The Standard Bowline is not a perfect knot as it can slip and release over time. These 5 variations should help you out when the need arises. Knots covered: Yosemite Bowline (Yosemite Finish) Water Bowline Round-Turn Bowline (Double Bowline) Bowline In A Bight (Not at the End of a Line) Twin Bowline (Bowline Bend)
I have never watched the bachelor in my life but I'm always down for guys falling over themselves to woo Yuuri. Who were the most popular guys during filming? Like Yurio got pretty far just because Yuuri (unexpectedly) got along with him, but who were the others that people thought they had a legitimate chance with the beauty before he crushed their hearts?
so i may or may not be currently trying to make a fake wikipedia page for the Yuuri Katsuki season of the Bachelor, because i’m a piece of shit and this has overtaken my life.
these are the top six in yuuri’s season, although SHOCKINGLY the proposal as we all know goes to victor nikiforov, executive producer. the runner-ups are christophe and minami who are high-key longtime fans of yuuri’s, and yuuri likes them for different reasons. christophe makes it far on his sultry charm and secret sweetness, because he’s surprisingly intuitive once he stops playing ass grab.
minami gets far, because even though he comes across as a little intense, he’s very sweet and very determined and a good team player. he’s not a serial killer like yurio had joked early on in production, but ends up working well with everyone when they have to use team work to survive a ropes course in peru.
emil gets far because he gives good hugs. like, really, really good hugs. also, yuuri admits to victor after he’s had too much red wine, he really likes leaning up to kiss a guy. (”hey,” he says dopily, “i would have to lean up to kiss you, victor.”)
we’ve talked about yuri making it to week eight. i briefly considered that otabek would beat him, but otabek clearly falls in love with yurio and drops out of the competition, because he’s fallen for someone else and doesn’t feel right pretending to give a fuck about katsuki. but yuuri likes both him and seung gil because they don’t really try to put on characters, and they shy away from drama. also, otabek is totally the contestant that comes in with a song written for yuuri on the first night, and yuuri likes seung gil, because when things get awkward they can just talk about their dogs. MUST LOVE DOGS: the yuuri katsuki story.
Kaz: He always wears dark colors. Black, gray, sometimes white. Inej calls him “Mr. Monochromatic”. Somehow makes ripped jeans with a button-up look good. Seems to have an endless supply of scarves but wears only one coat whenever it’s remotely chilly. Doc Martens or manly black boots with little silver tips on the laces. Classiness meets goth. Rocks the closely-cropped-hair-on-the-sides look and always has some sort of vintage watch on his wrist. He likes to do this thing where he’ll be wearing all black and then a pop of white somewhere, like a single stripe across his shirt or an ivory scarf.
Inej: Queen of layering things, no matter the weather. In the cold it’s fawn colored leg warmers pulled over sheer black stockings, blouse collars peeking out over sweaters, thin hoodies underneath denim jackets. In the warmer months it’s loose, fluttery, cardigans over shapeless dresses or tasteful crop tops worn on top of spaghetti-strap tank tops. Kaz thinks her hair is the most beautiful thing in the world and it is, she always braids it prettily or leaves it down in waves. A fan of gold ear cuffs and ballerina flats. Can somehow mix badass with chic.
Jesper: Total skater boy. Unbuttoned flannels, graphic t-shirts, worn jeans, Timberlands. Also keeps his afro shaved on the sides but likes more volume on top. Leather bracelets with snap fastenings and hoodie-leather jacket hybrids. Wears those loose tank tops with the long arm holes. Owns at least ten “Very Gay” t-shirts, destroys gender stereotypes on a daily basis by wearing neon floral patterns and dress-like tops. Makes snapbacks and fedoras very, very, hot. Likes to balance sunglasses on the brim of his hats or always drape his headphones on himself, whether it’s his neck or his shoulder it looks like a cool accessory.
Wylan: Cutest person ever (and I don’t mean in a teddy bear way). He has that attractively nerdy aura going on, has a crap ton of galaxy-patterned and pride-flag bow ties. Sometimes allows Jesper to buy them matching t-shirts. Carries a leather satchel with loads of pins and iron-on badges of TV shows he likes. Wears Brogues that he found in a used shoe store or a pair of million year old Vans. Always has his sleeves rolled up, even when it’s freezing outside. Wears chunky hipster glasses that he’s always pushing farther up his nose. Beautifully tousled red-gold curls. Owns many wacky socks, his favorite pair is covered in algebraic equations. Paints his nails sometimes (usually green) and it’s always ridiculously neat.
Nina: Actually real-life supermodel 24/7. Looks good in anything and everything. Owns her curves and will wear any shade of red. Lipstick is always crimson, eyeliner is always on fleek. Her makeup in general is just flawless, and her brows are the definition of perfection. Can do anything with her hair, whether it’s two messy space buns or straightened. Wears a lot of 50′s cut dresses with brightly colored belts. Always tucking her shirt into her skirt. Will use her pretty acrylic nails to scratch you up if you mess with her group. Lace-up boots with a little or a lot of heel. Fitted pea coats that flare out at the waist and tie in a bow at the back. Can be intimidatingly gorgeous one day and doll-like the next.
Matthias: Probably the one who cares least about his appearance. The type of person who reaches into his closet and pulls out whatever. Nina drags him on shopping trips and makes sure he always walks out of the mall with some stuff of his own. Sweatshirts and varsity jackets. High-tops and never anything else. Somehow makes a man bun not nasty. Has one of those rope/survival bracelets with a tiny compass that he never takes off. Makes henley shirts hot and owns way too many white v-neck tees that frankly, all look exactly the same. Beanies are the only hat he’ll ever wear. Wears blue on days that he actually cares so that his eyes stand out. Jogger pants, the black ones with two white stripes down the sides.
A simple diplomatic trip. That’s all this was supposed to be.
With just a few words and a treaty, the war between Asgard and Vanaheim was to end. Having left early in the morning, after kissing Calista good bye, Loki went to Vanaheim where his soldiers had been for months now. These warriors, of Asgard, Alfheim, and Midgard, worked together well, but not well enough to stop the Vanir.
The Vanir, who hated Loki. Who blamed Loki for the death of Queen Frigga. He never would admit that as the reason for all the war and bloodshed. I never meant for her to die. I loved her more dearly than any of you.
But she did die, and the Vanir did blame Loki. Now with Odin gone as well as Frigga, the Vanir took this opportunity to seek vengeance against Loki.
It was only supposed to be a diplomatic trip.
Loki brought no weapons, though he wore a bit more armor than he typically did. He walked onto the battlefield as a king should: with confidence and peacefulness. After showing the Vanir king that he had no weapons or want of violence, Loki stepped closer. And that is when it all fell apart.
Loki’s senses, still dull from having just woken up, were unable to detect the soldier behind him until it was too late. By turning around to face his attacker, Loki fell into the Vanir’s trap. A rope was tied around his neck and yanked roughly; Loki fell to his knees with a gasp. Before he was able to move, Loki was dragged across the battlefield, slowly at first. As the pace quickened, Loki realized what was dragging him: a horse.
They mean to kill me.
With a weak tug at his and Calista’s new bond, Loki’s eyes began to close, his lungs struggling to fill with air. The horse stopped; the rope still suffocated him. Loki rose into the air as the Vanir soldiers hanged him by the neck.
“Long live the king,” a soldier whispered to Loki with a manic grin.
Days passed before Loki finally woke. A few of the Asgardian warriors were able to save him and bring him to the healing ward, but not before Loki had already fell unconscious. No one was certain he would survive.
The rope had torn away at the flesh around his neck, leaving deep scarlet marks. The rest of his body was bruised and cut, from the metal of his armor piercing his skin and from whatever sticks, rocks, and glass was on the battlefield.
Loki awoke with a choked groan of pain (the healers thought his vocal chords could be damaged forever). “Bloody hell,” he groaned. “I feel like death.”
What happened? Loki thought. Sigyn. Sigyn died. Maybe I tried to go with her? I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?
Abby hears Marcus’ breathing begin to slow and soften, the ragged rough edges smoothing out as the tangle of his sobs unravels into exhaustion. She lowers him to the cold tiles and rests her head on his chest.
Within minutes, they’re sound asleep.
The others leave them alone, unsure what to do. They make camp for the night in empty rooms all over the tower, but everyone is afraid to penetrate the dark cloud of grief that runs from the scars on Marcus Kane’s wrists to the ones on Bellamy Blake’s throat.
Everyone, that is, but Bellamy.
They don’t hear him come back an hour later, carrying a blanket and pillow stolen from Lexa’s bed. They don’t feel him kneel beside them and carefully lift Kane’s head to place the pillow beneath it, or drape a heavy fur coverlet over their bodies to take off the night chill.
(In the morning, Marcus will think it was Abby and Abby will think it was Clarke, and no one will speak of it ever again.)
Marcus sleeps heavy and dreamless and wakes feeling more like himself, though he still can’t look at anyone and he flinches at the sound of Bellamy’s voice. And something has shifted overnight between him and Abby, too, a kind of tight, tense mortification at his own weakness rising up around him. He doesn’t say anything about it, but he tends to leave rooms that she is in as quickly as possible.
The only person he seems to feel like himself around is Clarke.
So Abby lets him be for most of the day, sequestered in the Commander’s war room with Clarke and the handful of Grounder ambassadors who managed to survive Ontari. She can swallow her worry back down, a little, by staying busy.
There is so much to do.
Jackson can’t look her in the eye, at first, but there isn’t time for that. Polis is full of wounded and injured people and she needs his hands alongside hers. So instead of tentatively navigating the maze of his guilt, she slices right through it. “Come here,” she says firmly, and takes him in her arms, and holds him there for a long moment, and it’s a little better after that. He’s steadier, somehow. He’s Jackson again.
It won’t be that easy with Marcus. But it helps, to have Jackson back.
They work all day. Thelonious is in terrible shape, though Abby can’t quite bear to feel as compassionate as she knows she should. There are others that have it worse; Indra and two Grounders on the crosses outside the tower were taken down last night, once Miller’s rope ladder down the elevator shaft was stable enough to climb. They spent the night in a ground floor storage room, and Abby follows Jackson down the ladder to help tend them.
There’s something so centering in the simplicity of this work. It’s not delicate, like surgery, or unpredictable, like treating an illness. There are wounds in their hands and feet which need to be cleaned and wrapped with fresh white bandages and once that is done, it’s done. Indra will have her sword hand back in a matter of weeks.
It feels good, to be able to fix something.
Bellamy, she can see, feels the same. He was down here all night and all day with Murphy, Emori, and several dozen Grounders, all of whom are endearingly proud of their rudimentary elevator – a rough, open wooden platform attached to a winch in the ceiling with whatever knotted-together fragments of rope survived the blast. It can really only carry one person at a time, unless they can get the ground floor machinery cobbled back together, but at least they’re no longer trapped in a crumbling, wind-swept tower at the very top of the world.
She lets them haul her back up to test it (clinging to Miller’s rope ladder all the while, just in case) and the distant echo of their excited murmuring floating up from below brings her closer to smiling than she thought, yesterday, she would ever find herself again.
Something has been repaired.
She doesn’t knock when she enters, just silently pushes open the door. They’re deep in conversation over Lexa’s map table, heads bent close together, voices low. She indulges herself as long as possible, watching them in silence, heart turning over and over inside her chest.
The upward tilt of Clarke’s chin when she asks him a question so she can meet his gaze head-on, thoughtful and serious. The easy, effortless way he lets his hand settle on her shoulder as he leans down to point something out to her on the map.
They have something Abby doesn’t. They’re suited for this in a way she never was.
They simply … click.
It’s like a painting, she thinks, desperate affection pulsing through her bloodstream to fill her entire body. How beautiful they are. The Princess and the Chancellor. Warm amber sunlight pouring in from every window, burnishing two bent heads - one dark, one light - lifting in unison with perfect symmetry as they both become aware of her at the same time. Two brows furrowed in annoyance at the interruption, then clearing when they realize it’s Abby.
Clarke beckons her in, while Marcus - as predicted - tenses up and moves away, but Abby has arrived prepared.
“I just need a moment,” she tells her daughter, holding up the med kit and bowl of water she has brought with her. “I need to take a look at his hands.”
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, but Clarke is already moving, giving her mother’s shoulder a comforting – and perceptive – squeeze as she slips silently out and closes the door behind her.
“I can take care of it,” he insists again, his voice rough and almost aggressive, but she isn’t fooled.
She knows exactly why he can’t bear for her to touch him.
“Give me your hands,” she orders him firmly, refusing to take no for an answer, and after a moment, he yields, letting her seat him in a low chair with a small table beside it, where she sets down the bowl of water and cloth.
His bandages are filthy, ragged, stained with blood and tied in haphazard knots. She kneels at his feet and takes his right hand in both of hers, carefully picking at the knots until the yellowed fabric falls open, then resting the dented metal bowl on his knees to let the warm clear water bathe his hand.
“Abby,” he whispers hoarsely, but she doesn’t stop, she doesn’t look up, her entire world has shrunk down to the size of Marcus Kane’s right hand submerged in this bowl of water and the way it feels to run a soft, clean white cloth over the scarred roughness of his skin, watching the caked dirt and grime and dried blood slowly vanish. Some of it is taken by the water. Some of it transfers from his skin to the cloth, and she imagines it going in both directions – the white cloth takes away the blood on his hands, and his hands take its cleanness in return, like a baptism.
He says her name again as she lets the cloth drop into the water, holding his clean hand in her own, caressing his palm with her fingers.
He flinches, inhaling sharply, as she gently pours antiseptic over the raw angry gash through his wrist, and for a moment it undoes her completely. She flashes back, just for a moment, to the cross and the hammer and the nailand the hoarse, pleading agony in his voice as he begged her to wake up.
But the storm passes over, and in a moment he’s breathing normally again, so she does too.
She wraps a snowy white bandage around his wrist, bound firmly to keep the wound safe and clean, and there are suddenly so many things she wants to say but no words to say them.
He says her name a third time, and finally she looks up to meet his eyes, his hand still held tightly in both of hers. She doesn’t say anything, but holds his hand up to her lips and presses a kiss against his palm.
He starts, but doesn’t pull away.
They sit there like that in silence for a long time. She bathes and dresses his left hand, too, with the same precise and diligent care, but this time when she lifts it to kiss his sun-roughened skin, something happens.
Her lips brush his palm, and she feels him shift towards her, almost imperceptibly. She closes her eyes and lets her mouth linger against his skin as his other hand comes up to stroke her hair, and then his hands are cupping her jaw, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. The chair is low, and her eyes are nearly level with his as she kneels beside him, and the silence is thick with unspoken words hanging so heavily in the air that they seem to have a palpable weight, but “thank you” is all he can say.
The strange feeling of a scrappy material against his arms and legs, like sandpaper but not quite as rough and grainy, startled him into a panic, wide eyes scrambling to find something familiar, but all they could see was complete darkness.
He felt for the ground beside where he was sitting, but his hand passed right through; he was surrounded by air. For a moment his brain jumped to the highest cliff of bad possibilities, convinced of the worst. He thought he’d been kidnapped, taken forcefully to the kidnapper’s lair where they were holding him suspended in mid-air to torture him until finally releasing him, letting him fall to his death.
Then he thought he’d already died, and this was what it was like in hell; dooming and dreadful and like you can’t move a fraction of an inch without falling into a deep, dark pit of fear.
Then he really panicked. Not the kind of panic that fills your chest slowly, like a warm liquid filling you up until you feel heavy and anxious. No, the kind that explodes like fireworks, but not as pleasant. The kind that’s uncontrollable and forces your body to act before your mind can use sense to stop it. The kind that leaves you with nothing but instinct.
He scrambled to get away from the unfamiliar material in which he lay, but when his balance tipped to the side and his heart thumped threateningly, his brain finally formed a thought: don’t fall.
He froze, like a deer in headlights, and hugged the rugged texture beneath him like it was the rope to survival. He stayed like that, listening to the drumming of his heart like it was music to his ears, like he might never hear it again.
He had no idea how much time passed before the nerves started to settle and his breaths started to even out, but it felt like forever. His sleep induced brain started to clear up, like a heavy cloud was being whisked away by the wind, and he started to see how ridiculous he was being.
Memories started to return and he felt like laughing, but he was scared to break the eerie silence.
He’d come to the tree like usual. But he’d walked because his bike was ruined after the crazy day that was yesterday. He remembered being disappointed when he got the the tree, the opposite of his usual reaction. He remembered mystery boy was missing. He remembered wondering about where the boy could be other than his tree, then worrying since he was never missing. He remembered exhaustion in every muscle of his body, including his brain. He remembered birds lulling him to sleep with a sweet song.
He’d fallen asleep and apparently the sun had gone down while he was out. That’s it. Of course he was happy to be free from the hands of death and evil kidnappers, but he was still stuck halfway up a tall forest tree, in the dark. Not his best moment, he had to admit.
He took a few minutes to try and catch his breath fully, but there was no use. His throat was dry and complained each time he took a big breath of air, so he settled for taking short inhales through his nose.
He had no bike, and because of that, no water, which he usually put in the bottle holder on his bike. All he had was his dry, angry throat, a brain that refused to cooperate, and darkness. Well, maybe he was exaggerating. He also had the moon, which was a tiny crescent, and provided enough light for him to see the figure of the tree supporting him, now that his eyes had adjusted slightly.
He knocked his head on the trunk of the tree, frustrated. That was when it hit him. He had his phone. It was wedging into his right thigh, in the back pocket of his knee-length khaki shorts.
He reached for it happily and hugged it to his chest, feeling like it was his key; his only hope of getting out of this situation. Unlocking the screen, he realized his father must be going insane. Will had left early in the morning like usual, before his father was awake. But he usually got back just in time for breakfast and his dad would ask him if he had a good bike ride, he’d nod and tell him breakfast smelled good. His father would then tell him there’s no need to lie, they all knew his cooking sucked. He’d also ask about where Will biked, and Will would always say around the neighborhood.
His phone alerted him to four new messages and five missed calls. He definitely was not looking forward to facing his father. His father was usually pretty relaxed and laidback, and he was quite the jokester, but he was certainly scary when he got angry.
Will still remembered the first time his father got mad at him, actually mad. Like, overtaken by anger to the point where Will couldn’t recognize him.
Will had 5 siblings, and they’d all entered the music industry with a breeze. They were naturals, just like his father. Even though his father was a pharmaceutical researcher, he was always singing, dancing, and playing instruments around the house. Will had long ago lost count of the number of family orchestras that’d been born in their household. They’d be eating dinner and someone would accidentally bang a fork on a plate with a clang, then someone else would follow suit, then another, like a domino effect until they were all banging spoons and knives and forks and cups, forming a beat that Will wasn’t coordinated enough to follow. He’d bounce or hum to the beat but never contribute to it. Then sometimes if one of them had a song stuck in their head and they’d start singing it, the rest of the family would join in until they were all dancing around and putting on a show, using cups as microphones and plates as drums. They were definitely what one would call a theatrical family.
That’s why Will had always felt like the outsider, sort of like he was the mutt of the litter. He wasn’t a natural at playing instruments, and his voice was okay, but he felt like a shadow compared to the rest of his family.
It was around grade 9 when he’d stopped with the I’m useless at everything way of thinking, when he had his first real science class, learning chemistry and biology. He passed with flying colors and actually found himself enjoying the subjects. They were interesting, and he felt like there was meaning behind learning it all: to help people. He realized the problem was never that he was incapable or not good at learning things, he just wasn’t learning the right things up to that point; he wasn’t learning the things he wanted to learn. To actually learn a lesson, you’ve got to want to, to choose to.
So his father was proud of him as he pursued this interest with a new goal: to become a doctor and save lives. That way he’d never have to grieve like he did when his oldest brother Lee died of a severe concussion after getting into a fight.
It was after his second sibling passed away that he hit a really rocky road.
After his first brother died, he used his grief as motivation, as fuel to stop being useless. To stop sitting around while everything happened around him. He wanted to make his brother proud. He wanted to become as wonderful as his brother had been and he channeled all these emotions into his studies.
He stumbled onto a different kind of path when his second oldest brother, Michael, died; he experienced a new side of grief. He experienced the kind that drains you of energy instead of boosting you with it. He experienced the kind that results from having a closer relationship with the person that passed away.
Not as focused on his studies after Michael slipped from his grasp, his grades went down and he started to lose motivation. With all the studying he’d done, he still couldn’t save his brother, so what was the point anymore? He lost his older brother, who wasn’t only a brother to him; he was also his hero, his tutor, and his friend. Michael was a fantastic musician like the rest, but he’d also studied the sciences as a back up, so Will had always been closest to him. He felt like Michael understood him. Michael didn’t seem to get by without blinking an eye like the rest of his siblings. He was short-tempered and got frustrated when things weren’t working out for him, like when he felt one of his shows wasn’t as good as it could have been and he’d band his fist against the walls. Later he’d say that his next show would be better, that it would be the best one yet, and Will would nod enthusiastically.
Will always looked up to his brother. And then he’d died in a car accident. He’d been on his tour bus headed to the last show of his band’s tour when, as they were crossing a bridge, a truck jammed into them from the left and sent them flying off the bridge; flying to their deaths.
When his grades dropped below the passing bar, his father decided to have a little chat with him. Will was a mess. He wanted to give up on school and on everything, he didn’t think he could do it all on his own. That was the first time his father actually got mad at him.
That was also the day Will realized how proud his father actually was of him. He still remembered the end of their conversation, after his father had cooled down.
“But- but I can’t do it without him. He was the reason I got this far,” Will said.
“I was always waiting for the day you’d come and ask me for help, you know. Where do you think Michael learnt everything from. Who do you think helped him?” his father asked.
“I dunno, I always sort of thought he was just super smart and knew everything, I guess.”
“Will, he’s not a god. Everyone struggles. No one is born knowing everything.”
“I always thought you did.” He smiled. “I always thought you were the smart one of the bunch. You always worked so hard in school and your grades never wobbled in the slightest. You weren’t set on following the family streak and jumping into the music industry. You knew that wasn’t for you and so you found your place and you excelled in it. I thought you had it all figured out and I’m sorry I didn’t notice sooner that you didn’t. So, no, I don’t think you do know, and that’s my fault.”
Since when could his father be so serious?
“When Lee was 12, he failed music class-”
“Wait, let me finish.” his father held his hand up to silence him. “He’d been goofing off with friends all the time, thinking he could be good at everything without trying. Even if I tried to lecture him, to smack some sense into him, he was stubborn as a mule.”
His father paused to look at him, but Will continued to stare at him wide-eyed.
“Some people have to learn lessons for themselves, and he sure did. After having a heated argument with his grade 7 music teacher upon receiving their term 1 report cards -to which I was called over to suffer through an atrocious meeting of his stone faced principle repeating ‘get a hold of your son’ over and over.”
He looked Will in the eyes, hinting that this was the time to listen carefully.
“He realized it then: no one is born knowing everything.” He stopped to let that sink in. “You’re not inferior to your siblings, Will.”
Will just frowned.
“And I know you know Michael struggled, too.”
“Yeah, but that’s just because he didn’t know how to settle for anything. He was amazing at things but he wanted to be better.”
His father groaned. “No, that’s not it exactly. He struggled because he wasn’t perfect, and because he didn’t think he was all that amazing. Why do you think he got a college degree in health sciences when he could easily be one of the most successful people in the music industry?”
“I dunno. Because he was smart?”
His father laughed.
“No, it was because he doubted himself. He didn’t think he could make it in the music industry, and he was afraid.”
“But he was great!”
“And so are you, Will. But you don’t seem to know it either.”
Will stayed silent for awhile, trying to comprehend everything. Or maybe he was trying to find an argument, to find proof that his father was wrong. That would be easier than accepting it.
“I’ll be your tutor from now on,” said his father with a smile. “But I have to admit, I’m a little rusty. It’s been awhile since your old man has looked at all this stuff.” He stood up with a laugh. “Actually, I’ll be fine. Maybe Lee and Michael weren’t gods, but I’m pretty sure I am.”
Will laughed. That was the father he knew, not that this serious version of him was all that bad. “Thanks, dad.”
His father pointed at himself with wide eyes. “Me?” He sounded absolutely incredulous.
Will whacked his arm lightly. “Yes, you.” Will smiled. “Thank you, father.”
His father ruffled his hair. “Anytime, kiddo.”
He smiled down at his father’s smiling face on his phone screen. He sighed, no longer scared of facing his father’s angry face. Before he had the chance to click call, though, Will noticed something strange behind the tree.
It was orange and bright and it continued as far as he could see. It stood out like a mule and Will was puzzled over the fact that he’d never noticed it before. It was horizontal lines spray painted on every few trees, leading deeper into the dreary forest. It pulled Will to follow.