff. Just be prepared for that.

Price spun the knife around in his hands. He had a body in his trunk currently, but when he saw him on the side of the road, he knew he had to have him too.

Blond. Average height. Pretty in the face. He had his thumb out, clearly looking for a ride.

Price slowed to stop. "Where do you need to go?"

"Just a few miles down the road, sir." He grinned. Nice accent too. American. Vaguely southern.

"Your name?"

"Phillip Graves. Usually go by Graves."

"John Price. Get in."

Graves got into the passenger's side. He buckled himself in and smiled at him. Something felt so innocent about him.

Price wanted to carve him up. Maybe he'd take his time with him. Really drag it out. Graves seemed like the type to whimper.

They started driving. The radio was still on, playing soft music. Classical Rock since it was one of the few stations that worked at the moment.

Graves hummed along to it, letting his hand out the window. He followed the currents of air going by and stared forward.

"You hitchhike often?"

"Yeah. I needed to escape where I was and now I'm here. Hundreds of miles away." Graves eyes flicked over the truck. "You smoke?"

"Occasionally." Price noticed the cigars still in the cupholder. "You're observant." Not observant enough. He might've noticed the slight dent in the dashboard from where he had smashed the man's head in or the blood on his watch.

Graves leaned down and picked up a tooth. "Have kids?"

"No. Two nephews. They'll be happy to finally get that tooth fairy money." Price smiled.

Graves dropped the tooth in the cup holder next to the cigars. "You don't smell like a smoker. Smell nice. What cologne do you use?"

Price shrugged. "Some weird stuff one of my friends gave me. Can't remember the name." His hand would fit perfectly around Graves's throat. He could already imagine the way his face would twist when he slit his throat and let the blood drip down his hands.

"Why did you pick me up?" Graves stretched out.

"Good Samaritan I suppose. Trying to get my good deeds in."

"Think yours will cancel out the bad?"

For a brief moment, Price felt actual panic. But when he glanced at Graves, lost deep in thought, he realized it was existential question, probably to ease his own soul rather than Price's, and not an accusation.

"I doubt it. You seem kind though. I'm sure yours do... Why did you get in the car with me?"

"Needed a ride obviously." Graves grinned cheekily.

"How did you know I wasn't a serial killer? Not afraid of those?"

"Nah." A click of a gun and metal pressed against Price's temple. "Thought of two serial killers in a car just didn't seem likely. Pull over."

Price laughed. "Know the odds?"

"Heard once there's 20-50 active serial killers in the US." Graves continued to be conversational. "Now pull over. Promise to make it quick for ya."

"No, you won't. I know you won't, because I wasn't going to give that to you." Price moved slowly but he pulled the still bloody knife out of the door and dropped it next to the tooth and cigars. "Not my nephews. Tooth belongs to the body in my trunk right now." He grinned at Graves.

Graves stared back before grinning. The gun moved. Still ready to fire, just in case, but he was clearly calmer. "What were you going to do?"

"To you?"

"Yeah. To me."

Price thrummed his fingers against the wheel. "Was going to go slow for ya."

"A gentleman." Graves quipped.

Price laughed a little before nodding. "Tie you up tight. Cut you up nice and slow. Feel your blood in my hands."

"Where?"

"Normally I'd do it in the woods or back of my car."

"Normally?"

"I would've taken you to a motel. Cut your vocal cords until you couldn't scream and then slice you up. Bleed you dry."

"Would you fuck me before or after?" Graves purred.

Price hummed. "Never actually done that. Probably before. Wouldn't want you to get cold." He glanced at him. "And what were you going to do to me?"

"Debating. I was either going to set you on fire." Price's stomach dropped.

"Not a fan. Other option?"

Graves laughed. "Beat you to death. You're bigger so I would've probably cut your Achilles first."

"Not a fan of fair fights?"

"I want to inflict pain. Making someone fight when they can barely walk is fun."

Price took a deep breath. "I never thought I'd say this but... you wanna partner up?"

"Only if we can make out afterwards."

"Fuck yeah."

#cod #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare ii #Phillip graves #John Price #Captain John Price #Price x Graves #Graves x Price

[bethanydelleman]

Should Darcy have warned Meryton about Wickham?

Long Post: In Mrs. Gardiner’s letter (Ch 52) of Pride & Prejudice, Darcy gives this motive when explaining why he is helping Lydia:

The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham’s worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself.

So by his own admission, he ought to have warned Meryton about Wickham. But why? What is the social context and reasoning that went into this situation? This whole thing bothers me a lot because I don’t like that Darcy left the lower classes vulnerable to Wickham.

In Sense & Sensibility, Elinor Dashwood (who is famously polite) asks people for an account of Willoughby’s character:

“But who is he?” said Elinor. “Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?” (to Sir John, Ch 4)  Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby’s general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons’ partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him. (Ch 20)

Which leads me to believe that this sort of gossip was acceptable and even encouraged. We also see Mr. Allen contentiously look into Mr. Tilney for Catherine, who is under his protection:

How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen’s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney’s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire. Northanger Abbey, Ch 3

And Mrs. Croft in Persuasion also says she knew her future husband by character before she married him, “I had known you by character, however, long before.” (Ch 10) Which means she has heard gossip about him, but a very specific kind of gossip. This sounds almost like a character resume.

So Wickham shows up in Meryton. Darcy knows Wickham’s character, he knows about “the vicious propensities—the want of principle” which is exactly this “general character” that Elinor wants to know about. Now Elinor asks, but so does Jane when she inquires into the matter with Bingley. And what does Elizabeth get in return?

“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”

I’m sorry, but that sucks, Mr. Darcy. That is the most vague warning ever! Caroline says, “Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions”. Darcy has all the information that both Jane and Elizabeth need, but he does not provide it at all. Caroline does a far better job in warning:

Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy’s using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner.

And from Bingley: Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man.

Unfortunately, this is second hand information, and it might have worked if Elizabeth hadn’t already heard Wickham’s firsthand account, with all his names, facts, and everything. But I really think this is the failure right here, Jane asked and the person with first-hand knowledge of Wickham’s character did not answer her. Instead, he left Meryton, the tradespeople, the unmarried women, and the militia, to figure out Wickham themselves.

Now Darcy may not have made much headway among the gentry, since we know that he was not generally liked, but I think the lower classes, which is where Wickham did the most damage (He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman’s family) Darcy might have had better luck. Also, letting people know that Wickham doesn’t pay his debts doesn’t get anywhere close to the big secret of Georgiana! Darcy could easily say Wickham should not be extended credit, just write to someone in Lambton, “it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.”

And now we come full circle back to Elinor. The Middletons don’t know Willoughby very well because they only see him when he visits Allenham. Elinor tries to get a better account from someone who lives nearby Willoughby, because it is hard for news to travel in this era! Tradespeople in Lambton can now warn each other but they can’t really advertise that Wickham is a squelcher. Darcy being around to inform them of Wickham’s general character should have been a game-changer, but instead it wasn’t. Darcy said almost nothing.

So why? Many people argue that Darcy was protecting Georgiana, but Darcy knows a lot about Wickham, many things that would not be at all associated with his sister. After all, they grew up together. Also, if Wickham talks about Georgiana, he implicates himself. But if that is the reason, it still leaves a bit of a bad taste in my mouth. Georgiana is wealthy and protected, she could probably weather the damage to her reputation. The Bennet family, unwarned about Wickham’s character, could have been destroyed.

I think you can also argue that Darcy thought everyone was too poor to be an object of prey to Wickham, who wants to marry rich. It could be argued that he didn’t think Wickham would seduce a daughter of a gentleman. But why run the risk?

The lack of warning does fit with what we learn of Darcy’s flaws, “to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own.”

Discharging debts created by a person associated with Darcy’s family in a town near his house can easily be interpreted as pertaining to himself and his circle. He feels an obligation to the tradespeople that he himself relies upon. He probably just didn’t care about the people of Meryton. And he leaves them to figure it out for themselves, knowing that Wickham can be very deceptive. Importantly, when Darcy repents and fixes the Wickham situation, he makes sure all the debts in Meryton are paid. Because he realizes he was wrong not to warn them.

So I think the answer is that by his own admission, Darcy was wrong to not at least give a warning about Wickham. “Gossip” about a person’s general character seems to be an acceptable form of communication and Wickham’s character (and his own) was asked about. He was remiss.

I am fully open to rebuttals. 

#longpost #mr. darcy #darcy #pride and prejudice #jane austen #yes every argument I make must reference at least 3 other JA novels #because it gives you a clearer picture #debts like this could have destroyed these small businesses #I am totally open to counter arguments #This part of Darcy's character really bugs me #because I feel like the shopkeepers would have listened #It's their livelihoods on the line

[wicked-jade]

@allvalley100 Here is my entry for the Cyberpunk challenge. I’m doing things a little differently this week and posting all of the parts together. Each part is exactly 100 words, but it’s a continuous story and they really all should be kept in one place. It just seems less spammy this way. I’ll put everything after the first drabble behind a cut, to spare everyone’s dashes.

With that out of the way, here we go: A horror story in eight parts. This is vaguely inspired by both Dredd and RoboCop. Trigger warnings for blood, body horror, and Terry Silver. Cobra Husbands and Kreerence, but only if you squint.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’d been a frivolous indulgence, having a concert grand hauled up to the 200th floor of the DynaTech building. But Terry Silver had never been one to deny himself.

And why should I? He thought, as his fingers danced over the keys. I can afford the extravagance.

The distinctive click of heels behind him made his shoulders tense, but he still didn’t miss a note. “I told you, Margaret. No interruptions.”

“It’s Captain Kreese, sir. He says it’s urgent.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Only that he’s here to ‘collect an old debt.’”

Terry’s fingers finally stumbled.

“Send him up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terry stood before the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows, staring down at the world below.

Up here, he was untouchable. Up here, he sometimes forgot how ugly it actually was, down there. Two hundred stories of concrete and reinforced steel stood between him and the crime-infested city streets. From this height, he couldn’t hear the constant wail of sirens. Couldn’t see the garish, neon billboards, their ever-present glare reduced to a soft, ethereal glow.

But then the doors of his suite swished open and John Kreese stumbled in, dragging a body behind him, his boots tracking filth on his pristine marble floors.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terry kept his back turned as he lit a cigar, carefully toasting the foot to assure an even burn.

“Hello, John. Long time, no see.”

Terry watched his reflection in the glass. Kreese’s jaw tensed, his cybernetic eye flaring in the darkness like the cigar’s cherry, glowing a fiery orange.

“It’s Captain, to you.”

“Not up here, it isn’t.”

Down below, Kreese and his elite team of Cobras ruled the streets with an iron fist. But up here, Terry was the King Cobra, and he wasn’t about to let his old friend forget it.

No matter what he owed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John growled in response, moving to deposit his burden on one of Terry’s sofas.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Terry tutted, finally turning to face him. “D’you know how hard it is to get real, full-grain leather these days? Leave him on the floor.”

Kreese glared but did as he was told. As he carefully lowered the body, Terry caught a glimpse of blond hair, matted with blood.

Of course. Kreese’s faithful lieutenant. His golden boy.

Though he didn’t look so golden now. Half his face was covered in blood. The other half was charred beyond recognition.

“What happened to him?”

“He showed mercy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terry calmly examined the tableau before him. John’s prized student, the most lethal snake in his quiver, was sprawled on his floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Bruises ringed his neck and one of his pretty, blue eyes was missing. Blood slowly oozed from the back of his cracked skull, pooling on the cold tile.

“I need to you fix him. Can you do it?”

Kreese’s face was chalk white and his hands were shaking. His knuckles were studded with broken glass.

“Why? What happened to not teaching losers?”

“He can’t die. I’m not finished with him yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Terry knelt over Lawrence’s broken body, fingers pressed to his awkwardly bent neck. His skin was cold, coated in a layer of congealing blood.

But there was a pulse. Faint and thready, but there, all the same.

He could work with that.

Terry rose, grimacing at his grimy fingertips. He’d always hated getting his hands dirty.

“If I do this, we’re even.” Terry stepped into John’s space, smearing the boy’s blood across his scowling lips. “A life for a life.”

After a moment’s hesitation, John gave him a tight nod. Terry grinned coldly, sealing their deal with a biting kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kreese shoved him away, roughly wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

“You’re really gonna cash in your chips for him?” Terry shook his head with a disappointed sigh. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. Rest easy, your boy is in good hands.”

“Will he…”

“Be the same?” Terry nudged Lawrence’s head with the toe of one monogrammed slipper. “No. But don’t worry, Dr. Norouzi does excellent work. He’ll be pretty as ever.”

“Will he suffer?” Kreese grit out.

Lawrence’s remaining eye slit open. Terry grinned.

“Pain doesn’t exist, does it, Mr. Lawrence?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The procedure took two days. Lawrence died on the table three times.

Not that he’d told John that.

Terry smirked as he led him into the room. The golden locks had been shorn away, but they’d grow back, with time. Just as the patchwork of SynthSkin would seamlessly knit together, covering the circuitry and steel framework beneath. Hiding the truth.

Lieutenant Johnny Lawrence was more machine than man.

Blue eyes opened. One, bright and cold. Artificial. The other, dulled. Empty.

“What did you do?” Kreese gasped in horror.

“What you asked. A life for a life. Now we’re even, Captain.              

#allvalley100 #terry silver #john kreese #johnny lawrence #cobra husbands #kreerence #if you tilt your head and squint #cyberpunk #dystopia #tw: body horror #tw: blood #cobra kai #the karate kid #my writing #drabbles are like gremlins #might continue this later if there's enough interest

[rusakkowrites]

Time to retaliate! 🤗

For the headcanons: 🐅 for Mr Knightley

and 🗡️ for Emma :)

For the fic writing asks: 👀, 🏅,😈,🌙 ,👖,🌝

Thanks for the ask! <3 Answers under the cut.

🐅 Characterization: character habits, personality, etc. for Mr Knightley

This is a tough one! I do have a lot of thoughts and headcanons about Mr Knightley, but I’m not sure if any of them are particularly unusual. I suppose one thing where I might deviate from the norm in the fandom is that I’m not a huge fan of his characterisation in the 2020 film. I feel like he was made out to be a bit too… youthful, I guess? I also didn’t like the singing scene. I imagine him as being more staid and assured than he was in the film.

🗡 Fighting styles/combat for Emma

I think she’d be pretty useless in a fight! She’s always been very sheltered and protected, and her only sibling is so much older than she is that they probably never got into a real tussle. Emma would probably go into a fight really confidently but immediately discover that she’s in over her head. (And then Mr Knightley would rush to her rescue and scold her afterwards.)

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

Nothing that I would censor due to the subject matter – and even if there was something I didn’t want to post on main, there’s always the option of using a secondary account or posting anonymously.

However, with multi-chapter stories, I’ve banned myself from posting any chapters before I’ve finished writing the entire fic. Even if I’m really close to the end when I start posting, it just stresses me out too much to see my buffer of chapters dwindling down while I’m still writing (and those last chapters always end up growing longer than I’d planned). So I guess that any WIPs that I don’t manage to finish are doomed to remain in the WIP folder forever.

🏅What is something you recently felt proud of in regard to your writing (finished a fic, actually planned for once, etc)?

I’m really proud of all the work that I put into So Happy a Summer. I did have a good time writing it, but it wasn’t one of those stories that just flow out effortlessly – I had to push myself quite a bit to get it done. It was challenging but ultimately very rewarding.

😈 Is there anything you enjoy doing that you think your readers hate?

I have received one or two comments about skimping on the fluff when writing romantic scenes. I personally don’t really enjoy multi-paragraph love confessions or detailed descriptions of tongues battling for dominance, so I tend to leave a fair bit to the imagination in my romantic fics. This is how I like to write, so the readers who would like more fluff are out of luck. :D

🌙 What time of day do you prefer to write? Why?

I would prefer to write in the morning, afternoon or early evening. However, I almost inevitably end up writing late in the evening or in the middle of the night instead. This is partly due to the fact that work interferes with my hobbies, partly because I have a terrible habit of procrastinating and partly because my creativity really seems to get going after 9 p.m.

👖 Are you a planner, plantser, or pantser? Is it consistent?

A plantser who leans more towards planning than pantsing. Some of my short fics are more or less unplanned or only have a vague outline in my head. However, for longer fics, I need some kind of an outline, or else I write myself into a corner and get stuck. My outlines vary from a few bullet points in a notebook to detailed timelines of events and generally go through a lot of editing and refining as I write – if my original plan doesn’t quite work, I have no compunction about tweaking it.

🌝 Who is one character you haven’t yet written for that you would like to?

I don’t think I’ve ever written anything about Sir Walter Elliot, but I feel that his character could be a lot of fun to explore! Also, I recently acquired a horrible plot bunny involving John Thorpe – can’t imagine why…

#ask games #fanfiction #wurzelbertzwerg

[ripeteeth]

fragments: 03 (fitzier)

[I'm clearing out my incomplete wips and posting fragments that might stand alone as a bit of an amnesty of old projects. This is part of that series.]

The porcupine quill of his pen poises over the questionnaire from O'Byrne, hesitating over his service history. Most of the questions were simple, just question and answer, but this one, this appointment to the HMS St. Vincent, that had been different.

He had travelled alone to Portsmouth, rattling in his carriage like bones in a coffin, arriving early one December morning. “How was your journey?” The captain had asked. Captain Hyde Parker, James had found, was an queer old man, bent and bulbous, with a great scar on his upper lip that marred his speech. What James wanted to say was ‘Rather tiresome. There were six of us inside all thirteen hours and every inch of the way and I was in between an old lady and gentleman who hardly let me have a wink of sleep all night by their fidgeting.’ But he did not. Instead, he only said, “It was well enough, sir.”

“Good.”

His things had been brought aboard. James found his sea chest; when he bent and opened it, the most horrid smell arose. Gingerly, James reached in, lifting out one of his old uniforms. The very wool had grown mold.

His first time aboard the St. Vincent would grow to be miserable. His mess was dark and lonesome, in a part of the ship where few went. Only the caterer spoke to him. He sat on the bench, hands in his pockets, numbering the spots in the suet pie. He thought of Rose Hill. Of William! What would William be doing right then? Perhaps packed in the halls of Eton, shoulder to shoulder with other friends? If I were a Midshipman, he had thought, I am sure this would not be the case, but because I am in the second class there is no one speaking to me. If I could I would rather begin over again than stay one day longer in it, but I suppose that it is quite impossible I should ever get into the first class. 

He had written to his uncle of his misery and, with the assistance of his uncle and a few vague and misleading letters to Sir John Barrow, second secretary of the Admiralty, had succeeded in resigning from Captain Parker and the St. Vincent and being appointed instead as a midshipman to Captain Senhouse of the HMS Asia. James shifts as he recalls the careful way he had worded his letters to Barrow, skillfully avoiding the bare fact that he had not completed the prerequisite year as a volunteer of the first class. Barrow had neither thought to check his service record nor to ask and James, as he reminds himself, could not be blamed for allowing both Barrow and Senhouse to believe that he had.

Any man would have done the same, he thinks. Though it had not been long before Senhouse had realized his mistake, it had been long enough to be an embarrassment if anyone were to find out. “Do not ever,” Senhouse had hissed, “ allow me to see your certificates. Let me continue in this, for if I were to know that you had not served in the first class, I could not be justified in giving you the rating.” When, three weeks later, the crews of the St. Vincent and Asia had traded places, James had counted it as a stroke of luck and never again listed the Asia on his histories. Instead, he simply wrote St. Vincent and Volunteer, as he does now, knowing that no one would ever ask. Volunteer of the first class, everyone would assume, and he would let them.

-------

“Do you not understand?” Francis chokes. God, how he chokes. If God were merciful, he would choke on his own spit and be spared altogether. 

“Let me go!” James yells. 

“No,” Francis says, dropping his hands anyway. 

James backs up, breathing heavily. “I’ll yell.”

“So yell. Who’s to hear you?”

“The men - “

Francis cocked his head to the side, half in amusement, half despair. “And they’re to what? Release you? Tie me up by my neck and drop me off a gallows of the mast?”

“Yes.”

A dry laugh. “So go on then, do it. Death comes already, why not hurry it along?” Francis drops into a chair and shakes the whiskey bottle, eyeing the little precious liquid they have left.

“By God, you’re sour tonight.”

“Seems to me, you’re not sour enough. Do you not comprehend our position?”

“I know our position perfectly well,” James says. “It’s just that I haven’t yet given up the ghost of hope.”

Francis shakes his head. He picks up a sextant from the desk, spinning it in well-worn hands. Verdigris now, the color of oxidized copper. Of impermanence. “This was brown once,” he murmurs. “But then again, so was my hair.”

“Copper never lasts out here.” James’ eyes take on an amused glint. “Was your hair copper too? Decades ago, old man?”

Francis smirks. “Something of the like, yes.” He sighs. “Christ alive, that was a long time ago.”

A long pause lays claim to them. 

“I dream of his death,” James says. “Every night, Francis. All nights.”

“As do I.”

“We should have buried him.”

“In what?” Francis asks. “A cairn of ice? There aren’t even stones to build a cairn to cover a body, bleeding black and blue.”

“It would have been better if we’d done something. Perhaps we should have built a pyre and burnt him.” 

“It would have taken our wood,” Francis mutters. But in private, he agrees. The way Sir John’s body was left to the open, to beak and claw, did not sit well with him. But wood is precious now. James does not know what is coming; Francis does.

“So we left him out there for what - the carrion eaters?” 

“Suppose if they come, we can at least follow them back,” he says, sighing. “It haunts me too, James. Truly. No man’s body should be left in the open. We’ve only done what we’ve had to do to survive.”

James stares out the window. “I wonder if God takes that into consideration.”

“From what I know of Him,” Francis says grimly, “He won’t.”

“I don’t like the way you speak about death.”

“What do you mean?”

“As if it’s inevitable.”

Francis raises a brow. “Has it ever been anything else? Sometimes one must cut off the leg to save the body.”

“How long do you suppose it might take to freeze to death?”

Francis breathes in. Look at James, bent in upon himself, his arms wrapping tightly around his own chest. Like an orphan, Francis realizes, an orphan trying to soothe himself.

“We will find a way, James. I will get us home.”

James smiles. It is bitter. “I trust you believe this. I think God has other plans.”

“God always has other plans. Have some little faith. If not in me, then in your own dogged persistence to cause trouble. Even God, I think, must reckon with one James Fitzjames.”

#fitzier #the terror #ficlet #francis crozier #james fitzjames #teeth fragments

[scotianostra]

On 12th June1298 William Wallace fought an English force under the Earl of Pembroke at the Battle of Black Earnside in Fife.

The second post with dates etc that are all over the place.

Or did he? There is conflicting accounts of this Battle, or skirmish as it has also been described. By now Wallace was the most hunted man in Scotland and he must have been involved in many skirmishes, few have made it to the history books, and those that have, like this one are a bit vague.

Wiki have this encounter as happening in September 1304, but a plaque at a site called "Black Earnside" near Newburgh in Fife have today's date, hence I am plumping for this! There is a mention in English records of compensation being paid for horses lost in a flight from William Wallace at "Yrenside" another tells of a "Constable" from Dundee pursuing Wallace, but why would someone from Dundee be that far south?

My main source states that “Sir Aymer de Vallance, Earl of Pembroke, and Sir John Sieward, son of the Earl of March, landed with an army in Fife, and proceeded to burn and waste. They were met by a Scotch force under Wallace in the forest of Black Ironside, and were totally defeated."

It's not just modern historians who question whether the battle happened at all, this is from 1876...... Later historians find difficulty in reconciling the date assigned... (12 June, 1298) with other facts in Wallace's history; but Blair, (Wallace's chaplain )... distinctly states that on the 12 June 1298, the guardian of the kingdom (Wallace) vanquished the English... at Ironside..., with their general... Aylmer de Valance, Earl of Pembroke.(Information from a Book 'Relations... Arnaldi Blair, capellani',) The battle is described by Blind Harry, the minstrel. The name of Wallace's Den... immemorially attached to a deep gully on the farm of Parkhill... affords presumptive evidence of the site of the battle. (There is no good historical evidence for this battle, which apparently rests only on the authority of Blair, and Blind Harry (Henry the Minstrel).) A Laing 1876.

The people of Newburgh have marked the area with the plaque seen in the photo which is in a layby above “Wallace’s Bridge”, on the Gauldry to Newburgh road, high road above River Tay, it reads;

 “Black Earnside 12th June 1298 On this site a major tactical battle was fought and won for Scotland by their guardian, Sir William Wallace, against the Earl of Pembroke, who was acting on the orders of his English master, Edward Plantagenet. This plaque has been erected by the people of Newburgh in recognition of the part played by their forebears in assisting Sir William Wallace in defence of our country. 

More details here http://ptc2506.com/featured_sites/william_wallace/battles.html

I salute the Black Earnside Tartan army who turn up each year to remember the occasion, in 220 they raised funds for the plaque to be restored. 

#Scotland #scottish #sir William Wallace #english #The first war of Scottish Independence #fife #Battle #skirmish? #history

[brotherhoodoftheblade]

I posted 205 times in 2022

That's 130 more posts than 2021!

39 posts created (19%)

166 posts reblogged (81%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@andrasta14

@tangentsandbubbles

@narastories

@lordjohnwgrey

@britishguyslover

I tagged 203 of my posts in 2022

Only 1% of my posts had no tags

#lord john grey - 159 posts

#outlander - 115 posts

#percy wainwright - 100 posts

#lord john series - 84 posts

#john x percy - 84 posts

#david berry - 38 posts

#my random ramblings - 36 posts

#random nonsense - 21 posts

#jamie fraser - 20 posts

#anti diana gabaldon - 15 posts

Longest Tag: 133 characters

#given the distant state of his relationships it's not at all surprising that he formed such an unhealthy lifelong attachment to jamie

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Hot take: the majority OL fandom derides Percy as not being good enough for John, but the John I’ve seen in the OL books has had me progressively feeling that it’s really John that doesn’t deserve Percy. 

Because the LJG I saw in Bees? That is not the John I loved from the LJG series. That John was flawed and hard-headed, too, but he still had a heart. 

I don’t know that I like who John has become over the years (and not just in regard to Percy). 

11 notes - Posted October 13, 2022

#4

So I’ve been a huge writing slump for basically the last two months and was reading some stuff from my wips in hopes of sparking some motivation (and I’ve fallen down the Star Wars hole again and am still weeping internally about the Obi-Wan series around the clock so I’m trying to distract myself T_T).

 Anyway, this future scene from my fic Quicksilver in the Sun gave me a chuckle so I thought I’d share it. It’s not like it gives away any spoilers, after all. lol

~*~*~*~

“Right on time I’d say,” Sir George said, relief evident in his voice as he consulted his timepiece.

Four minutes remained until noon after Percy and the general had shed their winter accoutrements and allowed themselves to be led down a hallway by a liveried servant.

“Hold on,” Percy murmured, glancing surreptitiously at the awaiting servant as he reached out to straighten Sir George’s slightly askew wig. He frowned slightly as he cast a critical eye over his stepfather’s form, even as the general wordlessly did the same for him. “Good. You’re good.”

Sir George reached out and brushed lightly at his shoulder, adding with some amusement, “Bit of rogue powder. Very smart otherwise.”

Percy craned his neck to try and look at his shoulder in concern but the general assured him all traces of errant powder were gone. “I wish I had my wig. I do hope I am not dressed too informally.”

“Nonsense,” the general dismissed evenly. “It is only luncheon. You look very well. I, on the other hand...the late Duke of Pardloe cut quite a trim figure, you know.”

“Did you know him?” Percy asked, curiously.

“Oh no, no, not really,” Sir George said, tugging a bit on the front of his tastefully embroidered waistcoat. “I knew of him, of course.”

The servant cleared his throat quietly. “Shall I announce your arrival, sirs?”

The general’s eyes widened slightly and he stood up straighter. “Yes, yes, please do.”

They briefly exchanged glances, offering each other small smiles of encouragement, as the servant moved to the threshold of the library and bowed. “Sir George Stanley, my lord. And party.”

Percy trailed behind the general as he crossed the turkey carpet, drawing up short as his stepfather paused to bow to the pair of awaiting men in greeting. Percy froze – was he meant to bow as well? He continued to stand there awkwardly, feeling vaguely like an out of place pustule that had come unwillingly attached to the general, as the man stepped forward to shake hands with the younger men in turn.

No one could have mistook the pair for anything other than brothers. They possessed the same slightness of build and stature – they were perhaps an inch shorter than General Stanley, who was himself of average height – and the same finely-boned facial structure. One was dark and the other was fair though – both wore their long hair in the same style, powdered and tied back with a ribbon – and there was several years age difference visible between them even at a distance. They were elegantly outfitted in suits of silk velvet – in shades of deep plum and a striking French blue respectively – and undeniably quite handsome as well.

Well, at least I’ll have something pleasant to rest my eyes on while I’m here, if nothing else.

“It is kind of you to invite me to luncheon,” Sir George was saying, smiling warmly. “I cannot say how greatly I appreciate your welcome. I feel most awkward, then, to begin at once with an apology – but I am afraid I have imposed upon you by bringing my stepson. He arrived unexpectedly this morning from the country, just as I was setting out. Seeing that you will in some sense be brothers...” the general faltered slightly, giving an awkward little laugh as he coloured. “I, er, thought perhaps you would pardon my liberty in bringing him along to be introduced.”

Surprise rippled briefly over the Grey brothers’ expressions. The elder, dark-haired one – Harold Grey, Duke of Pardloe, no, Earl of Melton – tightened his lips. The younger, fair-haired one – Lord John Grey – recovered rapidly, an affable enough expression appearing.

“Of course,” Pardloe – Melton – said, managing to at least sound cordial even if the sentiment didn’t quite reflect on his face.

“Most certainly,” Lord John echoed, gaze shifting to Percy.

He stepped forward quickly to stand beside Sir George, flicking a glance from one brother to the other as the general’s broad hand settled warmly on his shoulder. “My Lord Melton, Lord John, May I present Mr Percival Wainwright?”

Melton’s mouth was tightly drawn and Percy could practically feel the barely suppressed waves of irritation coming off of him. He cringed inwardly, the knot in his belly tightening. He knew he shouldn’t have come, but it was too late now.

As long as they liked Sir George that was all that really mattered, he reminded himself. The general was the one marrying their mother, after all. All Percy needed to do was remain polite and try not to say anything terribly stupid. The general’s hand squeezed briefly in a reassuring manner before sliding away.

Lord John was holding out his hand and he took it quickly.

“Your servant, sir,” the young man said – and he was young, Percy could see now that he was standing so close. He was around Percy’s own age, perhaps a few years older at most. And he was...lovely. His features were delicately wrought and...

Percy had seen him before somewhere. Not just on the street, they’d met before, he felt sure of it. He had an excellent visual memory and never forgot a face. Where though...? The young lord felt it, too, he could see it. The man’s fair brows were drawn together slightly, studying his face with wintry blue eyes -

And then it flashed before his mind’s eye: the mysterious, standoffish young man at Lavender House, with the terrible suit, resplendent blond hair, unresponsive hand in his, and the exquisite blue eyes.

Good God.

He drew breath sharply and his hand clenched involuntarily on the other man’s, an action that was mirrored by Lord John half a heartbeat later as the same realization flashed in his momentarily widened eyes.

See the full post

11 notes - Posted June 23, 2022

#3

Currently taking a little procrastination break from writing and randomly ended up looking up buttercups, ie. LJG’s codename in the Black Chamber. So yeah, buttercups symbolize neatness, childishness, charm and humility - all things that often apply to John’s general personality (yeah he’s not great at the neatness bit in terms of keeping his clothes clean God (and Tom) knows, but in his preference for orderliness and structure in general).

But the thing that has me laughing right now is that all buttercups - despite their small, pretty, and harmless appearance - are actually poisonous when eaten fresh, blistering the mouth, leaving an acrid taste, and causing gastric upset. Was THAT bit of symbolism also intended for John...because honestly, it seems like it could be?? 😅

 Just ask ANYONE who’s gotten on John’s bad side - whether it’s Malcolm Stubbs’s cheating ass getting the shit kicked out of him in an alley, that woman who pissed John off during the Battle of Krefeld and got punched and fell off the bridge, or John’s father’s murderer getting stabbed in the eye - he may be small, pretty and charming but he can also be a straight up savage at the drop of a hat. 👀💀😂

17 notes - Posted March 30, 2022

#2

Oooh, I’ve never seen this bit of BotB discourse by DG before! ✨👀✨

Ah, Percy’s “spiritual fractures”, his fear that he’s damned and there’s something “wrong” him, coupled with his earlier experiences as a whore, had “a lot do with his eventual betrayal” - that’s similar to what I’d guessed earlier about the psychological underpinnings behind Percy’s actions. 

(I’d link that post but I don’t have time to hunt it down right now - have to get back to work soon. I really need to make myself some sort of table of contents at this point, it takes forever to find things. Mostly because I’m so damn long-winded, no doubt. lol Also, titles, labels? Never heard of them. xd)

And yeah, I’d doubted Percy really thought John would care enough to be hurt by him sleeping with Michael - especially when he himself knew it meant nothing - but to see it confirmed from the horse’s mouth is additionally sad. I will honestly never forgive her for what she did to Percy. smfh

“John’s never seen himself as anything but [an honourable man]” - pffttt, yeah, I can tell. 🙄 And it’s a huge part of his problem, the way he can’t even see the way his increasing rigidity and narrow-minded ideals are actually fetters obstructing him from emotional and mental growth. But that subject could be it’s own rambling post and I have to go! ^_^;

23 notes - Posted October 14, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Funny how people are always talking about how much William takes after Jamie, but barely anyone talks about how much he’s like John. Because the first time I read that scene - in Echo was it? - where Willie was running around and fending off a snake with a frying pan, the “OMG, he really is John’s son!!” feeling just smacked me in the face. Chaotic trouble magnets, the pair of them! lmao

Not to mention John seems to have hit Willie with his perpetually-horny-stick, wherein he’ll lust after and unadvisedly become infatuated with any attractive person who happens to cross their path. 

Ridiculous -- like father like son. 

26 notes - Posted October 11, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#ah well there's that 😅 #what - only 15 anti DG tags - it felt like more lol #my 2022 tumblr year in review #misc

[beatlesonline-blog]

[trustranking]

Shimo licent

#Shimo licent series

In one cartoon, Brian Mulroney has a secret fetish for all things American. Her subjects are often long dead, yet they seem like real people, albeit with oversized personalities or embarrassing foibles. Rather than sticking to the facts, she imagines the inner lives of her characters, making them say things that sound modern, says John Martz, chair of the Canadian chapter of the National Cartoonists Society. Then again, if you know these subjects too well you might be irritated by her generous use of artistic licence. And if you’re not a history buff and don’t know, for instance, who Edwin Booth is, you probably won’t get all the jokes. from McDonald’s is a challenge, she says. Making history funny to people who don’t know their Sir John A. Beaton’s work is “delightful, funny and endearing even if I have no idea what in the world this crazy Canuck is referencing.” The otherness makes her “vaguely otherworldly,” says Seattle-based Larry Cruz, who writes reviews on the website, The Webcomic Overlook. Their reactions to (for them) unknown, obscure figures such as Wilfrid Laurier range from bemusement to gratitude for an introduction to a culture and history outside their own. If you’ve seen a Beaton comic, it might have been on the comics pages of the National Post, or perhaps through a link to her website, Although she has thousands of Canadian fans, the readers of her website are mainly American. Also, since she hasn’t yet drawn enough to fill a book, she doesn’t want to become “overwhelmed.” Still finding her feet, Beaton wants to find out more about the industry so she doesn’t get shortchanged. About 10 other agents and publishers have asked her to write a book, but so far she’s refused. In the little over a year she’s been doing the comics, her work has been talked about on the website Wonkette and in Bitch magazine a reviewer for Wired magazine called Beaton’s the “funniest comic that I’ve read in awhile.” Recently Daily Show writer Sam Means approached her to illustrate a children’s book he is writing. Originally from Cape Breton, Beaton is a Toronto-based cartoonist who has fans ranging from award-winning graphic novelists to geeky comic nerds.

#Shimo licent series

Pearson too nice to be prime minister? Was John Diefenbaker a mad, bug-eyed egotist? And was Pierre and Margaret Trudeau’s marital relationship a little like that of father and daughter? These are the sorts of questions 25-year-old Kate Beaton gently probes in her series of comics on Canadian history, which are unusual enough to have sparked the sort of praise most writers spend a lifetime cultivating. Your journey will be stress-free as long as you remember to keep an ear on local traffic news, and leave plenty of time to reach the airport.Was Lester B. There's no more panicking about missed connections: your hire car is ready when you are. With a hire car in Shimo-suwa you don't need to worry about getting to and from the airport. Hiring a car in Shimo-suwa opens up a whole world of possibilities, and takes the stress out of discovering new places. Drive into the countryside for a unique perspective on Shimo-suwa, visit a nearby town without any hassle, or simply enjoy the feeling of the open road beneath your tyres. Once you've seen all the top sights that Shimo-suwa has to offer, you can buckle up and go exploring. Whether you're looking for a cute convertible for a romantic break, a people carrier for a stag do, or a hatchback for a family trip, we'll show you the best available deals and help you to save money. Simply tell us the dates of your trip and we'll show you what cars are available from a range of car hire companies in Shimo-suwa. With Skyscanner you can choose the car you want, at a price you want. With our hotels in Shimo-suwa you can find and compare the best prices for hotels with parking, so both you and your hire car will have somewhere to stay. You don't need to get your head around any complicated public transport systems: simply jump in your hire car and go. You'll have to go through passport control and show the nice people at the car hire desk your driving licence too, of course, but you get the picture. It's as easy as reserving online, stepping off the plane, and driving off. Beat the crowds and make the most of your city break in Shimo-suwa by renting a car.

#Shimo licent

[damienthepious]

happy tuesday!!!! except for the incoming angst,,,,,,, mind the tags, folks!

The Beast In On His Chain

[ao3] [ch 2] [etc]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien, Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Sir Damien, Lord Arum, Rilla, Sir Absolon

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, prisoner/guard dynamic, Dehumanization, (which feels like a weird word to use for a nonhuman person bUT. it's what i got.), Despair, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, (EVENTUALLY!!!! it'll take a while), Captivity, Suicidal Thoughts, (that will be a theme throughout. inescapable in this particular fic. alas.), Eventual Romance, (Yes the dynamics in this one are fucked. honestly i'm kinda Stretching my limits these days.), (having fun with it. fucking around. it's fine.), Recovery, (eventually), Self-Reclamation

Fic Summary: The Lord of the Swamp is a prisoner of the Second Citadel, their most valuable trophy. So long as they keep him chained, the Swamp of Titan's Blooms and the massive monster at its heart remain neutralized, no longer a threat in the ongoing war.

Fic Notes: Title from the song 1 John 4:16 by The Mountain Goats, and frankly, the ENTIRE album The Life of the World to Come holds steady with the themes i'm gonna hit in this fic. also. PLEASE mind the tags and the individual warnings per chapter going forward! This one is going to be extremely fraught, i think. It'll get worse before it gets better, and i don't want anyone breezing past the tags/warnings and giving themself an emotional stubbed toe. Please read with caution!

Chapter Summary: Sir Damien finds himself relegated to guard duty. It will prove to be far more interesting an assignment than he expects.

Chapter Notes: chapter warnings for everything in the tags proper, obviously, but also: implied malnutrition, isolation/loneliness, vaguely implied physical assault/torture, helplessness, and please let me know if i missed anything else specific i should warn for!

~

Chapter 1

The screeching halt of an injury is complete anathema to Sir Damien; it drives him nearly to madness every single time. Damien would eagerly suffer more pain if he could, in exchange, shorten his time spent in recovery.

There had been a spark behind Rilla's eyes, though, when Damien tried to suggest returning to duty early despite his leg, when he tried to suggest that he might try to convince his way into an important assignment Angelo mentioned, one that would send him north-

"Guard duty," he tries instead, sweating as he backpedals, and Rilla's glower is so beautiful that he needs to resist the urge to sway closer as she considers the option.

"Well," she growls slowly, her dark eyes pinning him in place, "if it'll keep you out of trouble, I guess it's the better option. If you are careful and you take it easy."

So.

Guard duty.

Not the most exciting of possible assignments, nor the most glamorous, but Damien can at least admit that his current state could prove a liability for anything more laborious or more dire. He will heal faster than Rilla expects (he always does), and certainly he will be back on his feet before he knows it.

He will only need endure the sheer boredom of the Trophy Room for a little while, first.

Though- all things considered, the Trophy Room is likely lower on the list of boredom-inducing potential guard assignments, in the Citadel. The Queen's own chambers would be more prestigious, but the chances of anything happening up there are slim to none. The dungeons would have the potential for some action, so to speak, but- the conditions are... grim, and Damien struggles to keep that grimness from infecting his own mood, to keep the sorrow of such a place out of his own heart. The patrols just outside the Citadel would be better, all around, or at least the guard towers, but- well. It can't be helped, he supposes.

It takes less than one conversation with the other knights assigned to the post to convince his way into taking the patrol duty within the room (the idea of standing idle only guarding the door would doubtless destroy him, not least of which because he does not trust himself not to annoy whoever accompanies him near to either death or murder), so he may monitor the trophies themselves.

There are one or two souvenirs from his own victories in this room, and a similar number from Sir Angelo, as well. A point of pride for the both of them, considering their age. The siege last year was harrowing, was an ongoing near-death experience, haunts his nightmares intermittently- but despite the horror, it allowed Sir Damien and his comrades to stand taller together. It allowed Sir Damien and Sir Angelo in particular to truly prove themselves.

It is... noisy, in here.

Damien forgot about that part. The majority of the trophies are inert, of course: impressive racks of twisting, monstrous mounted antlers, carefully-encased magical artifacts, weapons of legend, the occasional skull-

But, of course, not all monsters have the good sense to die when beheaded. Some monsters cannot quite be killed at all, not in the traditional way, at least, and at times containment is the best the Citadel can hope for. And these creatures, these things are kept here, too. The room is full of chittering and clicking and rustling and low, uncertain laughter, and- whispering voices, here and there. A bubble of relative quiet surrounds Damien as he makes his rounds, familiarizing himself with the rooms, and it reminds him of standing in a field of tall grass, the way the insects trill throughout the flora but go silent when disturbed by the nearby footsteps of a human moving through them.

Damien... is not exactly pleased by that realization. He does not like the idea that the more aware trophies might worry about making noise close enough for him to pinpoint. Though- perhaps the other knights have discouraged the noise in the past, and they are simply responding to him the same way?

It does not much matter, he supposes.

Damien makes his circuit of the space slowly, forcing himself to focus despite his inner certainty that this post will soon bore him to tears. He tries to fix an image of the place in his mind as it is now, so he will note any unorthodox changes in the future. It rests deep below the towers of the Citadel, windowless and grimly lit by braziers, with only a single entrance. There are four distinct "rooms" linked in a rectangle, though the passages between them are open thresholds. There is another door far opposite the entrance, leading somewhere deeper, for the objects even more dangerous than what resides here in the Trophy Room (which, while ostensibly dangerous, is kept secure enough even for civilians to tour during the day, with guidance). Damien knows that inner door is bolted securely, knows that it leads to nowhere but darkness, with no possible escape.

(He knows that if anything tries to escape that door while he stands at his post, he will stop it.)

Damien scans his eyes through the space, ignoring the baleful glare of some tiny floral ogre in a glass box, noting the chattering head (Sir Caroline's trophy, if he recalls correctly) apparently whispering insults to itself, the dimly lit statue in the far corner, apparently a representation of some sort of broken, sleeping dragon with sheared-off horns and a stone collar weighing down its shoulders, an ancient flail mounted on the wall with its barbed tips gleaming with something magical, a pearlescent mirror that seems to hold a strange, heavy-looking flower somehow within its reflection-

Damien is not particularly comfortable, surrounded by this much obvious monstrous magic. But... well... better here, he supposes, than out there in the wilds, uncontained and dangerous. Better here, where he may guard against it.

He walks the circuit from the entrance back around again, and then again, and when the boredom comes, he ignores it, and he meditates on his Saint as he walks.

One of Arum's least favorite parts about being kept in this... this gruesome abattoir, this trophy room, is that obnoxious, unrelenting head.

Which means, like most of the worst parts of Arum's life, it is his own damn fault, of course.

The Janus Beast - what's left of it - does not listen to him anymore, does not obey.

Of course it doesn't. He built the little toy, wound it up, and let it go. Obedience is not necessarily in the nature of his creations.

The Janus Beast was created to insinuate itself into minds, to uncover what would most effectively hurt, to torment, to worsen insecurities and to undermine confidence and to highlight every flaw and mistake and misstep. And them, it was meant to pounce, and to kill.

Obviously, it cannot do that last part, anymore. Not in its current state. So, instead, it simply... torments.

Which matters less and less, to Arum. It cannot tell him anything he does not already know, anyway. He does not imagine that it would be possible to think less of himself, at this point. His failures could fill this entire trophy room. They weigh around his neck as heavy as the collar, if not more so.

The Janus Beast whispers in its twin voices, whispers it was made to be a guardian and it has failed, whispers look at how it withers here, alone in the darkness, whispers how helpless and pathetic it has become, whispers it cannot free its home, it cannot free itself, it cannot even fulfill its purpose by allowing itself to die-

Arum closes his eyes, rumble-growls deep in his throat, too guttural to trigger his bindings, but if he pitches the noise just right he can at least hit a few notes, a thrumming thunderous bass that sounds... wrong, of course wrong, of course it sounds wrong here, here in this cluttered human cage, and it sounds keening and flat without the glittering harmonies that are meant to weave above it.

At least it blocks out the noise of the Janus Beast, for a few minutes. It bores rather quickly when it cannot feel him sorrowing at its jabs and jeers.

It doesn't quite block out the sharp noise of the footsteps, however.

Arum is aware, in a distant sort of way, that he is never truly alone in here. Not even just considering his few fellow captives remaining, rotting away. There is always, always some human, some knight or - more painfully, more mockingly - some gaggle of slack-mouthed gawking citizens, leash-led along through this torture chamber. There is always a guard on the outer doors, and there is always some guard wandering the space, as well. Drifting in some pointless circle, as if any creature has ever before escaped from this hateful place. Always.

Arum ignores them, when he can. They rarely pay him any mind, anymore. It has been too long since last he had the energy to make a bother of himself, and the crueler hands have long since bored of this post and moved on, from what he can tell. Arum did not even notice that the footsteps drifting through his prison must be new, not until they react to his low thrumming song. Not until the armor-cased creature scuttles back from his repetitive patrol at the sound.

It is difficult for Arum to care, really. New blood on the cell block, new blades watching his neck. Perhaps this one might be stupid enough to trick into finally, finally killing him, but Arum does not still hold much hope, for that. If he is here, certainly he knows the rules for this particular captive.

("How many do you think this thing has killed?" the one they call Absolon sneers. "How many? But it needs to stay alive. Fucking typical." He glares at Arum through the bars of his first cage, and- the memory stings, now, because Arum remembers when he still struggled, when he still raged and roared and took chunks of his captors as payment whenever he could reach them.

Absolon narrows his eyes. "We gotta keep the monster alive... that's fine, that'll be fine, actually, I think. Because- don't worry, boys." He grins. "You'd be surprised what you can live through.")

The knight freezes in front of Arum's plinth, his eyes wide and alarmed as he stares at Arum. Arum decides not to let up the song, just yet, because he would rather not hear whatever the Janus Beast would like to say to needle him for the memories of the last few moments.

"Oh," the knight says. "You- I thought you were stone," he says breathlessly. "A statue."

Arum doesn't bother to say anything in response. It wouldn't be worth the cost. Especially not to respond to something quite that inane.

"Your eyes are so terribly bright, aren't they?" the knight continues, his voice soft and uncertain. "They look so violet against the stone-grey of your scales. You look like granite magicked to life, I think. How strange."

Can you not be silent? Arum thinks, and he hopes some measure of his indignant irritation bleeds through the look in his eyes, since the knight seems preoccupied with them. He forgets-

At times Arum still forgets, everything this place has taken from him. The image he carries of himself- the way he imagines himself in his head- the green has long since bled out from his scales. It's too easy to forget the ashy husk he has been replaced with.

"You must be the Lord of the Swamp."

Arum's eyes flash open again, fixing on the knight with both irritation and surprise. He won't shut up, firstly, but secondly-

Yes. Obviously. Who else would he be?

"I forgot that you were here and not within the dungeons," he continues, as if reading Arum's thoughts. "Though... I suppose this makes sense. Largest victory of the last decade or so of the war, your capture. I suppose Queen Mira must consider you quite the prize."

Arum-

Thinks about eighteen curses at the same time, tumbling into each other in a tangle of sheer fury, trapped behind his teeth, but he finally stutters off the low hum in his throat and shifts to a low warning growl instead.

Warning, he thinks darkly. As if he could possibly follow through in any of the ways he wishes he could.

The knight blinks, bemused, but apparently he has decided that Arum is not worth enough of his time to halt his patrol route any longer.

"Well..." he says slowly. "I suppose I'll have to keep a close eye on you in particular, won't I?"

Wasting his time. Arum could almost be amused by that, if he weren't so bone-achingly tired.

It won't matter if the knight keeps an eye on him or ignores him entirely. Arum knows perfectly well, by now, that he will never escape this place.

#elle's fanfic #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #the beast in on his chain #captive!arum au... here to break my own dang heart #mind the warnings et cetera

[redgillan]

And they could Never Tear us Apart - 1

Summary: Canon!AU Bucky doesn’t trust anyone but himself. But after you show up on his doorstep with a shoebox full of old HYDRA files, he finds himself in a very difficult situation: trust a spy or gamble with people’s lives.

Word Count: 1,947

Warnings: Language, Super Mild Violence

A/N: Here we go! This fic follows FATWS. I hope you enjoy this new fic, I will probably take a small tag list for this series but I plan to post every monday so you can follow @redgillan-shares​ and turn on notification. Happy reading!

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Bucky paced the base with hasty steps, groaning under his breath while he waited for Sam to emerge from the locker room. He couldn’t stop thinking about Walker’s interview on Good Morning America.

“Even though I never met him, he feels like a brother.”

He’d gone on a walk then, tearing off posters of John Walker as the new Captain America before he remembered that Sam was at the military base near New York and decided to pester him about the shield instead.

“Does he know I’m here?” Bucky snapped, though the young lieutenant standing next to him didn’t flinch.

Torres kept his eyes trained on the sheet of paper he was reading, his unzipped backpack hanging off one shoulder. “He shouldn’t be long, sir.”

“Great,” Bucky mumbled to himself.

He took an immediate dislike to Torres. There was no logical reason for Bucky to be so cold to him but he couldn’t help it. Torres reminded him of the person he used to be; young, charming, friendly, easy-going... just your regular go-to guy.

Now he didn’t know who he was anymore.

Bucky was jerked out of his thoughts by the sound of a door banging open against a wall, followed by the sound of booted feet tramping across the open base. The sounds caught everyone’s attention, even Torres finally looked up from his paperwork.

They both frowned as they watched you flounce toward the only person in the room who wasn’t looking at you.

You looked absolutely dishevelled, as if you’d gotten dressed in a hurry; oversized black cargo pants, an askew tank top that revealed a white sports bra, and one boot. Still you carried yourself with confidence and authority despite the very obvious limp.

“What the hell is that?” you barked, shoving a crumpled piece of paper against the man’s chest. He had seen you but pretended not to. Instead he took his time to acknowledge your presence. You straightened your spine and lifted your head. You looked ready to explode.

“New orders,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

“He has no authority over me.”

“He’s Captain America. Now, suit up. They’re waiting for you.”

You looked down at the tactical Kevlar suit in your clenched fist and scoffed. “Tell Walker I’m not going to follow him around in a skin tight suit. I’m out.” You threw the suit in his face and stormed back to the locker room, still limping.

“I’m not his secretary, tell him yourself,” the man shouted to your retreating back

“I don’t care.”

The door closed behind you with a bang that echoed through the base. The room was silent for a moment before everyone went back to work. Torres let out a sound halfway between a whistle and a sigh and Bucky glared at him.

“’Don’t think I’d like to be on the receiving end of that,” Torres said with a friendly smile. “I’m thinking either water or fire sign, uh?” The deadpan look on Bucky’s face was enough to make Torres uncomfortable. “Yeah, never mind. I’ll go get Sam.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

***

Bucky muttered a quiet thank you in German before hanging up and pocketing his phone. After Baltimore, he knew that tracking down the people responsible for the new super soldier serum would require Zemo’s help.

Now that the correctional facility had agreed to let them talk to Zemo, he needed a plan to break him out of prison. Planning wasn’t his forte. He had vague memories of HYDRA higher-ups giving him orders and telling him about escape routes.

He had less than twenty four hours to come up with a plan that wouldn’t blow up in his face. On top of that, his actions would definitely put a strain on his relationship with Wakanda.

It was a necessary evil, a means to an end. Zemo wasn’t just obsessed with HYDRA, he also had connections with very shady people.

Bucky started climbing the steps to his apartment when something caught his eye. You were sitting on the floor with your knees pulled up to your chest, your arms wrapped around a shoe box. Reflexively, he looked around but there weren’t a lot of people in the street at –he glanced at his watch- 3:47 in the morning.

“Shit,” he mumbled to himself.

You looked up when you heard footsteps coming up the stairs, a bright streetlight illuminating your features. You looked guarded and apprehensive as he stepped out of the shadows. Bucky frowned under your scrutiny.

He paused on the landing, keys in hand, ready to use them as a weapon if needed. He stared at you; your eyes were swollen and bloodshot, dried tear tracks streaking your cheeks.

You wiped your nose with your sleeve and looked away.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said. “At the base. You were yelling at someone. You only had one shoe on.”

“Sounds like me.”

You sniffed and got to your feet as he approached. He jutted his chin toward the box cradled against your chest, wordlessly asking for elaboration. You swallowed hard and opened the lid, showing him the logo on the manila folder.

A fucking red skull with six fucking tentacles.

Bucky gave you an exasperated look and sighed, moving past you to open his front door. You followed after him and closed the door behind you. He removed his jacket and tossed it haphazardly over an armchair.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s classified.”

He threw you another exasperated look as he grabbed a bottle of beer out of the fridge. He uncapped the bottle using his vibranium hand and took a swig. A little harmless show of strength. He watched you fight the urge to roll your eyes.

“Well, Classified, you can speak freely here,” he said, leaning against the fridge. “Though I’m sure you already know that.”

“I know you destroyed the listening devices,” you confirmed. “Those were expensive by the way.”

“I’ll write you a check.”

You snorted, though you tried to hide it.

He eyed you up and down, trying to figure you out. You didn’t look threatening, but maybe that was the point. Not a lot of men came home at the crack of dawn to find a pretty girl on their doorstep. The tears were a nice touch, added sympathy and vulnerability.

He wondered how many knives you were hiding under your jacket.

You took a cautious step in his direction, your eyes never leaving his, and set the shoe box down on the kitchen counter. He watched you take a step back, your expression neutral and your body language unthreatening.

Without taking his eyes off you, he sent the lid crashing to the floor and reached inside the box. He pulled out three hefty Manila folders, slapping them on the counter.

“There’s more,” you said quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He glared at you, then pulled the box closer. Inside there were three VHS tapes, no labels, no protection cases. He took one an examined it.

“What is it?” When you didn’t answer, he raised his eyes to you. “What’s on ‘em?”

You tightened your arms around yourself and took a hasty step back, almost tripping over your own feet. You made a sound, something between a sob and gasp, and collapsed into the armchair.

It took you a few minutes to pull yourself together; you were so tired, so emotionally drained. You rubbed your hands over your eyes and massaged your temple distractedly. The throbbing pain behind your eyes was unbearable. You wanted to sink into the armchair and fall asleep.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option.

“Those are videos of HYDRA turning you into the Winter Soldier,” you finally said, your voice so quiet he almost didn’t hear you. You glanced sideways at him, unable to meet his eye but still trying to gauge his reaction.

“Where did you find ‘em?”

“I can’t tell you.”

The silence that followed only lasted a second before Bucky stomped over to where you were sitting and grasped your arm painfully, forcing you to your feet.

You recoiled and tried to pry your arm free but he tightened his grip and shoved you against the wall. He invaded your personal space, his nose almost touching yours. You hit your head on the wall trying to put some distance between you.

“Don’t play games with me, Classified,” he snarled, his nostrils flaring.

“I’m not,” you replied assuredly, locking eyes with him. His gaze was intense and probing, you tried not to show your discomfort.

“No?” he asked condescendingly. “Then answer me this. What’s a special agent doing at my apartment in the middle of the night with her little box of horrors?”

“I thought you deserved to destroy these tapes yourself.”

Your words left him speechless. He loosened his grip on your arm but did not let go. You pushed him away and put some distance between you. It was easier to think now that you could no longer feel his breath on your skin.

You stood in the middle of his living room, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself.

God, you wanted to cry. Not because he had hurt you; you were an agent, a sore arm was nothing, but because watching these videos had made you physically sick.

You had watched hours’ worth of footage of him being tortured, manipulated, brainwashed into an emotionless killing machine. It would remain forever etched in your memory.

You refused to cry in front of Bucky Barnes, though. It was embarrassing enough that he could tell you had been crying.

“What I saw-” You cleared your throat to get rid of the lump that had formed. “What I saw was so barbaric, so cruel,” you trailed off, aggressively wiping your nose with the back of your hand. You turned to him, your eyes shining with unshed tears, and pointed to your ear. “I can still hear your screams in my head... like... like a distorted noise playing on a loop.”

Bucky looked down at the floor, his expression guarded, slightly hostile, though when he finally met your gaze, his eyes were softer this time.

“If it were me on those tapes, I would like to destroy them myself,” you spoke in a gentle but firm tone. “That’s why I came here. I understand why you’re angry, I would be too. I wasn’t thinking clearly, I’m sorry. We don’t know each other and you... you have a lot on your plate.”

He sagged back against the wall, physically and emotionally exhausted. He processed your words in silence, his eyes assessing your expression, gauging you. He exhaled loudly and ran a hand through his hair.

“No harm done, Classified.”

You snorted. “Yeah, I don’t like that nickname.”

You exchanged tight-lipped smiles and a curt nod before you took a step toward the front door. Bucky saw you pause. You looked over your shoulder, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. He could see the conflict raging behind your eyes.

You crossed the room, stopped directly in front of him, and reached up to touch his cheek. He held your gaze, his eyes dark, intense. He was suddenly taken aback by your features; your eyes were so expressive, your lips so oddly tempting. Your eyes were sad and afraid, like they held a terrible secret.

Those videos had messed you up real good. It was written all over your face. You had heard and seen him being torn apart and put back together like a jigsaw puzzle; forcing together pieces that don’t fit because they have to go somewhere.

You ran the pad of your thumb over his bristled cheek. “You’re alive.”

You were gone before he could blink.

Part 2 

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #marvel imagine #marvel imagines #marvel fanfiction #redgillanwrites #and they could never tear us apart

[nnightskiess]

𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ₊° -𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐢����𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫.

series masterlist

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

i kindly ask you to not copy, republish, translate or reproduce this imagine on wattpad or on other platforms. respect the author’s work <3

By day's end, the campfire crackled and it was hard not to let yourself get lulled to sleep after the tiresome walk up the hill and the few hours of sleep you'd had the night before. You were in the sand with your arm over your forehead, but your eyes shot open when Shelby's enthusiastic voice filled the silence,

"Look what washed up!"

A black duffle was thrown in the middle of the group, a proud and cheerful Shelby standing behind it,

You sat up on your knees, hoping this was your duffle, but you definitely weren't the grey-haired guy on the nametag picture.

"Gotta figure this was our pilot... Davis Michael Crane..." Dot mumbled.

"Guess we found our John Doe."

Leah playfully shook her head at your inside joke.

"Now, sir, I don't have a great feeling about where you're at right now, but the shit you left behind will not be wasted." Dot spoke before throwing the nametag away and opening the duffle bag,

"Dottie, don't be morbid."

"Uh, well, sorry-" She turned to Shelby, "-but this bag is a haul... Pain pills... disinfectants, basically a whole medicine cabinet. Y/N, get over here so I can clean that wound of yours."

"It's nothing." You shook your head and hid your elbow, not wanting to accept the help.

"She's going for that hot castaway busted-lip kind of look, don't you get that?" Fatin shot a smirk your way, "It'll have all the ladies at your feet the moment the press posts our photos after we get rescued."

"The hell, Fatin? Way to expose my secret."

She sent you a flirty wink, "I can read you like the back of my hand, I'm onto you."

"That's not intimidating at all."

Fatin laughed, then pointed at the obvious recent scar on your underarm, "Bank robbery of '33, Bonnie?"

"No, actually- got this when I was held hostage in my own house after they broke in and tore the place apart because I couldn't give them any money."

"That was a really descriptive story, I feel like shouldn't believe you."

"It happened." You shrugged.

"Y'all, listen-" Dot stood up to address the group, "I know we're all down in the dumps after the news they brought back... but we have some cokes, some food from the plane, a fire to keep us warm and a bag of medicine. I know it doesn't look too promising, but if we need to, then this will bring us through the next couple of days until help has arrived. Let's not lose hope, okay? We can't afford to."

"I never thought we'd still be here by now..." Martha spoke softly.

Rachel nodded, her eyes focused on the flickering of the flames, "Really thought we wouldn't have to spend another night sleeping here. Do you think they at least know where we are?"

"Vaguely, perhaps."

"Modern-day's technology is smart enough to pinpoint the exact location." You tried to give her an uplifting smile, already hating how you had fought with her. You were not that kind of person, "Help will come soon."

She tried to smile back but it was clear she didn't totally believe you. However, your effort hadn't gone unnoticed because as you sat alone to watch the sunset an hour later, Rachel appeared next to you.

"May I?"

"Sure, but keep your distance, I might go all Cena again."

She rolled her eyes when she saw you were joking but sat down nonetheless.

"About that...Sorry if I came across too strong...and for targeting you."

It took you a second to hide the shock on your face. She was apologising to you? Someone... was apologising to you?

"Uh... oh- yeah, I mean... we all use different coping mechanisms, don't we? Yours has just caused you to butt heads with me... twice."

"Third time's a charm?" A playful grin washed over her face.

"Please, no, you're scary when you're angry."

Rachel chuckled, "Thanks for climbing up the hill with us and um... for putting me in my place."

"I didn't like doing it, but I'll do it again if I need to."

"That's fair." She nodded absentmindedly but cracked a tiny smile again when you offered her a handful of peanuts, "Thanks."

It got a little awkward, the munching of the peanuts the only sound filling the silence, but you were relieved that this conversation had taken place.

You felt Shelby hover again before you saw her, and when you looked over your shoulder, you saw the familiar blonde ponytail bounce sideways when she quickly turned around. You had been too occupied watching your step walking up that hill to also be busy stopping yourself from breaking down your walls, but the tiny crack she had seen, you had already cemented shut again. Whatever tiny slip-up had happened up there, whatever tiny smile you had given her, was past tense now and you weren't too keen on facing her again.

So when Nora approached to talk to her sister, you dusted yourself off and walked back towards the light of the camp.

"Back home, whenever the air gets this stuffy, it usually means you've gotta brace yourself for some heavy rainstorm."

"If you're trying to lift our spirits then you're doing a really shitty job." Toni grinned and moved aside to make room for you around the campfire.

A harsh gust of wind made the campfire flicker. It lost all its fire momentarily before slowly picking up again. The wind rose again, blowing sand in your faces. The army of dark clouds advanced. It began to drizzle.

"Um, that might become a problem."

"You're kidding."

"Don't think that's going to be our only problem." Toni held up a finger, signalling for you all to listen to the rumble of the sky.

"That doesn't have to mean anything. It might pass us."

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

"It might pass us?!" Fatin yelled out over the howling wind.

The booming of the thunder crashed through the night and mixed together with the screams of all of you girls.

The sand blew into your eyes, making them irritate and water. But the water in your eyes could also be from the rain. Your vision was a teary blur while you tried your best to stop things from getting taken in the wind.

"Please make it stop!"

"Come here, I've got you-"

Strands of hair stuck to your face, your whole body was drenched. Some girls scrambled together to hide under jackets, others were out stopping things from flying away as well. Shirts and other clothing articles flew out of Fatin's suitcase which she tried so hard to close, but the wind made it difficult.

"I used to think thunderstorms were, like... majestic."

"That still your take?!"

Another thunder clapped through the sky, and soon after your faces lit up for a short second.

"No..." Leah mumbled out.

"All right, come on- everyone grab an end! Get under!" Dot grabbed the emergency slide she had found that day, "Leah, come on!"

The thunder rumbled again, making you shrink at the sudden loud clap that followed. It was close.

"Y/N, get under!"

"The meds!" You yelled back, "Where are the meds? And the food!"

"Forget about that! Grab an end!"

"No, we need-" A thunder interrupted you.

"Y/N, let's go-" A hand grabbed a fistful of your shirt and pulled you backwards, under the slide.

There you all sat, shivering and shrinking with each loud clap of thunder. The wind howled through the trees, and the waves of the sea seemed to answer with loud clashing in return.

"My ankle's so itchy." Martha's voice trembled from the cold.

"My leg is kind of itchy, too..."

"Yeah, mine too."

"Shit, sand fleas." Dot spoke from next to you.

"Sand what?!" Fatin snarked with obvious distaste.

"Sand fleas! Well- they're not really fleas, they're more like tiny little shrimp."

"They're not lethal!" She continued after Fatin's whining and words of protest, "They're just annoying. Once the rain stops, we can just go scrub them off."

"What do you mean scrub them off?! I don't want to scrub them off!"

Not being able to hold it in any longer, you started to scratch and scrape at your exposed skin.

"Uh...you know... before they get a chance to burrow."

Fatin let out a strangled yelp, her skin getting even itchier thinking about it.

"Can't the rain was them off?!" Leah wondered, she too being busy scratching her legs open.

"Um... all I know is that the rain makes them climb to the surface of the sand."

"So we're sitting on an Atlantis filled with fucking shrimp?!"

"Pretty much."

Fatin turned to shout at the uncaring sky, "Fuck my life!"

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

Each girl had shivered all throughout the night, even when the rain had stopped, you being no exception. The storm had left you drenched and the fact that you were still in only a t-shirt had made it worse.

Wanting to provide for the group, you had offered to walk around to find stuff that had gotten lost in the storm. So there you were, trailing along the coastline, with the wind trying to blowdry your clothes simultaneously. So far you had found two bags of nuts, a red crop top, purple joggers and one of the swagbags, as Fatin liked to call them.

When you walked back, you stumbled upon Rachel, Nora and Leah who seemed busy preparing for something.

"What are you guys doing?"

"Gonna swim to the plane wreckage, wanna come with?" Rachel asked.

"No, thanks. Deep water isn't my thing."

"You're probably scared of what's in the depth of the waters, not the water itself."

You turned to Nora, "Still not going. Good luck, though! Be careful."

"We'll leave in five, if you change your mind."

The smoke that Dot wafted into the air and filled your lungs when you walked to the group made you think of home. It maybe wasn't the best memory to think of right now, but it happened.

"Hey, you're back! Anything new washed up? What did you find?"

"Just some nuts, more of Fatin's clothing and a swagbag." You put emphasis on the last word and threw it against Fatin's chest.

"Yeah, no, this is your Hawaii souvenir. It has your name on it." She threw it back.

"Fantastic." You muttered sarcastically before dropping onto the sand next to her.

Fatin snorted, "You look like a wet dog."

"You look like Pink Panther."

"Wow, add witty comebacks to the list too. It's getting longer and longer, girl. It's a leopard, by the way."

You let out an indifferent grunt, still grumpy from the events of the night before and the lack of sleep, "Potato, potato."

Fatin just snickered from beside you.

"How's your ankle, Martha?"

The girl looked up at you, immediately sending a tired but grateful smile your way, "Better, thank you."

"Anyone hungry? Toni?" You pulled the bags of nuts you had found out of your pocket and gave her a package.

"Thanks."

She started sharing with Martha. Fatin dismissed your offer.

"Um, Shelby?"

"Oh... yeah, sure! Thank you, Y/N." She accepted the other one.

"How are you all so dry already? Did she hide a blowdryer in that overpriced suitcase of hers?"

But your eyes took in the new clothes they were all wearing, which probably belonged to Fatin.

"I would need an outlet for that, dipshit."

"One-thousand dollars and it does not have an outlet?! Abomination."

Fatin rolled her eyes, and the other girls smiled.

"Whatever. Want a sweater? Pants? A hairbrush? A thong? You name it. Mi suitcasa es tu suitcasa." Fatin had already gone to open her suitcase but you stopped her.

"No, thank you, it's alright."

"Suit yourself."

"Dottie- what is that?" Shelby watched Dot work on the fire.

"Wet wood gets us black smoke, gets us a signal fire. Probably a good idea to keep it going during the day." Dot stood up when she noticed Nora, Rachel and Leah were about to leave,

"And, guys... I was pretty slack on this yesterday and it cost us— we've got to get real about shelter. If we all, you know, pitch in, grab the materi-"

Fatin’s hand went up like a missile and she wiggled her fingers to get Dot's attention,

"-Yes, lady in the leopard?"

"That sounds really unappealing and I'm exhausted... and there's rescue coming, so for those reasons... I'm out."

"Hey- where y'all going?!" Shelby walked to the three girls that had left quietly.

"We're swimming out to the wreckage, see if we can find anything useful."

"All right, just real quick- what do you guys think about building a shelter?" She rose her voice so that her message could be heard over the distance that grew now that they started to walk away.

"Not interested in laying down roots!"

"Au revoir!"

Shelby turned to Dot, who begrudgingly put on one of the swagbag visor on her head and grabbed a stick, "Dot, where are you going?"

"If we're not building a shelter, I'm at least gonna look for a cave or some kind of big rock that we can duck under...because believe it or not—the elements don't fuck around and neither should we."

"Wait, Dot-" You followed her, "I'm going with."

"Good to know there's at least one other person with a decent brain."

She waited for you to catch her pace,

"Hey, so, I'm thinking we should go inwards a bit. We're so out in the open and vulnerable to all the elements on the beach."

Dot pondered over your option, "I agree, but if rescue's coming, it's best we stay in sight. For now- at least." She explained with assurance when you had already opened your mouth to discuss, "Besides, fewer threats of dangerous animals and insects when we're not in the woods."

"Gotcha. I guess you heard them too, then."

"Those low growls and weird-ass screeches? Shit, yes. I did."

"Yeah... those kept me up all night. I couldn't tell where they were coming from exactly— left, right, behind me..."

"With your plan, to go into the woods, you probably wouldn't sleep a wink." Dot flicked some sand your way with the stick, a teasing grin on her face.

"But at least we wouldn't have to worry about sand storms, disgusting sand-shrimps, the harsh wind and the sun burning us alive."

"Touché." She nodded at you, "I guess there's just no such thing as finding a functional place for a shelter without any downsides. There's a risk to everything on this island."

"But hey, if we do need to build a shelter then I'm willing to help. I was a Girl Scout when I was younger and each year they sent us on these wilderness trips where we had to hone expertise in outdoor survival skills."

Dot stopped walking and looked at you, "Shit, I would've never guessed."

You nudged her with your elbow, "Well, the more you know."

"Did you sell those cookies too? Because-"

"Dottie! Y/N, hey! Wait up."

A big sigh left Dot's mouth as Shelby approached. You wiped the sweat off your forehead and looked away. The universe wasn't making things easy for you.

"Figured you could use the help. Hope that's alright with you guys. The others weren't keen on doing anything anyway."

Dottie looked away, leaving you to mutter under your breath, "Three's a crowd..."

"What?" Shelby squeezed her eyes at you and tilted her head, acting oblivious, "What did you say?"

"That it would be rude to make you walk all the way back, so, why not." You sarcastically lifted your arm and gestured for her to walk. She stared you down, seeing through your act.

Dot cleared her throat, "Let's get going then."

Deciding to trail behind them, you listened to their talk about their town back home, about the school picture debacle, about Dot's father having coached their youth soccer team. Soon, you realised there was a sharp edge to the conversation. It seemed like Dot didn't want to engage in it at all, but Shelby kept it going. Finally, she engaged in a topic you knew something about.

"I bet we're gonna be big news back home."

It took you a lot of self-control to not mumble out an unhappy, Sure, as if I wasn't already, but they didn't need to know about that.

"I guess so."

"I'm wondering how it's going back there."

"It's probably chaos. A flight with ten girls crashes and goes missing? Talk of the week." You flailed your arm when a bug flew in your proximity.

"Do you think our parents are aware of what has happened by now?" Shelby looked over her shoulder only to see that same distant expression take over your face. She corrected herself, "Or- you know, whoever we care about."

Your eyes met Shelby's and you realised she meant your broken family back home. You fell quiet, thinking of them.

"Sure, I guess." Dot shrugged, "I mean, they must be. It's been... what? Gotta be at least more than 24 hours? I have no idea what time it is."

The three of you walked along the crescent coastline.

"I heard, by the way, about your dad. That he was, you know, sick."

Dot shook her head in disbelief and stopped her step, "We don't have to do this, you know?"

"I'm sorry, do what?"

"Go all Breakfast Club on each other, peel back the layers. As far as I'm concerned, you can go on thinking I'm the "not pictured" girl, and I can go on thinking about you not at all. Have a lovely day." Annoyed, Dot turned around and walked a good ten paces in front of you before the two of you followed.

You blew a low whistle, "She got you good."

"Y/N." Shelby shot you a warning look, but not one that said she was mad or upset with you. She could never be, not even when you kept pushing her away. Besides, she saw this as the perfect opportunity to reunite and catch up, now that you were together.

"Hey, so, how are your grandparents? How's Riley?" Although her voice sounded cheery again, you could sense she was testing the waters.

"I don't know, Shelby, how are they? I haven't been able to call them."

She sighed, "You know what I meant."

You started to fumble with the bracelet on your wrist, "I'd rather not talk."

A tug on your hand suddenly pulled you back, "Come on, Y/N/N, how long will you keep on doing this?"

"I need space."

"Hear me out, please, let me explain. I really think you'll see things differently if you'll just-"

"I said I need space."

"Please, I just need you to know-"

"No."

"Y/N! Come on-" She yelled after you, but you had already stormed off into the woods.

"What's up with her?" Dot had stopped as soon as she heard the ruckus and walked back to meet Shelby halfway.

"Asked something I shouldn't have. I suppose."

"Did you put your nose in her business?" Dot's reply was sarcastic, but Shelby's cheeks flushed and she stammered and stumbled over her words,

"Excuse me?"

"Word of advice? Don't pry. People don't like that shit."

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Another dried fawn was fumbled into the swagbag. Your hands were dirty from rummaging through the piles on the ground but you couldn't care less as you wiped the droplets of sweat from your forehead. The forest was no joke. The sun wasn't blazing onto your skin, but there was no wind to cool you off either. Like Dot had said— there was a downside to everything on this island.

The confrontation with Shelby had been inevitable, although you knew you had barely even grazed the tip of the iceberg. It was childish of you to run away and not give her a chance to speak, to not hear her side of the story. Somewhere you knew that, but your frustration with whatever had happened couldn't just be brushed under the carpet. And after Shelby had brought up your grandparents and your sister, she had practically ruined all chances of a peaceful conversation with a good end.

You didn't know Shelby had joined Dot again, you didn't know of what had gone down and why her voice now sounded from somewhere to your right, in the woods, while Dot's yells came from the beach.

"Dot! Dot!" Shelby's voice echoed through the trees, making exotic birds finding their rest nearby, fly away.

"Shelby, where are you?"

The panic in her voice was not played. Without thinking, you dropped the pile of branches you had foraged and made a run for it, towards the sound of Shelby's cries.

Shelby's pleas and cries neared and soon you saw the back of her head as she sat perched against a rock, her eyes focused on something on the ground.

"Shelby!"

She squeezed her eyes shut at hearing your voice. Relief washed over her, knowing you used to make every problem of hers seem less severe and wanting to find peace at the thought of you helping her out this time as well. But these were very different circumstances. Your had voice made her want to whip her head around to calm herself down after taking a look into your familiar eyes, but the creature hissing in front of her made her body frozen in place as if she had just looked into Medusa's eyes. Shelby trembled and soft sobs shook her body while her eyes followed your approach.

A bundle of brown vines started to recoil in front of Shelby's feet and you then realised it wasn't part of the jungle's greenery. It was a slick and slimy snake that hissed and rattled its tale at the blonde.

"Holy fucking mother of-"

"It's a snake, it's a snake, it's a snake-" She rambled,

"Fuck, okay, don't worry. You'll be fine." Your subconscious took over and answered for you. Of course, she should worry. Of course, she wouldn't be fine, not if you didn't do something to help her anyway. You looked around for anything to keep her safe.

Although cliché, Shelby knew the saying was right when she saw her life flash before her eyes. Her memories flitted from one random image to the next. From her first soccer game to the daisy chains she used to make with Becs when they were kids, to the first time seeing your face on her screen, to her dad finding her phone and demanding answers. She shot her eyes open,

"Y/N, I'm so sorry I left you and-" She whimpered.

The snake's mouth opened slightly to reveal a set of sharp teeth and red, swollen gums.

"Shelby- shut up! Stay still!" Now was not the time, you needed to act quickly. But the blonde had other plans,

"No! Please, listen to me this time, I really need you to-"

You shut her voice off, letting her ramble on, as you searched the ground. You grabbed a large rock and approached, your arms already feeling like spaghetti as you tried to get your aim right.

The snake lunged right before you threw the rock. It missed its target completely.

"You scaly bitch!"

"Y/N, please!"

"Hey!" Dot approached fast, the stick in her hand and outstretched in front of her, "Don't move! Okay?!"

"Please, kill it, please, please-"

"Shelby- hey, it's okay." You forced her to look at you, "It'll be alright."

Dot's first attempt missed, causing the snake to hiss and shoot forward slightly. It was beyond angry right now, that much was clear.

"Oh, my God. Get it, get it, get it!"

Another hit and the stick perched through the snake entirely. Shelby lunged forward as soon as she saw the opportunity, and accepted the arms you held outstretched. Her hands clawed at the back of your shirt. She squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in your shoulder.

"See? You're alright." You whispered into her hair.

"You piece of fucking reptile shit."

Shelby let go of you and the two of you turned to Dot, who started to slam into the snake,

"I was supposed to be in fucking Hawaii-" She breathed heavily, "-the 50th fucking state, at an aromatherapy massage, not in this fucking hellscape... trying not to die!!"

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Deciding to give Dot some space, you stood to the side and kept to yourself. No one said a word. Each of you needed to take a breather after the confrontation with the snake.

Shelby's eyes had watched you carefully. Her mind had been a whirlwind ever since she had locked eyes with you on the plane. She had beat herself up about everything that had happened once more, had felt every available emotion all at once, but had also caught herself realising how good it felt to have you close. To not have to imagine what it would be like. Even just the knowledge of having you around had calmed her down. But whenever her eyes had occasionally and sometimes accidentally gazed over you, she had also been caught with an immense feeling of shame, guilt, fear and pressure. Right now, though, all she could think of was how thankful she was.

"Hey." She mumbled and a soft smile was sent your way while she rubbed the dirt off your forehead with the back of her sleeve. It took you off guard. And just like that, with that kind gesture of her, or maybe because of the look she gave you that had made your heart quiver, she had made you forget that you were supposed to hate her.

"Thank you," Shelby spoke as she looked right into your eyes, the hazel colour on full display for you.

"Dot's the hero here. Not me."

"You tried. You were there. You came."

You nodded your head sheepishly, still unsure of what to make of this all.

Her voice turned to a whisper only the two of you could hear. For all Dot knew, you could be talking about her emotional breakdown just now, "Listen, I know I messed up, majorly, incredibly so, and I'm not looking for excuses. But you do deserve an apology. So... um, whenever you're ready... come find me. I want to explain." She played with her hands, "I hate that I've hurt you, all I ever wanted was to put a smile on your face. And I-" She paused but shook her head— this needed to be said, "I have missed you every day since."

"Shelby-" A deep sigh left your mouth.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N/N. If it had been in my hands, I wouldn't have done the things I did. I'm still here should you need me, okay?"

A faint smile appeared on your face.

You cleared your throat, wanting to get out of this situation. And quick, if you didn't want to lose yourself again, "I'm gonna... go back to camp. See what's happening there... if they need help."

"Are you sure?" Shelby's eyes flashed towards the dead snake momentarily, afraid there were other surprises waiting for you all in the woods.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I left some kindle somewhere back there, should pick that up."

"Sure, okay. Be careful."

Shelby watched you leave before going to check on Dot.

"Hey, uh, thanks for saving me... us, just now."

"Least I could do."

"So...this might not be the best time to ask for a favour, but... could you not tell anyone about...my teeth."

Dot chuckled tiredly, "Take it to the grave."

"No, I mean... seriously."

Dot rose an eyebrow, "Sure."

"Even Andrew doesn't know."

"No offence, but you should probably lighten up about it. My fucking kingdom for a problem as big as some dentures."

"It's not dentures... it's just two of my- Anyway..."

A silence fell upon them.

"In my mind, it feels like...i-it feels like this super-thin wall...holding back all of this...I don't know. Ugliness.... He's cheating, isn't he?"

"Don't know. Just gossip, really. But for what it's worth, I think you deserve better."

Shelby stared aimlessly into the abyss, her mind going to you and how she had ruined that.

"This one time, we were on a mission trip to Mexico and we were watching the sunset together. Because the light was just right, the sun made this beautiful green flash just before it sunk below the horizon...and I was like-"

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"-isn't that just the purest thing you ever saw?"

Andrew's arm was wrapped around Shelby's shoulder, but all she could focus on was the buzz of her phone in her pocket, the realisation you had texted back, that you had seen the beautiful sunset picture she had sent you with the most cheesy line in existence— 'it reminded me of you'.

She so badly wanted to grab her phone and see your reply, to text you back, to call you and hear your voice and to have this moment together. But she had already made Andrew get her a drink so she could send you the picture in the first place, and couldn't come up with a new excuse to check your message. This one had to wait. And although you weren't with her in person, if she squinted her eyes, she could try and pretend like the warmth of his arm around her shoulder belonged to you, and that you'd make a comment that would make her grin from ear to ear, that your legs and hands would be entangled with her own while you watched the sun go down. That the safety of having you close would calm her down, ease her senses. Maybe someday, and if never, she always had her imagination to fall back on.

Andrew shook his head and smirked, "You're so random," Then his hand moved up her shirt. It ruined her daydream of having you there, not only because it was a strong reminder whose large and rough hand slithered up her shirt, but also because she knew you would never cross her boundaries like that.

A fake laugh left her mouth as she softly pushed him away in a playful manner, "Andrew, you can't do that!"

He smirked, "What if I want to?"

Suddenly, all she wanted was to swat his arm away, to push him off, to create some distance, to run and to run and to run. To run to you. All she wanted was you.

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"Dear Leah, I dreamt about you last night. You wore a dress like this, only it was red, and you were also wearing rollerblades. A person only gets a handful of perfect dreams in one's life. For me, this was one of them..., Juicy, right?"

"Hey, what are you two getting up to?" Your mouth formed an 'O' as soon as you saw the book on Fatin's lap, the book Leah had been glued to ever since the plane had crashed and the reason behind why she hadn't given you the light of day during the flight.

"He's written all these kind love notes for Leah to find. He's super in love with her." Martha beamed.

"Oh, you're snooping?"

She shrunk slightly, embarrassed, but Fatin kept turning the pages, "Here he just wrote, 'Shetland ponies forever.'"

"What does that mean?"

"Well, they are very adorable."

"It's obviously an inside joke. God, there is nothing grosser than couples and their inside jokes."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Fatin stopped, reclined and gave Martha a once-over, "Do you want some solid relationship advice?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Enlighten us." You crossed your arms over your chest, knowing whatever Fatin had to say would probably entertain you.

"Okay... there are only three things that you have to remember— skip the handy, dry humping is underrated, and always carry a stash of Uqora."

"What's Uqora?"

"It's for UTIs, like, after you have a lot of sex."

You snorted and looked away, shaking your head, "Martha, ignore everything she just said."

Fatin feigned offence and held her chest.

"Listen, as cliche as this sounds— don't look for love. You'll never find it when you seek for it around every corner."

"Well, that is true. You just stop paying attention to them and then they just, like, appear out of nowhere."

The thud of something being put onto the sand made you all look up, where Toni stood with the upper half of a male mannequin, "So this guy washed up. Is he good for anything?"

"See?! It's already coming to fruition." You gave Martha a cheeky grin, "He needs a good scrub first, though. He looks disgusting."

"Oh, that's easy— just let him sleep a night on the sand with us and his whole body will have had a good sandy scrub, even his buttcrack."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Don't look at me." Fatin deadpanned, her face stoic.

"So, what do you say, Martha? How about that first date?" Your voice was a few octaves deeper as you stood behind the mannequin.

"The fuck is this about?" Toni laughed.

"Operation Help Martha Get A Boyfriend."

"Wow, Marty, you're in luck today then? Although, see, he doesn't really read as straight to me. I mean, look at those abs. Straight boys don't rock an eight-pack that hard."

"Hmm, he could also be a straight gym-rat fuck boy, you know? All about his 'Gram channel, sprays Acqua di Gio on his balls, and he will always leave you on read."

"Speaking from experience again?"

Fatin turned to you, "Girl-"

You playfully held up your hands and snickered together with Martha.

"Marcus here will break your fucking heart."

"Marcus?"

"Yeah, where did Marcus come from?" Toni made a face.

Fatin shrugged, "It's a vibe."

"I mean, it's kind of close to my name," Martha spoke.

"It must've been written in the stars."

Fatin playfully eyed the mannequin, then Martha, "Honestly, I feel the chemistry."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Marty, get it."

You all laughed. The moment got interrupted by the return of Shelby and Dot,

"We are back. Unscathed." Shelby announced. You noticed she looked at you with a different kind of air around her. She seemed calmer, more like herself, more like the Shelby you had gotten to know. She didn't hide anything behind a smile this time. This was your Shelby. She smiled at you.

Dot continued, "And we found a cave. So, if rescue doesn't show in the next couple of hours, I suggest we get a move on."

"Thank God!" Fatin piped up from above you and leaned on your shoulders, "I cannot take another night with wet sand in my crack."

"Knew it." Your mumble immediately received a playful slap to your cheek from above, from Fatin.

"Who is this?"

Martha turned the mannequin around, "This is Marcus. Toni found him."

"Marcus and Martha... sitting in a tree-"

Now your other cheek received a slap.

Shelby watched the interaction, felt her chest tighten and her eyes turn cold again. But she couldn't deny that she loved seeing you comfortable and joking around. She cleared her throat,

"I don't have a ton of experience, but doesn't that seem especially large?" She gestured at the male genitals Martha had cheekily drawn onto the mannequin with one of Fatin's lipsticks.

"Martha likes them hung."

Now it was your turn to slap Fatin, your slap hitting her thigh. Before she could shoot a witty reply your way, Rachel's yell sounded from a distance and echoed over the beach,

"Hey!"

Rachel, Nora and Leah approached— all drenched, shivering and looking exhausted from their time spent in the water, but it was what Rachel was carrying that caught all your attention. With a proud smirk, she put it down— the black box.

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"Why's it called the black box when it's orange?"

"Orange is an alarming colour, it stands out and is easier to find. The phrase originates from World War II but the concept of a black box has changed over time. That's why it's not an up-to-date name anymore." Nora shrugged, giving you the answer.

"Well, that makes sense."

"So what do we do with it?"

"What are you all looking at me for?" Dot spoke up, "I don't know shit about planes. Two days ago was the first time I'd ever even been on one."

"We should open it." Leah stared the thing down, needing to know whatever information was held inside.

"But it says right on the thing-"

"-Martha, I know, but if we were to get inside, we might find the actual recording, like...like, the actual tape of what happened to us up there."

"Don't we kind of already know what happened?"

"Do we? Can somebody tell me, like, the full account? From the turbulence to the moment you woke up here?"

The circle of girls fell quiet. No one remembered a second, and you all knew it.

"Fuck no! We're not opening it." Rachel spat.

Your eyes flickered to hers, a silent warning that she was doing it again, but she didn't look at you.

"You said there was maybe, like, a transmitter in here, beaming out our location?" Dot turned the attention away from Rachel and back to her sister.

Nora nodded, hugging her legs close to her chest in an attempt to keep herself warm, "Yeah, it's called a beacon... I think. It's a... nautical term?"

Shelby sat up on her knees, "Okay, but it's been three days. If they haven't found us yet, can't we assume that this beacon thing is busted? I mean, maybe if we just try..."

"Do Not Open! What part of that is unclear?" Rachel started again, "What if we open it and break a completely functional beacon? That would wipe us off the grid entirely. Is that what you want? 'Cause if it's what you all want, you're fucking damaged."

"Rachel-"

"No! Y/N! I was out of line before but we should take this seriously! What if opening this will ruin our chances of being found?! Do you fucking want that?! Huh?!"

Leah and Fatin shared a look, obviously because of Rachel's intense outburst again.

"There's a bulb inside, but it's out."

"Okay... so... that means it's definitely broken, right?" Martha tried, hoping that would make everyone agree it would be wiser to open it.

"If someone suggests opening it one more time, I swear to God." Rachel tried to keep her cool, but struggled.

Fatin rolled her eyes and turned to Dot, "What do you think, Dorothy?"

You inspected the girl's face, she was clearly still shaken up from the snake attack and whatever emotions and memories had resurfaced after. You looked towards Shelby and nudged your head. Shelby took the hint,

"Okay, y'all, what we choose to do right now should not be in the hands of just one person. Okay? Not that Dottie couldn't handle it, but we shouldn't put that much responsibility on her. So, all those in favour— raise your hands."

Everyone's hands went up except for Rachel's, and Nora who seemed to do it because she wanted to back her sister. Her face was buried in her lap, as if she didn't want to face what would come next. A sour frown took over Rachel's expression and she crossed her arms.

"All righty, then. Majority rules."

You sat next to Dot as she fumbled to get it open. When she found the trick behind opening the lock, a click was heard and the orange container could be slid open. Inside were all kinds of metal boxes that looked like the back of a very old desktop computer. Lots of wires and buttons and nubs seemed to have kept the thing going. Dot played around with it all until a beep was heard.

"Holy shit."

"What's the sitch, Wade?" When no one seemed to catch on or laugh your smile faltered, "Okay, guess not."

"Do you think that means it's working?"

Dot turned to Nora again, who seemed to know a lot about whatever situation they found themselves in. It had come in handy already.

"I mean, I don't know, but we have to assume... yes."

"So it's on? Now they're gonna find us?"

Rachel's eyes started to glow. The girls had a renewed sense of hope.

Toni pulled a grinning Martha into a side hug, "Yeah, boy! Fuck to the yes!"

Relief washed over most of your faces at the realisation of the end of your island trip coming near, but Dot spoke up again,

"Wait a second. I think this is it..." She pulled an audio device out of the black box, "...the recording from the flight."

Leah took it and didn't waste time. She pressed play,

"This is November Delta 294, are we cleared for departure?"

She pressed forward,

"294 out of range, engaging distress signal. We've gone off course. Mayday, Mayday, May-"

The mood changed and no one was seen smiling anymore.

"Lost thrust in both engines. We're off course—"

Your skin started to itch, grow hot and cold, your chest tightened, and a boulder was dropped on your shoulders again. A sudden sweat made its entrance and you couldn't breathe. You put your hand on Leah's to stop her from pressing play again,

"I-I.... I don't think I want to listen any longer?" It sounded like a question, since you suddenly felt so vulnerable and weak again, as if you had been shepherded into that same corner that had become so familiar to you back home. You tilted your head to the side, the anxiety already back in tenfold at even the thought of the terror you had felt right after waking up after the crash.

But Leah's curiosity was too hard to tame.

"Cabin pressure is gone, Captain. The girls are unconscious. We got complete engine failure, I'm gonna have to put this down in the water."

An ever so soft and begging please left your mouth, but the audio device beeped again as Leah fasted forward.

"Leah! Stop it!" Shelby raised her voice, having noticed your behaviour, but Leah's bright blue eyes were filled with focus.

"Unlatch the exits! Make sure the girls have flotation devices! 294, Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! We've lost thrusts in both engines and are attempting a water landing!"

Your shallow breathing had started to make you lightheaded. You stumbled away from the circle, from the girls, from the sound of hearing your doom get played again.

"Hold on for the attempt! Oh, shi-"

The Captain's words got cut off as Fatin slapped the device out of Leah's hands and onto the ground,

"Read the fucking room or learn some boundaries, you fucking idiot! What the hell was that?!" She gave her a shove. It was as if it had shaken Leah out of her haze, since now her big eyes followed you stumble away in a panic, Shelby close behind.

"I'm-I'm sorry... I just wanted... I just needed to-"

"-let us relive our trauma?" Fatin shot her a nasty look before going in the direction she had seen the two of you leave.

You clumsily sat yourself down into the sand, your limbs too shaky, and at the same time incredibly heavy. Your hands were ice cold and clammy and the shaking of your fingers made you move to open your pocket until Shelby's face filled your view.

She sat crouched down in front of you, holding you up.

"Shit, Y/N, shit, shit-" She cursed, not having the slightest clue what to do. You had always been so composed and had seemed to confident and in control. This was new to her and she had no clue what to do. Usually, you had been the one to calm her down, not the other way around.

She squeezed your knees and your eyes fluttered open.

"I don't know what to do,-" You mumbled, "I don't want to feel like this, please, I don't know what to do, Shelby-"

She sensed this was going very badly when your breathing turned shallow and fast, she squeezed your knees again and your eyes opened once more.

"Hey, hey, hey- Listen, I'm here... I'm here. I'll help you through this." It was scary and intensely unsettling to see you like this. She tried to keep her own panic under control and cleared her throat,

"Feel the warmth of my hands on your knees?" She squeezed them. She did not get a reply so she continued. Her hands moved up to where you were tightly holding onto your legs, dinging your nails into your skin.

"Do you feel the touch of my fingertips?" She lightly tapped each knuckle on both your hands, then massaged the hills and valleys of your knuckles, "Remember to take a deep breath in, push it all the way to your belly."

She had learned that taking deep breaths whenever she was anxious before a show usually worked to take the edge off her nerves.

Shelby softly pried your fingers off the bracelet that you held tightly. So tightly that she was sure it would snap if you continued. Her ponytail hung over her shoulder and she got an idea.

"Does that tickle?" She moved the tips of her hair across your underarms and you twitched slightly at the ghost of a tickle. You suddenly felt the pad of her thumb grazing along your collarbone. Then it appeared in a pattern on the back of your hand again. Then the tip of your nose got a few soft taps. She squeezed your knee, then started on your knuckles again.

"Deep breaths." She reminded.

After Shelby did the same pattern once or twice more, you knew where her touch would follow next. Having kept yourself busy by counting and following Shelby's touch, eventually, you realised your breathing had started to normalise again. The cold sweat still coated your back and forehead, you were still exhausted and shakey, but the itching of your skin and the boulder on your shoulders had left.

"That's it, Y/N/N." She coaxed you through it.

Fatin watched, not uttering a word, not wanting to announce her arrival. She knew it would put a spanner in the works of calming you down. So, she gave the two of you some space and stood to the side.

You dared to open your eyes again and a sigh of relief left your mouth when the world was no longer blurry or spinning. Although your anxiety still hadn't disappeared, Shelby had helped you through the worst of it. Still, your hand ghosted over your pocket. When you moved around and felt the strip poke your side, another relieved sigh left your mouth. You were too tired to give a flying fuck that both girls had witnessed this moment of your weakness, that it had been Shelby that had calmed you down, the girl you had sworn to ignore.

"Fatin." You croaked out, seeing the girl watch you with worry flashed across her features.

Shelby turned around in an instant, her cheeks grew hot. She stood up and walked a few paces back, "Um, I should see how the others are holding up... after the whole... debacle."

Fatin furrowed her brows and gave Shelby a confused side-eye. She approached you and sat down in the sand next to you.

"It was a lot to take in, wasn't it?"

You merely nodded.

"You'll be alright, Bon-Bon." She awkwardly patted your knee when your head dropped to rest on her shoulder. "Don't worry, I gave her a good beating. Not literally-" She added when she felt you make a move to remove your head.

Your voice sounded exhausted but you smiled nonetheless, "Thanks, Clyde."

☾ ⋆*·ﾟ:⋆*·ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:·ﾟ .: ⋆*·ﾟ: .⋆

"Listen, guys, about that cave we found earlier today- we should probably get a move on if we want to reach it before dark. Try to pack up everything and carry whatever you can. I know some of you don't feel like doing it, but it was really cold the first night and last night we had that storm. I really think the cave is gonna be a better shelter." Dot spoke like a true leader.

And so it went. The nine of you walked along the crescent coastline, the waves serving as calming background noise.

"Toni?"

"Hm?" The girl glanced back as much as she could while pulling the bundle of tied up stuff along with her.

"Did you by any chance take a basketball with you on the place because if that thing washes up, we'll have our very own Wilson."

She laughed, "The fuck are you going on about?"

"From that movie? Cast Away?"

"That was a volleyball!" Dot yelled from her place upfront. "Get your facts straight." She teased.

"Yeah, well, I haven't watched it in years, excuse me."

"It was too iconic to not remember it was a volleybal. You should watch it again in honour of our adventures as soon as we get back home."

You let out a sound of indifference, "Don't think I'll want anything to do with anything tropical or deserted island-ey."

"That's fair. Hey, but, one of us should, like, totally write a book about all of this."

"Not me."

"Yeah, no, not me either."

"Leah, wanna take that one? Since you seem to be glued to that book." Rachel played around.

Toni nodded, "That shit will probably sell like crazy."

Fatin piped up, "As long as you'll share the royalties with me. If you're gonna write to the whole world about how I woke up with sand in my crack then I at least want to get something in return."

"You sure mention that a lot, don't you?"

She gave you a look, and then puckered her lips to make kissy faces at you.

Although you had started the conversation and seemed to be in for a joke again, Shelby kept a close eye on you, still unsettled at what you had gone through a few hours ago. You seemed fine now, but was that the same as what was going on inside your head? Was this just an act? Besides, it had appeared that she barely knew you anymore, so whatever ability to be able to read you she'd had in the past, was sure gone now.

"It's.... cave-y," Martha noted, getting chills as soon as she stepped into the cool cave.

"It's a cave, what did you expect?" Dot smiled slightly.

Each girl took her time to help set everything back up. You yourself had decided to re-organize the kindle you had found that afternoon into piles for signal firewood, dry wood and dry logs.

A soft tap on your shoulder broke your concentration.

Leah.

You clenched your jaw. You hadn't had a problem with Leah before, on the contrary— she had been one of the first girls who you had felt comfortable around. But the stunt she had pulled earlier, the thing that had filled you to the brim with anxiety and had made you relive an anxiety attack again, hadn't been forgiven or forgotten yet.

"Hey, um, so, I was way out of line... back there... earlier. I don't know what I was thinking. I mean- I don't think I was, truth be told— which is, like, totally not an excuse or me trying to swerve my way out of an apology because this is... an apology. So, I'm so sorry, Y/N. I shouldn't have done that. Are you... are you alright?" She shifted in her spot and bit her lip when you kept staring at her, barely blinking.

You rose to your feet, levelling your gaze with hers.

"I told you to stop. Did you not hear that?"

"I-I don't know, I don't remember. You have every right to be mad at me but... listen-"

"-Listen?! Oh, so the thing you did not do?"

"Y/N-"

"Leah, this place is already horrifying enough as it is. I did not want to go through any additional hell but that was exactly what happened after you kept playing that tape."

"You could've walked away earlier," She tilted her head, unsure of her own comment. "I really needed to hear it all, we all did... I think."

"Oh- so now I'm the one at fault?"

"No! I said sorry, Y/N! And I wholeheartedly meant that! I fucked up, okay?"

"You triggered an anxiety attack, did you know? Have you ever had one?"

"Y/N, I am so sorry."

Taken aback by the glistening of her eyes, you blinked... once, twice as you stood there, dumbfounded. Someone was actually sorry for what they had done to you, for the first time in ages. This wasn't your fault, and she had admitted that.

She looked at your outstretched hand with a puzzled look on her face, but grabbed it when you gestured for her to shake it.

"Never again."

"Never again. I promise."

She gave you a hesitant smile when you left to walk outside, walking into Dot and Shelby who stood to admire the sun going down.

"Oh- hey." Shelby whispered softly when she stepped back, letting Dot have her moment alone, "It's beautiful isn't it?"

You hummed, being enamoured by the view.

"Reminds me of-"

"-that picture."

"I mean, yeah!" Shelby breathed out, surprised that you would acknowledge it, that you even remembered it at all.

"Good times, good times." You mumbled, somewhat sarcastically, under your breath before retreating back inside, realising you wouldn't find your much-needed peace outside either.

After the sun had gone down, the sky only stayed slightly alight for a few more minutes, leaving you all in total darkness until Nora helped Dot with the campfire.

Still, the flames and the heat that bounced off the walls of the caves barely kept you warm. You rubbed your arms and put your head in your lap, your breathing now trapped in a small space and therefore warming your face.

The soft fabric of a jacket was thrown around your shoulders and you pulled your head out of your lap. Fatin stood over you, smiling softly.

You pulled the jacket off you and inspected it. It was red with a black panther print and stripes.

"You sure do love your panther prints, huh?"

"Rawr. You're welcome, bitch." She clawed her manicured nails at you before wanting to turn on her heel, but frowned when she saw you neatly fold her jacket up and put it beside you.

"I'm pretty sure it's not allowed to return or refuse gifts from royalty."

"Royalty?" Martha joined the conversation, which caught Toni's attention as well,

"Says who?"

"Says the literal royal rule book!"

"What else is in that book of yours?"

Fatin cleared her throat, getting ready. She tilted her chin, "Uh-hum, no politics!" She playfully wagged her finger, "When the Queen stops eating, everybody does. Royalty cannot eat shellfish!"

"The hell-"

"I call bullshit."

"Do you want to smell like Seaworld when you're royalty? No, exactly."

"You're taking the piss with us." Dot laughed, glad that there was someone doing her best to lighten the situation.

"Actually, everything she said was all true." Nora chuckled dryly.

"Even the seafood bullshit?"

"Yeah... but not for those reasons. Just because it's risky food."

"Risky food? It's fucking delicious. When I went to Thailand with my family, we went to a place that had the best Poo Cha in the area. Let me tell you- when it touched my lips—" She kissed her fingers and made a sound.

Toni rolled her eyes, "Way to make me feel like a fucking commoner."

The conversation had taken the attention away from you, but Fatin remembered why the discussion had even started. Deciding to involve the whole group so you had no other way but to answer her, she raised her voice,

"Why do you keep refusing my clothing?"

Eight sets of eyes stared at you.

You shrugged, focusing on the ground where you were drawing circles in the dust of the cave with your finger. You felt all their eyes on you and you could slap Fatin right about now for putting you on an unwanted pedestal with her comment.

"I've also got this leopard camo jacket if red is not your colour?" She tried to play it off as a joke but already started to rummage through her suitcase again, "Or wait... maybe..." She pulled out a fluffy dark green coat from the bottom of her suitcase. She tamed the hairs to get it neat again, "This will definitely keep you warmer than that shirt of yours."

"I'm fine. Thank you."

Her smile dropped and she stared at you, trying to read the expression behind your eyes while you kept busy patting the non-existent dust off your pants.

Without saying another word, Fatin sat down next to Dot, who leaned over to whisper, "It’s probably not my place to assume, but I always hate when people give me stuff I know I can’t repay them for."

"It's just a jacket?" She shot back.

"And it's just an assumption."

Fatin stared back at you, letting her mind run with every possibility of why you just wouldn't take any of her clothes, in contrast to the other girls. But if you thought that she would let you shiver through the night while she had a suitcase filled with things to keep you warm, then you definitely thought wrong.

"Goodnight, everybody." Marthe yawned, curling into herself on the ground, close to the fire. A cacophony of goodnights followed, and you decided it was time to try and sleep as well.

Your hand grazed your pocket, where the strip of pills was still safely tucked away. The thought crossed your mind for only a split second, but no, you would not cave. Not today.

The anxiety attack had left you exhausted, so it was no surprise that you fell asleep almost immediately.

i kindly ask you to not copy, republish, translate or reproduce this imagine on wattpad or on other platforms. respect the author’s work <3

#shelby goodkind imagine #shelby goodkind x reader #the wilds one shot #the wilds imagines #the wilds x reader

[starry-sky-stuff]

What is a Rake...and Why most Romance Heroes Aren’t One

The rake is a stock character in romance. The charming, debonair man. He knows what he wants and what he wants is the heroine. He’s got an extensive sexual history (so he knows how to pleasure the heroine) but there is never any actual consequences for his licentious past. No scandals (other than vague references), no illegitimate children, no STDs. Maybe he’s in debt, but probably not from gambling, and though he might drink on occasion, he certainly never overindulges in alcohol or drugs such that it would constitute substance abuse. 

So, how does this match up to history. Not a lot. 

The Historical Rake: 

The term ‘rake’, short for ‘rakehell’, first became a popular stock character in the 17th century. The Restoration period (1660-1688) was a time of loosening social mores following the strict Puritanical rule of Cromwell. Bawdy literature flourished, women were allowed to appear on stage, and both Charles II and his brother (the future James II) freely and openly engaged in affairs. Rakes at this time were witty (wit was highly prized at the court of Charles II), charming, carefree, and libidinous. 

The character were based off of prominent courtiers known as the Merry Gang, who included the 2nd Duke of Buckingham, the 2nd Earl of Rochester, Sir Charles Sedley, and the 6th Earl of Dorset. These men engaged in riotous behaviour, including Sedley and Dorset preaching naked to a crowd in Convent Garden while simulating sex, and the 5th Baron Wharton breaking into a church and relieving himself on the communion table. 

These men were not harmless charmers. 

Buckingham killed the 11th Earl of Shrewsbury in a duel for the latter’s wife. The playwright William Wycherley’s great dream was to marry a wealthy widow and spend her money on drinking and women (which he did). Rochester kidnapped his wife (a wealthy heiress) and died of venereal disease at 33. 

Rakes from other periods include Lord Byron (rumoured to have had sex with, and impregnated, his half-sister), Marquis de Sade (from whose name the term sadism is derived), John Mytton (who died from alcohol withdrawal), and Francis Chateris (accused of raping a servant).

Even so, the rake was a humorous character during the Restoration. It was only after the Glorious Revolution that the rake became synonymous with immorality, the subject of moralistic tales in which he would meet a variety of grisly fates: death, debtor’s prison, venereal disease, or even institutionalism, as in William Hogarth’s A Rake’s Progress. 

Rakes in Jane Austen’s works were never the hero. Wickham is the most infamous example, a sexual predator who seduces, or attempts to seduce, two adolescent girls.  Other examples include Willoughby, Frederick Tilney, and Henry Crawford, the latter of which is very much a deconstruction of the reformed rake. Rakes were the villains, the false romantic leads, or even just unsavoury background characters. 

A rake was not simply a man with an extensive sexual history and scandalous past. A rake was a man who had conducted himself immorally. 

Rakes in Historical Romance: 

In researching for this post, I found articles which described the rake as a “loveable rogue” someone who “indulges in sexual pleasures, but doesn’t take advantage”. And that is how rakes are usually portrayed in historical romance. 

The rake is an immensely popular character in historical romance. According to Goodreads, there are 43 books with rakes in the title and the Best Rake Romance list has 685 books. Both authors and readers love a rake. 

But do any of these characters actually qualify. In the Bridgerton series, all of the brothers are invariably referred to as rakes. Their rakish behaviour consists of some drinking and gambling in their youth, and essentially not being virgins. All behaviour stereotypical of young wealthy men of their time. Certainly nothing that would have been deemed especially immoral. 

Of all the books I’ve read, the only so-called ‘rakes’ whose behaviour would definitely qualify as immoral would be: 

Sebastian St Vincent (Devil in Winter): seduced a woman his best friend was interested in, pursued (and later kidnapped) another woman said best friend was interested in, had multiple affairs with married women and fathered an illegitimate child

Leo Hathaway (Married by Morning): engaged in excessive drinking, drug use and sex parties

West Ravenel (Devil’s Daughter): also engaged in excessive public drinking, including an incident of urinating in a fountain

Benedict Chatham (The Devil is a Marquess): more excessive drinking as well as gambling and prostituting himself

James Sanborne (Bound By Your Touch): another excessive drinker as well as drug taker

Other possibilities, if I did a closer re-read, could include: Gabriel St John (Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake), Tristan Ballentine (A Rogue of One’s Own), Griffin (Any Duchess Will Do), Lazarus Huntingdon (Wicked Intentions), and Griffon Reading (Notorious Pleasures).

Thus, of the 42 books on the rakes Goodreads list, I would consider that, at most, only 10 of them actually meet the requirements of a rake. 

Why is there such a disconnect between the historical rake and the rake of romance novels? Probably because a man with alcohol and substance abuse issues, illegitimate child(ren), gambling problems and debts, and possibly an STD, wouldn’t make for an attractive partner. It’s all fun and games with a rake, until there are actual consequences to their actions. 

So, no, a rake is not a loveable rogue. They’re not just a charming man who’s a bit of a womaniser. They’re a man whose actions have hurt people, not least of all, himself. 

#historical romance #critique tag #I think kleypas does a good job of deconstructing the rake in her ravenels series with sebastian and west #because we actually get to see the consequences for not only the rake in question #but those around him #sebastian's son is tarred with the same brush despite relatively mild behaviour #west is terrified of his past coming back to haunt him and anyone connected to him #the others on the list focus more on the consequences for the rake #since they all engage in self destructive behaviour

[annecoulmanross]

Top Ten Historical Figures Done Dirty by The Terror (2018)

So, we all know and love Dave Kajganich and Soo Hugh’s beautiful show, right? Of course. But it’s important to set the historical record straight, especially when there are real people’s life-stories and legacies on the line. 

(NOTE: this list is biased heavily toward upper-class individuals because the historical record does a better job preserving those voices for us. Was the real Cornelius Hickey as nasty a person in real life as he was in the show? Almost certainly not – which is why we’re given “E.C.” as a nod to the fact that we shouldn’t assume these characters represent real historical villains, even when the narrative makes them antagonists; HOWEVER, not everyone in the show was given the same courtesy as the OG “Cornelius Hickey.” Which is why this post exists – to show you the best sides of some people you might not otherwise appreciate for their full humanity. That being said, keep in mind the sources used – and, for instance, who has surviving portraits and who doesn’t.)

Thus, below the cut, I give you this list, (mostly) in order from #10 (honorable mention, only somewhat slandered) to #1 (most hideously maligned) – my list of characters from The Terror who deserved better. 

(Please don’t take this too seriously – I know there are reasons why choices had to be made in order to make this show work on television, and I do very much love the end product. But I also genuinely think it’s a good idea to remember the real people behind these characters, and think critically about how we depict them ourselves.) 

Bottom Tier – The Overlooked Men of the Franklin Expedition

#10. Richard Wall – & – John Diggle

We’re combining these two because they had a lot in common, historically speaking! Both were polar veterans, having served as a Cook (Wall) and an AB-then-Quartermaster (Diggle) on HMS Erebus under the command of Sir James Clark Ross in the Antarctic expedition of 1839-1843. Certainly we do get some good scenes with them in the show, but there was plenty more to explore there – for instance, Captain Ross was apparently so taken with Richard Wall that he hired him on as a private cook after the Antarctic expedition. (One imagines that Sir James may have regretted letting his friends of the Franklin expedition steal Wall out from under him.)

(If you want some more information on Diggle, the brilliant @handfuloftime​ found this excellent article on him – fun facts include the detail that Diggle’s only daughter bore the name Mary Ann Erebus Diggle.) 

#9. John Smart Peddie 

Now, I don’t think we should go as far as the Doctor Who Audio Drama adaptation of the Franklin Expedition, which makes Peddie into Francis Crozier’s oldest friend, someone “almost like a brother” to Crozier (no evidence of ANY prior relationship between the two existed, contrary to whatever the Doctor Who Audio Dramas would have you believe!) but Peddie probably earned his place as chief surgeon, however fond we may all be of the beautiful Alex “Macca” MacDonald, who was, in fact, the Assistant Surgeon, historically speaking. It’s hard to find information about Peddie, but someone should go looking! I want to know about this man! 

(If you want to know more about the historical Alexander MacDonald, there’s a short biographical article on him from Arctic that you can read here.)

#8 James Walter Fairholme

The only one of the expedition’s lieutenants who doesn’t really get any characterization in the show, which is a travesty! The historical Fairholme (pronounced “Fairem”) was, as they say, a himbo, and the letters that he wrote home to his father are positively precious. He loved the expedition pets (lots of kisses for Neptune!), and he needed two kayaks because he couldn’t fit into just one with his beefy thighs. Fitzjames loaned him a coat when all the Erebus officers had their portraits taken, and then called him a “smart, agreeable companion, and a well informed man,” and Goodsir singled Fairholme out as “very much interested” in the work of naturalist observations. Just a lovely young man who could have gotten some screen time, you know? 

(Also, as @transblanky​ discovered, four separate members of the Fairholme family gave money to Thomas Blanky’s widow when she was struggling financially in the 1850s, making them, combined, the most generous contributor to her subscription.) 

Middle Tier – Franklin’s Men Who Didn’t Deserve That

#7. William Gibson

Alright, I want to talk about how uniquely horrible the show’s William Gibson is: this is a character willing to lie and accuse his partner of sexual assault that didn’t happen. I get there were extenuating circumstances, but if I were a historical figure who died in some famous disaster and someone depicted me doing something like that? Let’s just say I’m deeply offended on the real Gibson’s behalf. 

What do we know about the historical William Gibson? Not much – but we know a little. Gibson’s younger brother served on an overland exploratory venture across Australia in the 1870s… from which he never returned. (God, the Gibson family had the worst luck?) This description of a conversation that young Alf Gibson had with expedition leader Ernest Giles only days before his death is VERY eerie: 

[Gibson] said, “Oh! I had a brother who died with Franklin at the North Pole, and my father had a deal of trouble to get his pay from government.” He seemed in a very jocular vein this morning, which was not often the case, for he was usually rather sulky, sometimes for days together, and he said, “How is it, that in all these exploring expeditions a lot of people go and die?” 

I said, “I don't know, Gibson, how it is, but there are many dangers in exploring, besides accidents and attacks from the natives, that may at any time cause the death of some of the people engaged in it; but I believe want of judgment, or knowledge, or courage in individuals, often brought about their deaths. Death, however, is a thing that must occur to every one sooner or later.” 

To this he replied, “Well, I shouldn't like to die in this part of the country, anyhow.” In this sentiment I quite agreed with him, and the subject dropped.

(From Giles’s Australia Twice Traversed which you can read here) 

Beyond that, one thing we do know is that William Gibson was probably friends with Henry Peglar – they had served on ships together before, and Gibson may possibly have been the poor fellow found cradling the Peglar Papers, according to researcher Glenn Stein. So we might imagine the historical Gibson as a much kinder man than the show’s depiction of him – this was someone who befriended the clever, playful Peglar we all know and love from the transcriptions of his papers, so full of poetry and linguistic jokes. It’s a shame we didn’t get a chance to meet this real Gibson, who actually knew the Henry Peglar whom we love so well.

#6. Stephen Stanley

Look. There’s that one famous line in James Fitzjames’s letters to the Coninghams about how Stanley went about with his “shirt sleeves tucked up, giving one unpleasant ideas that he would not mind cutting one’s leg off immediately – ‘if not sooner.’” And certainly Harry Goodsir had some mixed opinions of the man, saying was “a would be great man who as I first supposed would not make any effort at work after a time,” and that he “knows nothing whatever about subject & is ignorant enough of all other subjects,” whatever…. that means…. 

But Fitzjames also had some rather nicer things to say about him, that he was “thoroughly good natured and obliging and very attentive to our mess.” Also, the amputation comment? Very likely had a quite positive underlying joke to it – Stanley may not have been much of a naturalist, but he was actually an accomplished anatomist, who won a prize for dissection in 1836, on account of his “bend of the elbow,” which was “a picture of dissection,” according to Henry Lonsdale, who also called Stanley his “facetious friend” and “a fine fellow” (Lonsdale 1870, pg. 159). So, the real Stanley probably was rather droll, but the perpetually cruel Stanley of the show misses some of the real man’s major historical virtues and replaces them with historically unlikely mass-mercy-murder. 

#5. John Irving

Now we’re getting into the territory of characters who did get some good development, but are missing a bit of historical nuance. As I’m sure many of you know, the historical Irving was indeed very religious, but the flashes of anger (i.e. against Manson) we see from Irving in the show don’t seem terribly consistent with the Irving depicted in this memorial volume, where John seems more like a quiet, bookish, mathematically inclined young man, with a self-deprecating sense of humor and a gentle sweetness. It’s really not at all far off from the version of Irving we see with Kooveyook in the show – I just wish we could have seen more of that side of Irving. 

Top Tier – The Triumvirate of Polar Friends

So, these three DO have many good things to recommend them in the show, but because I’ve done such deep research on them, it can be quite jarring to watch certain scenes in which they behave contrary to their historical personalities, and I find myself pausing when watching the show with friends or family to explain that NO, they wouldn’t do that! 

#4. Sir James Clark Ross

First thing – we LOVE Richard Sutton. He did a beautiful job with the material given to him. (This is true of all the actors on the list, frankly, but it’s doubly true here.) But that scene at the Admiralty where Sir James tells Lady Franklin “I have many friends on those ships, as you know,” to shut down her argument for search missions? At that time (aka 1847), historically, Sir James Clark Ross was actively campaigning for search missions, planning routes and volunteering his services in command of any vessel the Admiralty even vaguely contemplated sending out. You could see this real-life desperation in Sir James’s morose attention to his whiskey glass in that scene if you’re really trying, but I think the more historically responsible thing would have been to make vividly clear that James Ross risked life and limb, as soon as he possibly could, to try to rescue Franklin and Crozier and Blanky, men he’d known and cared about and bitterly missed – and, in the case of Crozier, “truly loved.” 

#3. Sir John Franklin

The historical Franklin had plenty of flaws – his contributions to British colonial rule certainly harmed no small number of people, and we should question the way that heroic statues of Franklin are some of the only memorials that serve to honor the lives lost on Franklin’s expeditions – especially considering the steep body count of not only Franklin’s final voyage, but his previous missions in Arctic regions as well. (DM me and I’ll scream at you about counter-monuments! Is this a promise or a threat? Who knows!) With that said, most contemporary accounts agree that Sir John Franklin treated his friends, his family, and those within his social orbit with kindness, and his cruelties were systemic, not personal. In this light, the image of Sir John viciously tearing into Francis Crozier’s vulnerabilities in the show feels very off. Though there was certainly some friction over Crozier’s two proposals to Sophia Cracroft, historically speaking, there’s no evidence at all that Sir John discouraged her from marrying Francis – Sophia may have had many reasons of her own (*clears throat meaningfully in a lesbian sort of way*) for not accepting any of the several marriage proposals offered to her (from Crozier as well as from others), and we ought to keep in mind that she remained unmarried all her life. The notion that the real Sir John would have considered Crozier too low-born or too Irish to be part of the Franklin family isn’t grounded in historical fact.

#2. Lady Jane Franklin

Again disclaimer: the real Lady Franklin left behind a legacy with much to critique. Those who rightfully point out the racism of her treatment of the young indigenous Tasmanian girl Mathinna should be fully heard out. Observations of her own contributions to imperialism are important and valid. Though I tend to see her feud with Dr. John Rae as somewhat understandable – given that Lady Franklin didn’t have the benefit of our hindsight knowing Rae was correct – the levels of prejudice that she enabled and even encouraged in the writing of Charles Dickens when he attempted to discredit Inuit accounts of Franklin’s fate are inarguably deplorable. These things being said, everything noted for Sir John re: Sophia Cracroft goes for Lady Franklin as well – there’s no reason to imagine a scene where Jane would bully Francis Crozier within an inch of his life, seconds after a failed second proposal, when, historically, Lady Franklin felt the situation was so delicate that it required the quiet and compassionate intervention of Sir James Clark Ross, a dearly loved mutual friend to all parties. Tension does not imply aggression; conflict is not abuse. We know this can’t have been an easy experience for the historical Francis Crozier, but the picture is a lot more complicated than what can be shown in one small subplot of a ten-episode television show. Because of this complexity, however, Lady Franklin’s social deftness suffers in the show. (I could also write an entire essay about Jane Franklin’s last shot in the show, at the beginning of Episode 9: The C the C the Open C – TL;DR is that framing is very important, and, at the very last moment, the show reframes Lady Franklin as a mutilated corpse, a speaking mouth without a brain, which is….. a choice.)

And, at number 1, the person done most dirty by The Terror (2018) is….

#1. Charles Frederick “Freddy” Des Voeux 

Look. I’m biased here because I am fed daily information about the historical Freddy Des Voeux from @frederickdesvoeux​ so I’ve become, I think understandably, a bit attached. 

But this is very plainly the clearest cruelty the show does to a historical figure – the historical Des Voeux was a very young man (only around 20 when the ships set sail) known always as “Frederick or Freddy” to his family, and described by all parties as bright and sweet – Fitzjames said that he was “a most unexceptionable, clever, agreeable, light-hearted, obliging young fellow, and a great favourite of Hodgson’s, which is much in his favour besides,” and described him cheerfully helping to catch specimens for Goodsir. Des Voeux is named “dear” by Captain Osborn in Erasmus Henry Brodie’s 1866 poem on the Franklin Expedition (43) and Leo McClintock reported the young man’s well-known “intelligence, gallantry, and zeal” in his 1869 update to his account of the Franklin Expedition’s fate (xlii). None of this is consistent with Des Voeux’s behaviour in the show, especially in the later episodes. 

To reduce Des Voeux to an easily-detested figure, over whose death one might cheer, is not a kindness – the creation of a narrative where his death is satisfying does damage to the memory of a real person, a barely-more-than-teenager who died in the cold of the Arctic and left behind only scraps of a shirt and a spidery signature in the bottom margin of a fragmentary document. 

Television shows may need their villains, but it’s important to remember that real life isn’t like that. Surely the historical Frederick Des Voeux was most likely not a perfect person, and, as an upper class officer contributing to a British imperial project, he does bear some responsibility for the harm done by the Franklin expedition, but it’s not accurate to assume he was any less worthy of sympathy than the other officers who considered him a friend – those men whom we now venerate, like James Fitzjames. So as far as I’m concerned, Freddy Des Voeux deserves at least as much consideration, care, and compassion from us. 

#franklin expedition #franklin expedition fictions #the terror #the terror amc #terrorposting #long post