#Muddled Renditions

[the-zapped-part-timer]

❄️🎄— Nørth Pøle Døwn —🎄❄️

▲—Muddled Renditiøns (Ao3)—▼

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'Twas the day of December 24th, Christmas Eve. The most exciting, and to some, nerve-wracking day of the month. Everyone is preparing to make the next day the most wonderful time of the year!

Rippen, on the other hand, just sees it as another bright morning to wake up to. He'll probably make a tasty breakfast and take a little stroll to his part-time job. The weather was quite nice out for a walk this past week. This morning, though, he woke up before his alarm, a newer habit that's been reoccurring for months now. His body heavy from slumber, an arm wrapped around his treasured stuffed poodle, Freddy. Drowsily, he fluttered his eyes open, excepting to be greeted with the shining sun beaming its rays through his window. But instead, a more worrying sight beheld him, it made him quickly sit up from his bed, then he got up to move towards the window.

A blizzard had brewed over the night and released its chilled wrath upon the small town. Rippen was wide-eyed by the sight until a knock at his door snapped him out of his trance. He exited his room and made his way to the front door of his apartment. No tree stood in his living room, and he didn't have time to decorate his place, sadly. He would've loved to, but it simply slipped his mind due to his two jobs. There were... other reasons as well, but that shouldn't cloud his mind now. He reached the door, but before he could open it, the knob jiggled and the door swung open, Larry waiting behind it.

He can't say he was too surprised to see him, just surprised that he wasn't inside his place already. "Oh! Good morning, Larry! Merry Christmas Eve! Do you say that, or is it just "Merry Christmas"?" Rippen greeted his friend. Of course, Larry didn't give a vocal response. Just a look.

To break the silence, Rippen decided to ramble. "So, what are you doing for Christmas? Going to go visit some family or—you know funnily enough, I don't believe you've told me much about your family. Weird, right? We've known each other for years, and yet I don't even know if you have siblings or not—"

Larry interrupted him by loudly tapping his watch, urging him to wrap up.

"Oh, right! Sorry. Are you sure you don't want breakfast first? I can make it real quick." He rubbed the back of his neck from bashfulness. He tended to feel that way when someone points out his motormouth or when he catches himself.

His question was answered when Larry came inside. Maneuvering around his coworker and strolled his way towards a table, plopping himself onto one of two chairs. It made Rippen giddy as he hurriedly pulled out a pan from one of the bottom cupboards in his kitchenette.

"Up for some delectable holiday pancakes? I know I am." He asked while he grabbed some pancake mix he left on the counter. He was gonna make them one way or another today, as if he didn't already make them at some point once every week.

He donned an apron and hummed a tune as he put together the duo's breakfast. The apron wasn't really necessary, but he liked wearing it while baking or cooking. It was quick, as he promised. He plated the food and added holiday-themed syrup art upon them, along with the help of some whipped cream and strawberries. He proudly showed off his culinary skills as he set the plates on the table and took his seat.

The both of them enjoyed their food, Larry more rushed than Rippen. He didn't notice as he rambled off again. His coworker nodded along. Was Larry actually listening or just pretending? Many didn't know for sure. Plenty felt pity for him being stuck with such an annoying force. But was he truly annoyed? He did wish for Rippen to hurry up either way.

After finishing up, Rippen kindly took the cleaned plates as Larry hopped off his seat and waited by the front door. He hastily scrubbed whatever was left on them and began to march his was towards the door until he was stopped by Larry. He was confused at first until Larry scanned his clothes. Rippen sheepishly chuckled, forgetting he was still in his pajamas.

He went back to his bedroom and stripped his pajamas off. But before getting his clothes on, he snatched his calamine lotion and slathered it onto his body. He then dressed himself up in his usual attire, but with an added festively ornate, button-up vest for the day. He rummaged through his jewelry box on his dresser and pulled out a holly berry brooch, attaching it onto his vest. Just before exiting his room, he remembered something else. He looked to his dresser, his old MUHU resting on top of it. He paused to think for a moment.

I don't need it. But what if? Maybe—just in case.

He nabbed it and clipped it onto his belt. As he left the room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror from his bathroom. His hair was an absolute tangled mess. How could he not tell? Then again, he had a reoccurring forgetfulness to him. He wished he could help it, but alas, it was one of the mainstays of his character. He found his hairbrush and began to tug at his mess, yanking it to his style.

He also noticed his teeth. Those needed a good brush, too. After finally taming his mane of hair, he splurted his minty toothpaste onto his scrubbing tool and drew the bristles of it across his teeth. Yet, no matter how much he regularly cleaned his teeth, the yellow staining of his dirty habits would never dissappear. He scratched himself as he continued. The lotion was dawdling its time to take effect.

Once he completed all his tasks, he wrapped himself in a proper coat like Larry. He was ready for the day ahead of them. Locking up his apartment, they departed down the stairs of his level and opened the building's front door. A huge gust of wind rush passed the duo, followed by a flurry of snowflakes. When the wind knocked the air out of Rippen's lungs past, he let out a goofy giggle and triumphantly charged his way through the layers of snow outside. Larry followed behind, struggling a bit due to his stature. Rippen took notice and turned behind him and enveloped his arms around Larry. Heaving him up and carrying him to Rippen's clunky, yellow car. Larry was flustered by the act, but let it happen. He knew Rippen just wanted to help. He also didn't really mind too much.

He unlocked the car door and gently sat Larry in the passenger seat. He was also about to buckle him, but Larry raised an eyebrow. Rippen removed his hands off the seat belt and awkwardly laughed his way out of Larry's side of the car. He got into the driver's seat and jammed his key into the ignition, giving it a good turn. But he was met with his car sputtering, he tried again. More sputtering. Again. Again, and again.

Rippen gave a sheepish grin towards Larry, letting out another awkward chuckle.

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The yellow car pulled up to the front of the Odyssey and sputtered its engine off for the day. Switching off the holiday tunes, Rippen and Larry emerged from the ride and made their way inside. Rippen stopped in his footsteps as Larry reached the door. His attention was drawn to Penn, just outside of Slushee Inferno, shivering in his spot. Rippen also took note of the fact that there was plenty of snow covering the kid's boots and the redness of his face. Was he waiting for him to show up? For how long?

"W-What t-t-took you s-s-so lo-ong, h-huh?" Penn snidely remarked, heavily shivering.

He was clearly freezing. It was obvious not just by him shaking like a leaf but by his attire. He was wearing his trademark studded leather jacket, but now with a thin sweater underneath. A beanie stretched over his head, and some of his spikey hair that was tucked under it peeked out. He should be wearing his winter coat and many more layers than that, and what? No gloves, either? He could see Boone and Sashi inside, and yet they didn't come check on him?

Rippen was deeply concerned. He wanted to give the poor boy his coat but knew it would be rejected. He'd probably throw it into the slushed street. So he'll just answer him and hope he'll rush inside afterward.

"We just had a marvelous breakfast, giving us the energy to stop your evildoing! We're going to need plenty of it to stop you and your crew of up-to-no-gooders!" Rippen put on a faux cockiness as he tried to subtly boost the boy's confidence. He also gestured very dramatically as he spoke.

Penn cringed when Rippen uttered the words "up-to-no-gooders." He shook his head in a displeased and annoyed manner as he stomped his way inside the convenience store.

Larry eyed Rippen, letting a small huff as he entered the theater. "What? At least I didn't mention my car shutting off in the middle of the road. And, hey! We got the chance to peek at that neat shop's window with the most adorable little Christmas tree." Rippen followed shortly behind him, the warmth of the building greeting them both. Phyllis was hoisted in the air, working on the MUT's conduits, like any other day.

"Phyllis! You still haven't given me any hints for what kind of gift to get you. You still have some time to change—"

"Would like you to keep universe from becoming unbalanced and collapsing because of your negligence." She responded without losing focus of her work.

Rippen was quite taken aback by that answer. "Negligence? I've been on a winning streak since day one of being here! Please tell me what I'm doing wrong." He felt disheartened

"Stop coddling enemy, perhaps?" Blunt as ever.

"What, Penn? I'm not coddling him! W- Where did this even come from? Phyllis?" He looked around in faux exaggerated confusion, and his sights landed on Larry. His coworker unsubtly averted his gaze as he sipped from his hot cup of coffee, made with the communal coffeemaker.

Rippen felt even more hurt by the fact that Larry was talking to Phyllis behind his back. He understands that Larry has much more experience and understanding than him, but he would've hoped that he could at least talk to him first. Tension spread through his body. He took a deep breath, clasping his hands together.

"Look, Phyllis, this situation is so much more complica—"

"No time for debates. It is time for work." She descended from her work and headed inside the auditorium.

Rippen was completely stationary as her footsteps departed. His eye gave out a slight involuntarily twitch. Larry took notice as Rippen deeply inhaled as much air as he could, then releasing it. He rubbed his hands together and followed her, Larry, right after him.

Down the aisle and onto their respective platforms, standing in place. They waited to be zapped into whatever random dimension they had save today... and waited. So did Phyllis, and she raised an eyebrow. Rippen fiddled with his brooch in anticipation of the zap. He looked back at Phyllis for some sort of answer. She tapped her chest.

"Oh! Whoops, sorry!" He let out an awkward chuckle and hurriedly ran down the aisle towards a box of half-melted metals and pins. He removed his brooch from his vest, carefully placing it inside for the time being, and he rushed towards his spot. "Why didn't you say something before? I mean, it would've been more time efficient if you—"

He was cut off once again by being instantly zapped along with Larry when taking one step onto the platform. It nearly knocked the air out of him as he rose off the ground and into the portal.

˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ZAP˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

Cold air nipped at Rippen's rosy face, but oddly enough, he seemed unbothered by it. He felt warm and fuzzy inside. It must've been the thick red coat he was wearing. He touched the fabric and admired its feel, his mind racing to figure out the texture. Not immediately registering his stomach, which was now filled out like a bowl of jelly. But his eyes were drawn to the long, white, fluffy beard that covered his chest, his hands latching onto the next. Combing his fingers through it. He always got so excited to see what style his beard would change into when he zapped.

His head felt a bit itchy, so he snuck a hand underneath his new hat and gave a scratch. A pom-pom stuck to the tip of it dangled in front of his face, moving from the adjustment. His pupils dilated in response, and he raised both hands towards the pom-pom, giving it soft pats back and forth. A throat clearing sound interrupted his focus.

Rippen shook his head, putting on a more serious and concentrated face. He blew a puff of air to knock the pom-pom out of his face. But as soon as he turned towards the source, his "serious" face melted at the sight of Larry. Now dressed in festive wear, ears pointed and somehow even shorter than ever before.

"Oh. My. Goodness! Larry! Look at you! You're so adorable, I just wanna—" He abruptly stopped himself, clearing his throat. "My apologies. That was very demeaning. You look very nice, Larry." He put his hands behind his back and rocked his body back and forth slightly with his tiptoes then to his heels.

The awkward silence lingered between the two for a few beats. "Larry, could you please check the specs?" Rippen politely requested.

The rundown of the mission:

Release the captured elves and reindeer

Retrieve the presents

Recover the naughty and nice list

Launch the sleigh before a blizzard hits at midnight

08:32:05 PM

Then, a very slow realization finally hit him. His red suit, the beard, Larry's elf-like attributes, and all the Christmas themed decorations littered upon the snow...

"Wait, wait, wait! Am I—thee Santa Claus? As in, delivers happiness and good cheer to all the children around the world!?" His voice getting higher with excitement. Larry gave a nod.

Rippen released a screech of exhilaration and pranced around, the snow crunching beneath his feet. "Oooh, I can't wait to deliver all those presents to everyone, everywhere! Getting to cry out "Merry Christmas" for all to hear! Maybe a little girl looks out her frosty window and sees me riding off into the night sky—Oh, Larry, we're gonna have a gay ol' time—"

He stopped again when he saw Larry's face, waiting for him to wrap up his spiel of the moment. Rippen contained himself for now, saving that energy for their triumph later on. "Ah— well, that's—a lot to cover on such short notice. But it's nothing we can't handle! Right, buddy?"

Before Larry could open his mouth, a reindeer snatched his hat and began to munched on it. He let out a huff of annoyance in response. Rippen gasped at the creature, jogging over to pet the large animal. The reindeer nuzzled into his hand, letting out snorts of contentment as it continued to chew the hat. He cheerfully asked. "Care to join us?"

The reindeer grunted in enthusiastic agreement. Why wouldn't it help Santa Claus? Rippen giggled with glee. "Oh thank you, you majestic moose!"

The definitive reindeer snorted in bafflement, Larry also jerked his head in shock. Rippen's grin froze in place as he eyes switched between the two staring at him.

"Whut?"

Larry simply held his hand out and gestured at the animal, hoping Rippen would understand. After his gears slowly turned, he understood his mistake. "Ooooh, I'm so sorry. I've never seen an actual reindeer before—or a moose—I don't know why I called you one. Can you forgive me?"

The reindeer gave a throaty "yes."

"Well, let's go-ho-ho!" Rippen exclaimed into the northern wind. Pointing his finger into a random direction and charging, the reindeer galloped with him. Larry rushed behind them.

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09:05:02 PM

The trio arrived at an abandoned workshop, and the Christmas tree-shaped door closed them off from entering. But not for long. Larry instructed their newly added ally to bust down the door, with an offering of a candy cane he found in the snow. The reindeer happily obliged as Rippen questioned if candy was good for reindeer. Larry didn't answer.

Rippen followed their furry companion inside the darkened building and scanned through the wreckage left behind. While searching, Larry was still outside in the bitter cold, peering through the freshly formed flurries at something in the far distance. A form fixed in place against the gusts of wind. Larry squinted suspiciously, seemingly waiting for something to happen.

"Um, Larry, I think you may want to come check this out." Rippen's voice echoed, beckoning Larry. The sidekick took a moment to give one last good look before making his way inside.

As he cautiously walked towards Rippen, he was shown a myriad sights you wouldn't typically see near Christmas time. A teddy bear impaled against the wall by a candy cane, a toy plane that's crashed into a poor gingerbread house, and a headless baby doll shambling from the shadows. It's cries of "mama" resonating from its broken body, but no mama could fix this. Birch branches were littered along the ground and splattered across the walls was a substance colored a deep crimson. Larry swiped some of it off with his finger and brought it to his mouth, giving it a lick. Peppermint.

He gave a quick look back out the distant door. The form appeared to have drew closer.

He arrived at Rippen's side, both staring at a large sack that was dripping with peppermint. Rippen more unnerved than Larry's stoic face. Larry picked up a candy cane and carefully unraveled the string, keeping the sack closed, both stepping back as it opened. What spilled as its innards was pitch black pieces of coal.

"What could this mean?" Rippen almost hesitantly asked as he kneeled down to inspect the coal. Larry gave the impression he already knew.

"A message."

A cold voice answered as the form from before raised a very large candy cane above Rippen's head, ready to land a devastating blow. Rippen whipped his head around in alarm to be greeted by the sight. Letting out a gasp.

Before the mysterious figure could take a swing, Larry tackled them to the ground, or at least, their head. The body swung the weapon frantically, but luckily, Rippen was out of reach and seized the body, disarming it, quite literally. The reindeer's snacking was interrupted and bellowed in fright from the commotion, backing into a corner.

The duo held both pieces up to get a good grasp on what their looking at. It was a short snowman, still trying to attack them and demanding to be released. The bulbous head trying to bite at Larry, he retorted by nearly biting off the attacker's carrot nose. A fearful yelp left his mouth as his branch arms immediately stopped attempting their feeble assault.

"Why did you ambush us?" Rippen ordered, putting on a more deeper, stern tone.

The snowman urged in a hushed tone. "Because if I didn't thwack you, they'd melt me!"

"They? Who's they?"

"They came in the night, the menace of the North Pole, the sugary shadows. the rogue gingerbread army."

"That sounds—delicious!" Rippens's stunned face morphed into a more delighted look by the thought of warm, tasty gingerbread cookies. He could practically smell them now.

He snapped out of his sweetened thoughts. He needed to focus. "Take us to their location. Now. Please."

"No! I didn't even want to get involved, I'm not going to do some heel turn just because you said please!"

Rippen and Larry shared a look with each other. He motioned his sidekick to follow him. A smile formed on Larry's face as he smeared the head against the wall, peppermint sticking to his face. "If you won't talk, maybe Alfie will make you."

Larry's smile quickly dissipated, wondering who Alfie was. "Who?" The snowman questioned.

The two stopped in front of the reindeer, who caught a whiff of the minty smell that was now seeping deep into the snowman's head. Licking his lips, the animal approached with his tongue hanging out, drooling from the anticipation.

The snowman began to struggle against Larry's grip. "No no no—wait! I'll take you, I'll take you! Just please for the love of all things, Holly and Jolly, keep that thing away from me!" He cried as the reindeer was inches from his rather tasty looking nose.

With a nod from Rippen, Larry swiveled away from the hungry reindeer and started their trek out the door and to the army's location, the reindeer trotting very closely behind. Rippen striding by his side.

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Inside the toy factory that once belonged to Santa Claus was now overrun with bitter gingerbread soldiers. Loading fruit cakes heavy as bricks and confetti into candy cane cannons, gumdrops being slung from tall candy cane slingshots. Many reworking popcorn garlands into whips with painfully sharp star toppers at the ends, and snipers loading their candy cane guns with frosting and plenty of sprinkles. Candy canes are a big theme around here.

But the back kitchen is where the main event for the villainous trio that was orchestrating this whole operation. Numerous gingerbread men mixing batches upon batches of gingerbread and pouring it onto a gigantic baking sheet. Boone overseeing them with a clipboard, checking off some boxes.

"That icing better be prepared before the oven is done, or else you'll be fed to the reindeer!" He bellowed at the soldiers, many becoming panicked and speedily worked. "Gumdrop squad! If those go to waste, you'll be stuck in the oven and be cooked to a blackened crisp!" Those gingerbread follow suit of the others.

Sashi wasn't back there at the moment. She was sent off to check on the elves and reindeer by Boone, making sure none have escaped. It was mainly an excuse to get her out of the way, Boone didn't see her as useful due to her cowardice. He wondered if she'd even go guard the weaponry like he demanded.

"Come on! Hurry up already—you guys are taking forever!" Penn whined at his soldiers as they were hard at work. He slouched in his elaborately candy decorated throne made of gingerbread.

Boone rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Well, if someone didn't need their "royal high chair" so badly, we would've been done now."

Penn grumbled "dramatic effect" under his breath, impatiently tapping his stub of a hand on the arm of his seat.

"Seriously, Penn, those yuletide yucks aren't going to see it or even care! This is all for your precious, fragile ego. Just like this unnecessarily elaborate plan. We've wasted too much time on that chair and your little temper tantrum with that list earlier." Boone was already exasperated by all the time-wasting bickering that was about to begin. He shouldn't entertain his colleague's tiffs, but it was a hard habit to kick. Especially when Penn was wrong like he typically was.

Penn stood up from his gingerbread encrusted seat. "It's not unnecessary. It's thematic! It's not my fault you never had a childhood!" He raised his voice for all his ginger-henchmen to hear. He decided to ignore that temper tantrum comment, not like it wasn't the first time he's heard that.

Boone snorted. "Oh yeah, having your parents threaten you with some goat-man is a real good sign of a healthy childhood."

Penn couldn't help himself but to keep pushing. "Well, if your parents actually disciplined you, maybe you wouldn't have turned out as such an asshat. Ever think about that, hmm? Maybe you needed some Kram—"

"HE'S NOT EVEN REAL!" Boone's bellow echoed throughout the kitchen and even escaped into the shop. Gingerbread men gasped they looked at each other, muttering amongst themselves, unable to comprehend what he said. Boone whipped his around to the whisperings about him. "Get back to work! No lollipop-gagging!" And back to work they went as the two in charge scowled at each other.

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The trio, plus one snowman, arrived at the once cheerful toy factory. The snowman's head was now skewered onto the antlers of their furry ally. He wasn't exactly thrilled about his new arrangement. His body slid behind them, now lacking his spindly branches for arms. Disarmed for safety reasons.

Larry mounted onto a great pine tree and began to scale to the very top for a good view. When reaching the top, he pulled a pair of toy binoculars he found embedded in some snow bank. Scanning the area for gingerbread stragglers or any poor elves that were doomed to freeze in the bitter cold. Instead, an unguarded post caught his eyes. He stealthily descended the tree and motioned his partner towards the building. Rippen clicked his tongue to get the reindeer's, or as he dubbed it earlier, Alfie's attention. Alfie stopped his grazing and bobbed his head to the snowman's dismay.

Before entering, Larry leaned on the doorframe and peaked inside. It seemed to be some sort of weaponry, one that wasn't empty of any enemies. A lone gingerbread person stood and stared at the artillery. Rippen was about to whisper a plan of action for the two of them until Larry rolled inside, the bells on his outfit signaling to the gingerbread soldier that someone was here. She turned to be faced with advisory: her principal as an elf. Sashi leaped from fear and quickly grabbed a pair of candy cane nunchucks to defend her post. Larry didn't even feel the need to grab any weapon. It was only Sashi.

Rippen slowly entered, holding his hands slightly up to show he beared no weapons. "Sashi, there's no need to get violent. You're outnumbered. Just tell us where the elves and reindeer are being kept, okay?" He spoke to her in a gentle tone.

He kept slowly and carefully drawing closer to her, hoping she'd let her guard down and give them answers. Not sure if it was the sheer height of him or that he was too close for comfort that triggered her out, but she whipped her nunchucks wildly around in response. Rippen jerked away from her line of sight, and Larry just nonchalantly took a step back. He really was unfazed by her. As she kept waving it frantically and letting it thwack around her body, the beatings were so violent that when it hit her torso once more, it snapped her cookie body in half. She fell to the floor as her legs stood straight up for a few short moments until it fell flat in the opposite direction.

Horror and worry crisscrossed Rippen's face as he made his way to her side, kneeling next to her. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She shrugged. "I didn't really feel anything."

He huffed a sigh of relief. It looked horrible when her body violently snapped like that. He was incredibly thankful she couldn't feel it, although it did raise plenty of concerns about how and why gingerbread people worked the way they did. But he had to put those thoughts aside for now. She was no longer a threat to anyone, and thankfully, herself.

Larry was already preparing himself as he grabbed what seemed like half of the artillery, draping a belt of seemingly normal ornaments around his waist. He was packing plenty of heat for this cold takeover. After being assured of Sashi's wellbeing and acquiring intel of the elves and reindeer's whereabouts, Rippen joined Larry in taking up arms, grabbing a pair of wrapping paper blasters.

While Alfie, now donning a pair of stockings filled to the brim with tools for defense, sniffed some of the candy-coated weaponry. Their snowman companion huffed in impatience as he waited for their arming-up montage to end. He noticed the MUHU that was attached to the belt of the blabbering Santa he was stuck with. "What's with that there, doohickey you got there." He motioned his head in that general direction.

"Oh, this?" Rippen swayed the side of hip with the device. "It's my MUHU." He responded enthusiastically. He noticed the snowman's confusion. It made sense. Why would he know what that is. "Well—um, I use it to call my family, basically."

"Oh. That must be handy, I'm sure they just bombard you with plenty of calls." Their snowy captive sarcastically and snidely replied, even rolling his eyes at the sheer words he spoke.

Rippen's usually cheery demeanor faltered at that moment. "Well, that'd be nice, I wouldn't really mind that at all." His eyes gave way to sorrow as he looked off into nothingness, lost in his own thoughts. "No one has actually called me in quite some time now. I mean, they have their own lives. It's understandable, really."

He shook his head, knocking any wayward thoughts out of his mind for the time being. "Anyways. After we wrap all this up, you can be on your merry way back to your family—"

"Who says I have a family?" The snowman sharply cut him off, narrowing his pebbled eyes. Rippen tried to quell the situation. "Oh! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to assume—"

Yet again, his captive cut him off mid-sentence. "You see any other snowpeople around here!?"

There really was no point in responding. This frosty guy was getting heated. Yet, Rippen kept trying. "N-No, I haven't—"

This time, he cut him off with a chilled shout. "That's because I wasn't built with a family, just alone in the cold!" His expression of cold rage slowly melted into a more empty, solemn look. "Watching as everyone else around me has a grand ol' jolly time, especially on every Christmas. It blackeneds my already black coal of a heart!" By the time he finished, he looked away, trying not to make a big deal out of his circumstances, trying not to let that bother him. But Rippen could very well tell that it did indeed bother him.

A simple, well-meaning question popped into that noggin of his. "Why don't you build your own family? I mean, perhaps it's a bit difficult with those sticks for arms but—"

"Oh yeah! How come I've never ever thought of such a simple solution before! Oh, thank you, great and wise Santa!" Huffs of bitter sarcasm exuded from the snowman. "You should know why."

But Rippen didn't. He wasn't the real Santa, just an impersonator taking his place for the night. It did make him think: Why doesn't Santa make him a family, or any of the elves? Why create someone to just end off forever alone? Why force that onto someone who didn't know the lonesome life that awaited them?

Larry motioned towards the door and the mission at hand while he wrapped up the upper half of Sashi in super durable wrapping paper. No way was she ripping through that, not like she even wanted to anyway. But the snowman's words echoed in his mind, occupying his thoughts.

"If you continue to help us, I'll help you make a family. Does that sound fair?" It seemed like a fair bargain to him.

The snowman's eyes lit up as Larry hid a question behind his gaze that'd he'll bring up later. Yet, the frosty captive hesitated for a moment, contemplating his limited options of how he wanted to proceed. Rippen can see that very faint flicker in his eyes, even if those very same eyes were made of coal.

"Deal."

This night was going their way. "Great! Thank you for your continued help, Mr. Snowman. Actually, sorry, what is your name?"

"No, you got it right. Mr. Snowman."

"Oh... cool." Rippen nodded off.

The awkward pause was thankfully cut short by their second newly added ally. "I know a secret back entrance. We rescue the elves and take the gingers by surprise."

Larry seemed suspicious of him. Villains typically have the back entrance covered. Then again, it was Penn in charge. He supposed he just simply had to trust the very snowman that almost clobbered Rippen, which shouldn't be too difficult at the slightest. Before leaving, Rippen checked back on Sashi, still wrapped tightly on the floor, looking quite tired. At least she was safe and out of the way of any harm, just deeply humiliated and still lacking a pair of legs. "Merry Christmas, Sashi. Stay out of trouble, okay?"

She sighed before responding. "Sure thing, Mr. Rip—I mean, Claus!" Quickly correcting herself. She typically fumbled about the whole name difference thing when zapping to other worlds. A chuckle escaped Rippen lips as they all bounded out the door, Mr. Snowman looked back at her with confusion.

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Two lone gingerbread men stand against the freezing wind to fulfill their duty: guard the super secret back entrance. Something that seemed achievable and thankfully only lasted till midnight. Unfortunately, it was going to be their last night. At least with their heads attached.

Just as quick as the cold wind, Larry swoops through and, in a single blowing kick, is able to snap both heads of the poor guards. The loud crunches of their heads crumbling off their necks echo throughout the snowy night. Rippen strolls up behind Larry as he snaps a hand of one of the guards. The rogue gingerbread men are still in shock. At least they aren't lying in the snow in pain. He hands the stub off to Rippen, who in turn uses it to bypass the biometric scanner locking the door. Rippen had some questions on how gingerbread would work on something that would require finger and handprints, but by now, he knows to just go with it.

The group sneaks into fortified factory and are kept on high alert, especially since one of the sneakers is a reindeer whose hooves are quite harsh upon the ground. But so far, they were surprisingly successful in their stealth mission. After passing many unsuspecting gingerbread men and searching through many vacant halls and rooms, they find a suspiciously guarded door.

An idea pops into Rippen's head. He fishes something out from one of the stockings that adorned Alfie. One of the items was simply a long piece of string, the other item, a mistletoe. He began to swing the string around and tossed it over a low hanging ceiling beam, still having a grip on the other end. The mistletoe hanged above the two guards. It took a minute or so for one of them to notice, an attention-grabbing cough cut the concentration of the other guard. The first one gave a quick glance up as a hint. When the other guard took notice of the mistletoe, a flirtatious look was shot back. The two decided they must follow the rules of the mistletoe and their hearts. A sugary kiss was shared between them, so sweet, yet so bitter when it ended. Maybe it didn't have to end there. Maybe if they left their post just for a few minutes, nobody would notice. The two giggled as one of them hopped up and grabbed the mistletoe. Both gingerbread men were giggling away as they sneaked off.

Larry was flabbergasted that worked, and so was Mr. Snowman. Both of them stared at Rippen in astonishment. He looked back at them with a cheeky grin sprawled across his face. "Make love, not war."

Rippen leads them into the now unguarded room to find the elves, amusingly enough, trapped in a giant mistletoe. The reindeer were all hogtied with wreaths, which was just plain animal cruelty. A new low for those kids. Rippen and Larry made quick work on freeing the two groups, Alfie sat by any reindeer that panicked will being unwreathed, soothing them.

Elves cheered when they were finally released from their suspended, green prison. "Thanks, Santa! We were trapped in there for hours!" A blonde elf showered the Santa imposter in gratitude, along with the others, even the reindeer expressed it in their own way. Rippen was flushed with pride and fulfillment. Hearing praise for his heroing always made him so giddy, even after years of doing this job. Larry, on the other hand, didn't really care for praise. It just halted his work. Yet Rippen always tried to rope him into the glory with him. He wanted his sidekick to be recognized too.

Release the captured elves and reindeer

Retrieve the presents

Recover the naughty and nice list

Launch the sleigh before a blizzard hits at midnight

Rippen didn't let it all get to his head. He could get too cocky and distracted if left unchecked. He still had a mission at hand. "Do you know where they put the presents? As well as the naughty and nice list?"

One of the other elves piped up. "I heard they were going to burn all the presents! So they must be in the kitchen, the oven is big and hot enough to burn them all!" All the elves shrieked in fear of all their hard work turning to glittery ashes. Rippen quelled their terror and instructed them to sneak out and prepare the sleigh as Larry gave each and every one of them a weapon, only needed if they got caught. The elves prepare and saddled onto the reindeer, all ready to save Christmas.

One elf answered the other half of his question. "I think the list may still be in your office! But I wouldn't be too surprised if it was heavily guarded, so be careful, Mr. Claus!" After giving that info, she followed suit with the others.

"Alfie, you go with them. Larry, you think you can handle getting the presents?" Larry gave a hardy nod and was already on his way to the kitchen. "Elves, after the sleigh is set, make your way towards the kitchen. That sack must be huge, so it may be beneficial for him to have some extra hands." He knew Larry could handle it, but he didn't want anything to go awry, so just in case. It had to be too heavy to load on the sleigh alone. The elves took note as they left. Rippen headed towards the office, which must be on the second level.

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The kitchen smelled of sweet delights as the open, hot oven crackled in anticipation for something to bake, to create. The gigantic baking sheet was drawing near the mouth of the burning machine as Larry stealthily made his way through the kitchen and caught sight of the huge sack of gifts, tucked away in a corner, awaiting its fate. He scanned the room for another way to move the sack without anyone noticing. The way he came was too far and far to noticeable. An emergency backdoor was made known to him. It was the perfect way out.

As he made it to the presents, Boone's voice sounded off as he went down some sort of checklist. "Batter? Check. Giant cookie cutter? Check. Gumdrops? Check. Icing? Check—"

"Yadda yadda yadda! Let's get this show on the road—or sleigh on the—whatever! Let's get this going already!" Penn interrupted his coworker as he laid in the rich guy pool-sized baking sheet covered in gingerbread batter. Larry was intrigued by the unusual sight.

A ginger soldier meekly asked. "Sir. Do you want us to triple check the safety—"

"Nope. Send him in. He should be fine." He wanted all this to be over with. They were really cutting it close to midnight with this dumb plan.

"But sir—"

"Just do as you're told! Send him in!" Boone lashed at the soldier, thwacking the cookie with his clipboard, crumbs fell from his head.

All the gingerbread men heaved the huge metal sheet into the oven, one of them scolding their hands. Penn shut his eyes tightly and endured the heat as the oven was slammed shut, locking him inside. Larry was wide-eyed by this plan. He didn't really understand what they're trying to do, but he also didn't care. His mission was to get the presents out.

Easier said than done. Of course, it was going to be heavy. He wondered how Santa was able to lug such a huge sack around. It must be such a pain to deal with. After what felt like hours, which was actually minutes, dragged right up to the door. He was about to open the doors until a huge THUNK echoed throughout the kitchen. He froze in place.

THUNK. THUNK. THUNK.

The pounding came from within the oven. All the gingerbread men looked on with fear and dread as Boone looked on with morbid curiosity, with a tinge of surprise. A grin grew upon his face as he stood there, waiting.

Larry hastily hauled the sack out the door and was greeted by the elves and reindeer, Mr. Snowman, now attached back onto his body, and the sleigh awaiting the gifts. He didn't have time to be surprised or ask how they knew to be here. He only kept hauling. The elves helped out, giving all their strength to pull and heave it onto the sleigh. After doing so, the elves look as if they all ran a marathon. "Santa really should've done this part. He's like, really good at it." One elf wheezed out.

Release the captured elves and reindeer

Retrieve the presents

Recover the naughty and nice list

Launch the sleigh before a blizzard hits at midnight

Larry had no time for breaks. He directed them to hide the sleigh from sight until Santa came. Then they'll be ready to trek the mountain to the launch pad, with so little time to spare. All the elves sighed and huffed as they began hopping onto the reindeer attached to the sleigh, Alfie leading them. Larry went back inside for Rippen.

He broke into a sprint as the pounding continued. His concentration only broke as soon as the oven door was ripped off its hinges and was thrown through the air, pausing his run. Horrid, manical laughter bellowed from with the burning oven, a shadow of something large and monstrous lingered within. Larry stared into the burning void, seeing his ghastly eyes. He had to look away. He had to get to Rippen. Fast.

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11:45:04 PM

Rippen was quite taken aback to see no one was guarding the office, but that didn't mean vigilance could be thrown out the window. He needed to stay cautious. The inside of Santa's office was completely and utterly cozy. It was like stepping into a fairytale log cabin. There was even a fireplace that flickered to life as soon as he stepped inside. The aroma of pine and cookies filled the air as searched for the list, scouring the desk first. Nothing.

A snowglobe did catch his eye, and he decided to give it a shake. The fake snowflakes wildly flowing through the distilled water swishing around in the globe delighted the hero. The little snowman family that resided within it reminded him of his promise to Mr. Snowman. His mind drifted away again, thinking about that immense loneliness that he imagined his ally has to live with, those words echoing around in his mind. His eyes solemnly followed the falling snowflakes as the watered stilled. That deepened, dull pain of everyday living. The deafening quiet that loneliness brings. Just knowing there's a possibility of family yet unable to reach it... it wrenched at Rippen's heartstrings. He was clouded with melancholy, as a multitude of thoughts swirled around in his brain like snowflakes in a snowglobe. But he had to stick to the mission. He didn't have the time for sorrow. He must save Christmas.

He set the globe down as he continued his search for the list, gravitating towards the reading nook. Passing by a bookshelf, a tossed pedestal laid upon the floor along with many ripped books, hinting towards some animosity that lingered here. Ink was spilled upon the wood as a quill was drenched in the black puddle. A thick book that had a festively ornate hardcover with an exceptionally high number on the spine was near the disarranged mess. He picked up and was sure enough. It was the list!

Release the captured elves and reindeer

Retrieve the presents

Recover the naughty and nice list

Launch the sleigh before a blizzard hits at midnight

He flipped through the pages of what was basically a tome of everyone in the world's name. It even included their what they wanted for the big day. Rippen was amused reading some of the wants of names that clearly belonged to children. The heavy book offset his stance, and the pages rapidly tossed all the way to W, which gave him an idea. His eyes raked through the pages until he landed on what he was looking for.

Watanabe Sashi. NICE.

"I guess I should ask for something realistic. Some supplies for sketching and stuff are okay for me. Also, anything Goodbye Pony related is fine, too. :)"

It was so simple, yet so sad she had to specify. What would she want that wasn't realistic enough? Rippen's interest was piqued as he flipped to H.

Henchman Boone. NAUGHTY.

"Once again, I ask for the plans for all Tesla Cybertrucks. I can do it better. We both know this."

What an odd request. Rippen has a wild guess that Boone wasn't exactly going to be happy with receiving coal. A genius idea popped into his head, Larry! He could finally know what to get Larry for Christmas! But... he didn't know his last name. After all these years, he still didn’t know. His giddiness was instantly crushed as he turned the pages. He could still ask Larry before they launched. Like he would answer, he always favored being aloof and mysterious. One last read-up before heading off, he landed on S.

Scillan Penn. NAUGHTY.

"I want my parents back."

Those thoughts came rushing back like a snowstorm. It had only been nearly 4 months since that day, yet it still haunted the pair. Penn living alone, dealing with the dread of coming back to an empty home. Rippen struggling with the guilt of splitting a family apart across dimensions. Obviously, Penn was suffering more than Rippen. Even the thought of him being in a worser state than Penn made his stomach twist in knots. He wasn't. He could never truthfully think that. All he could think was that he hurt a child. A child was suffering because of his actions. What kind of hero was that? To tear a family asunder for the great good of the universe? Rippen was that kind of hero. He didn't feel like one.

How could Phyllis and Larry just set that fact aside? A hero's actions changed the life of a literal child to a desolate, lonely one. How could they move on? How could they look at Rippen and see him as a hero? Say he was doing the right thing? These thoughts he's fought to keep locked up finally flooded out and spiral into the recesses of his mind. It was his fault they were trapped there for, possibly, forever—it was all my fault!

His face burned with guilt as he slammed the book shut, and the sheer force of his strength from the slam boomed throughout the office. His chest grew heavier with anxiety and shame, while his breath got caught in his throat. His body trembled as he held the book close to him, sinking his nails into the hardcover. The ink and quill caught his gaze once again, distracting him from his emotions that were boiling over. He slowed his breathing as the gears in his brain turned, the implications of Mr. Snowman's words whirled around those gears.

I'm Santa Claus. This is my list. I could change it!

Release the captured elves and reindeer

Retrieve the presents

Recover the naughty and nice list

Change the list?

Launch the sleigh before a blizzard hits at midnight

He picked up the ink-drenched quill and adjusted his posture as he swung open the book, scouring for the S pages. But before he could, Larry entered in a frazzled state as he stumbled upon his coworker. "Larry! I can chan—"

CRASH

Larry signaled Rippen to get the heck out of here. As slammed, the book shut once more and pocketed the quill, following Larry out of the office and rushing towards an exit. The army of gingerbread men waited for the duo to reveal themselves, ready to attack, trying to ignore the loud crashing sounds. Larry swiped two of the ornaments around his waist and chucked them towards the cookies, explosions of blown glass and glitter cover and cut into the soldiers. Rippen uses his free hand to grab one of the wrapping paper blasters in his back, Larry yanks the other one off him. Both shoot at more gingerbread men, two groups being instantly wrapped up and incapacitated. The duo were putting up a good fight, seemingly outdoing the army to the point of trying to recuperate from the battle. Rippen and Larry took as a sign to fallback and race to the sleigh. They don't have the time to win this fight completely. It wasn't the mission.

11:57:03 PM

The two made it outside. The wind was much stronger and more freezing than ever before, nearly knicking the air out of both of their lungs. A heavy snowfall began to rush past them as they trekked forward towards the sleigh, the elves fleeing for shelter from oncoming blizzard that was brewing. Finally, they made onto their one-way ticket to winning. A scent caught Rippen's rosy nose as he sniffed the air. "Mmmm, fresh gingerbread?"

As they boarded the sleigh, the ground trembled as heavy footsteps reverberate from within the factory. Everyone froze in place as a hulking, horned figure RIPPED through the building and towered over them. It was a giant gingerbread goat-man. It was Penn.

"LOOKS LIKE KRAMPUSNACHT STARTS TONIGHT!" He bellowed through his jagged fangs, steam emitting from his body and become entangled with the frosty air. He began to stomp his way towards the heroes, heaving a giant sack filled to the brim with coal. Larry grabbed the reins and cued the reindeer to bolt full speed ahead, Alfie responded with the glow of his antlers. The rest of the herd glowed with him as they began to gallop towards the mountain. Penn raced after them, he will not let them escape his grasp, especially with all the time it took to complete his new form.

They all rounded the spiraling mountain as snow flew off the path from the sleigh's runners, cutting through it. A chorus of the reindeer's beating hooves echoed throughout the cliffs, along with the makeshift gingerbread hooves of their pursuer. Rippen kept trying to open the book, but the wind had other plans as it continually blew it shut each time. Larry intrusted the reins to Rippen as he whipped out his wrapping paper blaster and fired away. Penn held up his arm, blocking his face, the festive paper wrapping tightly around it, only to rip it off moments after. The ornaments had a similar effect: useless. Everything he had on him was useless against the giant gingerbread goat-man.

"I must say, Penn! I really do dig the new look!" Rippen attempted to flatter and distract the rampaging boy as he struggled against the wind. "Dig my new drip?" He motioned to his Santa attire. This distracted Penn for a moment by making him cringe so hard he almost lost his footing. Unfortunately, that only enraged him more as he picked up his speed. Rippen's cocky smirk drew back from the exchange.

I know I can fix this. All of this!

He used his brute strength to pull the book open, unfurling the pages. He frantically digged in his pocket, grabbing hold of the inky quill that surely turned his coat's pocket into a makeshift inkwell. As he flicked through the pages, Larry looked over at his struggle, trying to decipher what he was doing at possibly the worst moment. Finally, the S pages made themselves known to the hero. The struggle didn't end as the wind tried it's best to keep the ink off the page with the villain's name.

"Come on, come on! I can do this! Please just let me do this!" Racing panic consumed his mind. A cold sweat began to form upon his brow. His hand was shaking, not from the cold but from the pure emotional turmoil of simply trying to write against the blizzard's wind. The feathered pen between his fingers tried loosen itself from his hold, but he will not let this be.

The reins began to fall off his lap and nearly onto the snow of the mountainside. But Larry wasn't going to let it get away that easy as he hastily snatched it, his body now across the lap of his colleague. Thankfully, Rippen was too occupied to notice the ruffled look on Larry's face. As Larry adjusted himself back to his seat, now closer to Rippen, he finally got a better look at what the hero was doing. Truly getting a good look at the frantic state of rosy face.

"PLEASE, I CAN FIX THIS!" Rippen's voice broke into the cold, bleak air. A gentle hand was planted on his shoulder, the touch breaking his concentration. When he looked, his eyes met with Larry's gaze. Instead of being met with stoicism, those very eyes showed a sympathetic warmth he wasn't used to.

"Rippen."

Larry's voice was calm, having a soft undertone to it.

"It's too late. The list has been made"

The last words Rippen wanted to ever hear at that very moment. It wrenched at heart, giving pause to his breath.

"We will find another way. Together."

Those eyes... they spoke louder than Larry's soothing voice. He was earnest about what he said, even though he utterly despised that boy, he will help find his parents. Those eyes told him everything will be okay.

Reluctantly, Rippen closed the book. Letting the quill between his fingers fly away into the snowy night. A quiet moment was shared between the two, their eyes locking onto each other, sharing in deep understanding. Then they had to be reminded that they were being chased by a humongous gingerbread man in the shape of Krampus, said villain, aiming his sack of coal of the do-gooders and heaving it at them. Larry steered the herd and sleigh just barely out of harm's way, nearly tipping over. They were drawing closer towards the launch pad. They were so close they couldn't lose now.

11:58:13 PM

Before they could figure something out, Mr. Snowman climbed from out of the sack to the complete surprise of the two. "What in the holly jolly Christmas are you doing up there, Mr. Snowman!?" Rippen's voice cracked as he shouted in confusion.

Mr. Snowman stared down at Santa and his elf, his pebbled eyes giving a sorrowful yet valiant look. "Tell my family I did this for them!"

"Wait—"

The snowman already leaped off the sleigh and towards the enemy at hand. Gusts of flurries rushed past him as he removed the mittens off his sticked hands, his piercing fingers ready to gouge out some cookie. Right before colliding with the very same gingerbread man that threatened his life only hours ago, he blurted: "Snowing somewhere!?"

Penn didn't have any time to react to the snowman flying towards his face. The impact was the equivalent of a giant snowball to his crumby dome. The sheer force knocked both of them off the mountain, and they barreled towards the ground, hundreds upon hundreds of meters below them. Penn's long-winded scream sharply broke as he broke into pieces when his body finally hit the ground from the long descend. He was lucky he couldn't feel his body snapping in on itself. Mr. Snowman wasn't as lucky as his body splattered against the snow, his face warped into the ground. His response to his literally body melting was laughter. Pure unhinged laughter. His gaze was drawn to the stars above him, millions looking back at him. Tonight, he no longer felt alone as he became one with the snow and one with the night.

Penn stared into bight sky and let out of yell of utter rage, his broken off limbs writhing around with all-out anger at his failure. "I WAS SO CLOSE!"

Continuing in his angry writhing, something drew closer to him, heavy steps crunching beneath the sheet of newly formed snow from the blizzard. As dark clouds crept across the sky, a cloaked, horned figure stood above the villain, golden eyes piercing his candied ones. A clawed hand grasped onto Penn's face, the long, sharp nails digging into the cookie. It pulled him off the ground. He could now see his own body now. As he closed in on the figure's face, he got a glimpse of Boone's annoyed head, tucked beneath the stranger's arm.

The face he was made to gaze upon brought back a flood of memories and nightmares from his childhood. Half-man, half-goat, all terror. The creature opens its maw, releasing breath of foul odor and its lips peeling back to reveal its gnashers. The jaws clamped shut on Penn's head, his faux horn being crunched off and swallowed by goat-man. His head and headless body trembled from pure fear as the crunching continued. A goatish bleat bellowed from the fearsome Krampus, who watched as the sleigh high above made it near the mountain's peek.

11:59:39 PM

The reindeer's hooves clopped against the launch pad's runway as they raced against time and were prepared for flight. Alfie led them straight off the ledge, all becoming weightless upon the air.

11:59:49 PM

The blizzard was catching up the them, practically nipping at the sleigh. All the duo could do was hope, hope that they'll make it out before they could be knocked out of the sky with all the presents for the world. The dark, freezing clouds began to surround all the living things that were flying into the night. Seemingly trapping those who dared escape its grasp.

11:59:59 PM

12:00:00 AM

Release the captured elves and reindeer

Retrieve the presents

Recover the naughty and nice list

Leave the list alone

Launch the sleigh before a blizzard hits at midnight

Alfie and his herd pierce through the clouds with the sleigh in tow. The silhouette of their flight was being shined upon by the moon that brightly hanged in the midnight sky. The reindeers bellowed out in cheer in their successful take-off, the collective antlers glowing even brighter than before, almost as blinding as the moon itself. Larry hopped up from his seated position, throwing his arms up in the air, the bell on his hat jingling along. A smile beamed across his face, and he looked over to Rippen, expecting to see the same expression as his. Yet, he was met with a disheartened visage, peering down below. Snowflakes whisked past as they were zapped out of the world, successfully saving Christmas for everyone.

Almost everyone.

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˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗ZAP˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗

The smell of stale popcorn that wafted through the air in the Odyssey was the first thing to greet the dynamic duo. As they descended onto the platforms before them, Rippen's face was unchanged from the zap, even when he went to retrieve his holly berry brooch from the he box filled with half-melted metals, it was still there. Larry followed by his side as they made their way out of theater.

"Sometimes, hero must continue forward. That is what makes them a hero." Phyllis' voice caught Rippen's attention. He turned to see her stoic face for a minute before she had put out a few sparks that broke out of whatever she was fixing. The fire extinguisher's chemicals swiftly snuffing out the future fire.

Her words rang in his ears, residing within his mind as they left the building and out into the ongoing blizzard. Even though clouds blocked it, the sun that shined behind them still momentarily blinded Rippen's sensitive eyes. The sight from the trio departing from the neighboring building, Slushee Inferno, caught his blindsided attention. They all appeared disappointed from their failure, Boone muttering angrily about his unreliable coworkers. Sashi was just as downtrodden as usual. Penn is what really took hold of Rippen's attention. Frustration desperately tried to hide the deep pain that dwelled behind the boy's eyes. All three are splitting off into the storm.

Rippen truly wanted to give them all a ride, but he knew none would take it. Freezing in the cold was nobler than taking a ride from your enemy. So, instead, Larry was the only one to join him in his beat down yellow car.

After dropping off his dear sidekick, he returned to his empty apartment, barren of any Christmas cheer. Before he started his mission, he would've loved to come back home and decorate to his heart's content. Now? This place didn't feel like home. He no longer felt the spirit of Christmas.

He strolled up to his fridge, grabbed some carrots, and then turned away from his apartment and trailed back outside, into the biting frost of the blizzard. Flurries surrounded him as he took his time in the snow, rolling piles of it into large spheres, enough to make three snowpeople. He decorated them with rocks he found, plunging some sticks into each of their sides for arms. Adding the last touches by inserting carrots for noses.

He took a step back to admire his work. Pride became somberness as he stood against the freezing wind. He knew he didn't have the same magic touch as Santa Claus, but hopefully, this was close enough. If only he could meet them.

Hours passed as the blizzard raged on well into the night in Muddleburg. A pajama-cladded Rippen fiddled with his MUHU while he sat on his bed, staring longing at the communication device.

Maybe I should give them a call...

.

.

.

"They wouldn't answer." He placed on the nightstand, switching his lamp off and settled in for the night. As he nestled beneath his plush blankets, his eyes drifted away, watching the snowflakes flutter just outside his window. Like being in a snowglobe.

Trapped.

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'Twas the day of December 25th, Christmas day! The most exciting, and to some, even more nerve-wracking day of the month. Everyone wakes up and makes special memories during the most wonderful time of the year!

Rippen, on the other hand, decided it was best to sleep in this exceptionally bright morning. Even if his body and mind were wide awake, he chose to keep his eyes shut from the world. His alarm went ignored as he turned it off until it was needed for tomorrow. He went back to attempted slumber with his cherished Freddy in his embrace, drowsily fluttering his eyes back shut. But a sweet aroma of pancakes began to linger throughout the apartment, much to his surprise. It made him drowsily rise from his cozy bed and, as if he were in a trance-like state, followed the scent towards the source.

Before he could even reach the kitchenette, vivid colors flashed before his eyes. Lights and garlands were strung around his home and a small, familiar looking tree that sat on his coffee table. A soft smile replaced his impassive expression, eyes lighting up at the thought and effort put into this sweet gesture.

Larry was flipping away at the delectable holiday pancakes, swaying his body to the melody of a vinyl he put on. He paused as he seemingly sensed Rippen's presence and quickly turned around on the stool he stood upon. Both share a tender gaze, exchanging warm smiles as the music played between them.

When the pancakes were done to perfection and festively adorned with strawberries with dashes of whipped cream, the pair sat down on the couch and partook in the richly sweet breakfast. These little moments made making it through the twisting paths of life all the more splendid. At least, in Rippen's eyes, it did. While Rippen cleaned up the aftermath of their meal, Larry snuck away to grab some hidden gift.

After dumping the dishes into the sink, he caught one glimpse at Larry's slyness and instantly became flustered. "Oh, Larry, you didn't have to go through the trouble of getting me something." The only response he got was a firm pat on the couch's cushion, Larry inviting him to sit next to him once again.

Rippen happily obliged as he sat down, the present instantly dumped onto his lap. Even though Larry didn't show it on his face, he was clearly eager for his friend to tear into the gift he got him. A goofy giggle escaped Rippen's lips as he carefully ripped the vibrant paper and opened the box underneath. His hands fell idley onto his lap as he stared at what was tucked inside, letting out an exaggerated gasp of awe.

"Larry... you can knit? How come you never told me?" He was genuinely shocked he didn't know his friend had such amazing knitting skills that were displayed on the sweater. Gently taking out of the box and immediately donning the comfy garment. Larry let another smile take over his face, maybe even letting an expression of accepted flattery linger.

Tears made themselves known in Rippen's eyes, trickling down his cheeks. Those tears were accompanied by quiet sniffles that puffed out of taller hero. Larry wasn't too taken aback by that reaction. He knew very early on that his colleague was a more sensitive fellow than others. He laid a tender hand on Rippen's back, small circles being lightly drawn behind to help soothe him.

Rippen looked back at his friend with those big, wet eyes. "Oh dear Larry, you have no idea how much this means to me. Thank you so much." Phlegm caught in his throat.

He rose from his spot and walked back into his bedroom. A Larry puzzled stayed in place and waited for his return. Once Rippen did return, it was with a present of his own to give. Larry rolled his eyes, notably with a smile on his face as the hero handed over the neatly wrapped offering. "I hope you like it, even though it's not as nice as yours."

Larry absolutely despised it when his friend was self-deprecating. He was great and genuine at whatever he put his mind to! Why couldn't he just embrace himself? Not everything was about perfecting heroism and justice. He gladly accepted the offering and tore into it, much to Rippen enthusiasm. When he laid his eyes on the gift, he tentatively picked up and observed the peculiar article of clothing.

"At first, it was going to be a sweater, funnily enough. But, um, I was having some difficulties—so it became a scarf instead. A—um, naff looking scarf. If you don't like, that's totally understandable. I can buy you—"

"I like it." Larry's voice cut through Rippen's prattling, his neck already swaddled with the long, shoddy scarf. It was more like both his neck and half of his face were swaddled in warmth.

"Oh."

A subtle blush washed over his pale green face, a daffy grin spread across it at the same time. A lightbulb went off in his brain at the same time, his eyes sparked with determination. He dashed towards his bedroom once more, coming back with wrapping paper and ribbons, along with something in his pajamas' pocket.

"Larry, would you care to join me?" He invited the befuddled sidekick to just up and leave his home and go off on some random adventure. At least, that's what Larry's guessing. Of course, he tags along.

Both slip on their shoes, zipping up some thick coats and making it out the door. Passing a mistletoe that hanged from his door frame, Larry gave it a brief glance at it as they exited. Footsteps departed down the stairs, and the duo entered the outside world towards the car.

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The Scillan home reflected the state of the soul inhabitant: empty of any family. That wouldn't be the case if the villain allowed his aunt and uncle to watch over him while his parents were trapped. But to hell, if Penn let those two stay in his home! He'd rather sulk in the alone in the dark until he was reunited with his parents. Which sadly may take a while.

The redhead spent his slumbering in his snug bed. An arm was hanging out of his sheets, a framed picture of a family trip slide from his grasp and onto the floor. Snowflakes passed by the window as he planned to snore the day away, no point in celebrating. When he was younger, he would wake up early and shredded open his presents, lashing out when he didn't get the exact toys he wanted. Yet his parents were so patient with him. Although, he didn't go off freely without proper discipline. How he wished they call all just sit down on the couch and watch an old movie together. No presents needed. But, it looks like he'll spend the first of possibly many Christmas without his parents.

A knock at the door threw off his dreaming of desired Christmas morning. Sluggishly, he ripped his blanket off him and stomped through his room and down the stairs. Descending from the attic gave him the time to build up his frustration, holding a terrible amount of animosity for whoever dared disturb him on this bleak Christmas day. He arrived at the front door, unlocking it while giving out a warning.

"I swear Boone, if it's you, I—don't make me grab my baseball bat again!"

But when he swung the door open, hoping to whack anyone still standing there, no one stood in place. Only a nicely wrapped purple present, topped with a matching lavish bow, sat on the ground. Greedily, he snatched it up and brought it inside, reading the tag that was attached.

"To Penn, you need this more than me. — a friend."

It couldn't of Boone, for one thing, they never called each other friends. The other thing was that Boone had neat, almost robotic handwriting, nothing this terribly written belonged to him. It definitely wasn't Sashi either. She didn't know where he lived or at least to his knowledge she didn't know. Her handwriting was bad but not this atrocious. So, who could it be? More importantly, what's in the box?

He plopped himself down on the couch and ripped open the mystery gift. What he hesitantly pulled out puzzled him, some sort of circular device. He pressed the triangular center, which in turned began to call someone. He rapidly tried to cancel the call but a hologram interrupted his attempts. The sight that lied behind the holo-screen made the blood in his veins freeze like the cold outside.

It was his parents, in some sort of desolate wasteland with monstrous pine trees attacking them. His mother seemingly noticed that she's been called while tearing off a pine monster's arm off. "I told you to never call us again! I swear when I get my hands on you, I'll rip off your pe— PENN! Oh sweetheart, I'm so happy to see you!" Her full attention drawn to her son.

His father jerked his head towards the sight of his long-distance son. He snaps his pine-riddled advisory's neck, and ran up the the two. "Penn, hey pal! How are you handling your new job? We know it's all very sudden and difficult to process, but—"

"I'm okay! What about you two?" It felt relieving to shed his bratty, villainous persona and just be himself. A kid. A kid finally spending time with his family.

"We're doing just fine, honey. Oh—hang on a second, let me take care thicket of treehemoths." Vonnie momentarily pausing their conversation by hefting a huge rock and hurling at the group. "JINGLE BELL ROCK!" Brock joined in with his wife, rolling up his sleeves. "I'll deck your halls!"

Penn sat back and watched his parents fight of the horde, all failing to lay a hand on either one of them. He felt great amounts of joy to finally see this other life that he was thrusted into, they made it look easy. He could get so much advise from them, suggestions for ambush tactics and he could even talk to them about his day! They can try to get back into the groove of being semi-normal family once more. Sure, it was long-distance, by several dimensions, but all that mattered is that they're together. Like on this Christmas morning.

All was witnessed by a certain, dark-haired hero and stout sidekick, both watching from the yellow car. The sight was rewarding for Rippen, finally he saved Christmas for everyone. They can all continue forward.

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[tobeholyistobeempty]

‘you’ll get used to it.’ | captain john price

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

WARNINGS - 18+ mdni. smut. so much smut. darker themes ie death. a super deep and twisted interpretation of a solider who’s being reckless in attempt to run from their feelings. captain price is bred to hunt so it’s futile. piv. mirror sex. multi orgasms. size kink. dirty talk. dubcon slightly. we shouldn’t be doing this trope. slightly morally grey. a lot of sleep token references. fingering. reader afab. mentions of blood, injury. slight brat/dom dynamic. overstimulation.

The first thing you register is the weight of him.

Not his hands, though they’re there too — firm around your arms, holding you steady — but him. The heat of him at your side, sweat and cigarettes filling your muddled senses with each laboured breath you gasp for. The quiet, infernal energy that pours off him, taking up too much space, too much air from your already airless lungs.

“You with me?” His voice rumbles close to your ear.

You try to nod, but the motion sends a fresh bolt of pain ricocheting through your skull. Your breath hitches, and his grip tightens.

“Easy.” A low murmur, meant to soothe. “Almost there.”

There being the med bay, where fluorescent lights paint everything sterile. Too bright, too fucking loud alongside the offset drumbeat in your ears. He doesn’t let you sit on your own — eases you down onto the cot himself, hands as steady as they always are, even when yours are the furthest from.

You wince as you shift, and his eyes flick over you. He’s still assessing.

“Shouldn’t’ve let that bastard get a hit in,” he mutters, half to himself.

You know what he’s thinking. The result of your own impulsivity. Reckless. “Yeah, I’ll try to avoid that next time.”

He exhales sharply. A shake of his head. “Could’ve been worse.”

You know that. Just like you know he’s only saying it to ease your dread. But you can see it in the way he looks at you, something unreadable tightening at the corners of his mouth, that he’s seen it. Many more times than you think.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “You don’t have to—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Just gives you that look, the one that shuts people up without him having to say a damn thing. It’s something you’re still learning about him — the way he often communicates without words. How his silence and pointed stares hold more meaning than most people’s shouting. You’ve also learned the effort to argue with him when he’s like this is a futile one. You’re a part of his team. He’ll be with you through it all.

Then, without asking, he reaches for you — because he knows you’ll let him. One hand bracing your chin, tilting your head so he can get a better look at the damage.

And even through the agony, it’s all too much.

The touch, the closeness, the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off you for one goddamn second since you’d been hit. Your throat goes dry at the realization that it’s doing more to you than it should. But you’ll never get used to how he does it. How a man like him — a wartime killer with more bloodshed on his fingertips than skin covering his limbs — can still look at you with something even remotely soft, when he’s bred to be everything but.

“You always this stubborn?” His voice is quieter now. A rough rasp against his throat.

You swallow, pulse hammering. “You always this persistent?”

His lips quirk, but his grip stays firm, fingers cool against your fevered skin.

“You’ll get used to it.”

You wondered then, if you ever really would.

———————

Months later, you’re still wondering the same thing.

It’s been months since that night in the med bay. Months of keeping yourself at arm’s length. Of keeping things professional. Of projecting platonic renditions despite the cursed thing threatening to take its place.

Or, well, trying to.

Because if there’s one thing you know for certain, it’s that tension like this doesn’t fade. It festers.

No matter how deep you try to bury it, perseverance is its ally. Helps it crawl out of the grave you dug for it in every brush of his fingers against yours when he hands over a magazine clip, every order spoken gravel in your ear, every glance held a second too long when neither of you are fast enough to look away. It leaves claw marks in everything, has been ever since the day he carried you through crumbling stone and mortar — ever since you felt him so fucking close and you realized you didn’t mind it. Since the moment you learned more about him in twenty minutes than you have in the entire year by his side.

That night relinquished something. Made you see him in a new light. What was once a beacon is now a solar flare for dead gods.

And it erupts here. Now.

In the barracks washroom after a mission gone sideways. After a fight that took too much out of you — left your bones aching, your skull pounding with the remnants of a concussion you’re beginning to suspect never fully healed — skin still humming raw, soaked in adrenaline and something a little too fucking reckless.

After he follows you in.

The door slams behind him, the sound ricocheting off the tiles. You don’t turn around, just strip your tac vest off with more force than necessary, breathing hard, hissing under your breath as exhaustion begins smothering out the fire in your blood.

“You got a fucking death wish?”

You can feel him staring at you. You know he’s seeing red — the heat of his eyes on your back incomparable to the even the greediest hellfires.

You exhale, press your palms flat against the edge of the sink. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” He steps closer. “You ran straight into that firefight without cover.”

“I handled it.”

“You barely walked away.”

Finally, you turn, glare at him over your shoulder. “That what this is? Another fucking lecture?”

He doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t snap at you like your previous COs would. He just watches. And somehow, that’s worse.

“That what you think I’m doing?”

You scoff, shake your head, turning back toward the sink. The mirror in front of you is cracked down the middle, splitting your reflection in two. And you think, rather ridiculously, that it’s a perfect fucking picture of how you feel. Torn. Between the persistence of him and the need to keep your distance. Between what you’ve spent months trying to ignore and the way it still catches you off guard—how you keep finding yourself watching him, noticing him, like something inside you has already made a decision you can’t retract.

Behind you, he exhales slow. You hear the shift of his boots against the floor.

“Can’t keep doing this,” he mutters. “Won’t.”

Something in your chest tightens.

“What, watching my back?” You force your voice to stay even. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“Not like this.”

The simplicity of that response has currency, and you know the behaviour. The familiar silence that tells you there’s more to this. Syllables pleading behind his teeth which he isn’t quite yet dignifying — but that slice along the back of his throat all the same. You meet his gaze in the mirror, and you see it then. In the dim light of his ocean eyes.

An emergence.

“I can’t watch you go down again.” There it is. Words coaxed out in that thick accent of his that inflicts them like a wound. He’s moving closer now, extinguishing the space. Stepping up behind you. “You haven’t been right for months. I need to know why.”

At that, you almost recoil — each syllable thrusting the knife deeper into your resolve, and you realize it’s not his accent that makes them cut, but the way he speaks them. Certain. As if he’s looking at you bare. No layers left to protect you. Like you’re nothing but sinew and marrow. Like your eyes and limbs are instruments to pick apart.

You stare at the sink. “So you are always this persistent.”

It leaves your lips exactly as you mean it — a callback, a test. You don’t watch his face, but the silence stretching long tells you it landed exactly where you wanted. A synapse snap back, an echo from the depths of whatever is eating you from the inside out.

“And you,” a pause, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Are always this stubborn.”

He says it like an indictment.

You’re sure it’s because he knows you. Because he sees how you bleed and pretend you don’t. How you’ve been keeping yourself at arm’s length for months. Because you’ve cornered yourself — because you let the bruises fade without ever acknowledging how deep they burrow.

Your fingers tighten around the porcelain, like if you hold on hard enough you can keep the charade going. Pretend you don’t feel what you feel. But then, you glance up, and there it is — your reflection wavering in the split mirror, cut through by the fault line of your own indecision. Your own internal warfare.

“Yes,” you whisper. “But you knew that long ago.”

“I did.” His hand braces against the sink beside yours as he all but cages you against it. “But I keep thinking, sooner or later, you’ll let yourself stop.”

Another pause. A breath suspended in air too thick, in a space that feels too small.

“You want me to stop?”

He exhales through his nose. “I want you to want to.”

It’s an invitation. A quiet demand.

You swallow against the burn in your throat because it’s clear he knows what’s hiding behind your eyes. He’s just asking you to be honest. To pull the words from where they’ve been buried, to stop dissolving them like acid on your tongue. To let him in.

“Then you want for nothing.” Your voice is softer than you mean it to be, dangerously close to breaking. “Because you know I’d tell you anything if you asked.”

His eyes meet yours in the mirror.

“Tell me what’s making you reckless.”

You’d expected that — or something like it — but it still takes you apart. Thread by thread, a rope cinched through the hollow of your ribs. Pulling, pulling —waiting for you to give.

And you almost do. Almost let it spill, let it take shape in the open air between you. The truth of it. The rot you’ve kept pressed beneath your tongue, the slow, patient decay of something you know you shouldn’t feel.

But instead—

“It’s the head injury,” you lie.

A hollow offering. Brittle. A crumbling thing in place of the real answer.

His fingers twitch against the porcelain, reflection sharpening in the mirror — cutting through the fractures he’s causing. He doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t accuse you of lying. And that’s worse. So much worse. Because it means he’s seeing you. Means he’s waiting — sifting through the hollow, the fractions of you that no longer fit together in search of the thing you hesitate to give him.

“You can’t lie to me.” It sinks deep. Sticks somewhere you can’t pull it free. He’s right. “We both know it isn’t just that.”

You exhale something like a laugh except it’s boneless and bitter, just nerves spilling out because they’ve got no where else to go.

“Didn’t know you were a medic now.” You break your eyes back to the sink. “Or a mind reader.”

“I don’t need to be.” The words come fast. Convicting. “I just need to know you.”

And that. That makes you look up at him again. Makes you meet his eyes. Makes you burn.

“Price—“

His lips are against your ear. “Tell me.”

Your throat closes. The rope pulls tighter. You know what he wants — what he’s asking. But the answer feels like it won’t fit in your mouth. The swell of truth too large. Too longly suppressed because god this is your Captain and all he did was save your life. You know you should just be grateful and yet the only thing on your mind is granting him more than the debt you owe.

Because when you can’t swallow your demons, they don’t just disappear. They turn to hunger instead.

It was his hands that had fed them. They’re still starving now.

“The truth will ruin everything, Captain.” The words tear from your throat like he’s ripped them out himself. “This isn’t something you, or anyone, can help me with.”

You feel him go still the moment the words leave you. Feel it in the hand bracing against the sink, the exhale of his breath against your neck.

“So that’s what this is.” Your stomach coils, something twisting tight as you turn your head to face him. He doesn’t move back. Just dips his gaze to your lips. “You’re feeling too much, yeah? Think by being reckless you can run from it.”

It’s startling, the way he sees right through you. Your silence is a telling confession and he reads it like scripture.

You’ve always known it would be hard with him. Knew it from the beginning, because he’s as sharp as he is skilled, because he knows how to look at a situation and read the words left unspoken.

You nod. All while wishing it was anyone else.

“You can’t outrun this.” His voice drops, dragging his free hand up the nape of your neck. “Can’t outrun me.”

He tugs you toward him, something dark flashing beneath his eyes — something like possession, something that makes your bones ache as his mouth ghosts over yours. A torturous, drawn-out motion, withholding what you know he’ll take.

A breath passes between you, your eyes closed, a million things unspoken. Spinning. Thrumming in the silence.

Then, he brushes his lips to yours. And there’s fire.

A slow-burning ruin, heat licking through your stomach, curling in your spine, and it devours you — every breath, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, to run. It’s all gone. Gone until the moment he pulls back. Presses his forehead against yours.

“I know.” You reply, and for a second you think he’s backing off.

He doesn’t.

Lips against yours again, he takes. Your mouth parts on a sharp inhale. Shock, surrender, his tongue slipping against yours, before he kisses you hard. Like he’s been waiting for this, waiting for your admittance. Like this is something he’s fought against just as much as you have.

Your hands find his shoulders, something to brace against as he pulls you in deeper. The breath is gone from your lungs, your pulse pounding for an entirely different reason now. You open your eyes as he pulls back again. Take in the sharp cut of his features — the shadow of a beard against his jaw, the darkness of his gaze, drinking you in like he wants to keep you there.

“You don’t get to die on me,” he murmurs, and it makes your world tilt. Makes you wonder if you hit your head harder than you thought, all those months ago. Makes you wonder if you’re hallucinating. “Christ.” His fingers flex at your waist. “You don’t get to be careless.”

There’s something in him you’ve never seen before. Something undone. Something you don’t understand but do at the same time — because you feel it too. The decades of loss. The battle scars. The countless near misses that linger for life. You weren’t thrusting yourself into open fire with some raging death wish — but you weren’t being as methodical as you should have been either, all to chase that fucking adrenaline spike. You didn’t think he’d have this reaction.

And there’s so much you need to say. So much you need to do. But all you can do is whisper, breathless against him. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause. A click of his tongue.

“I’m not done with you.” His mouth finds yours again, something softer this time, but no less demanding. You don’t fight it. And when his free hand dips down your back, you tilt your head up into him, hands fisted in his shirt, wishing you didn’t miss the feel of it so devastatingly when he pulls back again. “You want reckless? I’ll show you fucking reckless.”

You don’t have a chance to answer before he spins you around and shoves you against the counter. A groan slips from your lips, but you relish the feel of him — the warmth of his chest as he steps into you, crowding you until all you know is his heat.

His hands slide down your sides, gripping at your hips, the heat in your gut burning hot as he holds you in place.

“This what you want?” He mutters against the side of your throat, his nose nudging your jaw. “Or do you still want to run?”

You swallow, mouth parted, breath coming hard. It’s a question, but you know he doesn’t really want an answer. Not with everything he’s doing. Not with the way he’s holding you, the way his hands slip beneath your shirt, calloused fingers grazing bare skin as he tugs the fabric up.

Your breath hitches. “Christ, Captain—”

You feel his mouth brush against your neck, tongue lavving out to taste you. Like he’s hungry and you’re a goddamn four-course meal. You moan. It’s all you can do to stay upright, legs going weak when he nips at your jaw.

“No Captain.” A demand. His hand sliding lower, dipping under the fabric of your cargos. “John.”

John. You shudder at the implication of it. John is a rare thing—something you’ve only ever heard him give to a handful of others, and no one else. John is personal. John is when he’s no longer your superior, but instead, your equal.

“John.” Somehow, it rolls off your tongue like breathing, like it had always been waiting there for this moment. Another moan follows it, just as his fingers find your clit. “Ohgod, John—”

He hums, teasing you, fingers moving in paced, languid circles like he’s got nothing but time despite the way his chest is pacing against your back. Pressure building beneath his skin. You feel the tension in him — the way his muscles shift, the way he tenses in response.

“That’s it,” he grinds out, fingers speeding up just enough. “You like that?”

Your answer is an afterthought. You don’t speak, don’t need to. Your mouth finds his again, and he swallows the breath you try to take. All you can do is nod.

And you know you have no fucking right to know what he sounds like. How he tastes as your tongue wrestles his. Your head spinning too fast for you to think because he is everywhere, a heady mix of lust and need as you desperately try to chase the way he makes your blood race. It’s all so new. So fucking wanton. Needy. As if all the months of wanting have finally caught up to the moment, a wildfire that seems to burn all logic. You know this is wrong — but fuck you don’t care.

You know in a second, he’ll be pressing you against the granite and you’ll have to make a thousand apologies to whatever god may be listening.

But then he pushes a finger into you, and you only have one prayer on your tongue. “Oh, John.”

He exhales against you, a quiet growl that goes straight to your head. It’s the same sound he makes when he’s in a combat, and there’s something about the idea of being able to make him feel the same as he feels when he’s a man of war that makes fireworks light up behind your eyelids.

“Mm. She’s fucking tight.” He mutters as he curls his finger and presses deeper. You gasp, the sound swallowed between you. “This is what you needed, hm? Needed me to pin you down. Make you fucking feel.”

That— that’s exactly it. Your eyes dart up to his in the mirror because yes. In the fractures he’d caused he’d found what you were too afraid to verbalize. And it makes you keen — the way it’s like he can rip out your soul and hold it in his hands. You know you can’t hide it in your gaze, the desperation that comes with that kind of dependency.

Of course.

“You. Mm. You always know just what I need.” You moan out, as teasing as possible, while your climax barrels closer.

And he relishes it. Every second. It’s obvious in the sharp inhale he takes, the way his pupils dilate until the blue in his eyes look like a halo in a sea of blackened lust. Your head feels like it’s splitting in two, caught between the pressure building inside you and the heat that seems to be coiling so tight you could implode.

He adds a second finger, and you have to grip onto the counter if you want to still find your feet.

“Ohmygod—fuck, John—“

You don’t know how you look, can’t bring yourself to face your reflection — but you know how it feels, the way the world is tipping like you’re on the deck of a ship, the way your stomach clenches and your nerves light like fire under your skin. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on you. You spent months running from him just to end up here. You realize now that he’s always been a step ahead in a way you can’t understand, and you know you’re playing a game you won’t win.

“Let me feel it.” He purrs against your ear, fingers pumping. “Let it happen.”

You moan loud at that, clenching around his fingers because it already is happening. The pleasure is hot and blinding.

“Ohgod—“ your voice breaks between words, your head falling back against of his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m—“

He knows. The heat building in your gut so bright it seeps through your skin. So, he dips his other hand back beneath your shirt, palming your breast and you know it’s to make you fall even harder — and christ, he manages it. You erupt, climax hitting you like a train.

The bliss is blinding, and you want to scream — but can’t because his mouth is on yours, capturing every strangled gasp you give as you try to catch your breath. You’re trembling, legs shaking, your body trying to find some sort of ground as you gasp for breath — but then he’s pulling his hand out and sliding off to one side. You feel empty. Breathless. You think, in some dim place in your mind, that you should feel embarrassed now, but you’re too distracted to care. As your breathing returns, you can hear him sucking on his fingers.

Tasting you.

You can barely stand it, the noise curling through the fog in your head. You hear a soft pop, and suddenly his hand is on your jaw, tilting you towards the mirror, and you finally look.

You think you almost look the same. You can almost pretend that that this is what it’s always been — something fleeting and nameless and reckless — but there’s a flush on your cheeks, a gloss in your eyes, that you can’t deny. In fact, the only thing that breaks you out of the fantasy is the way John’s eyes meet yours.

As if there was ever any mistaking what you would allow to happen here. You know, looking at him, that that the hunger in your gaze would always give away the truth. That he would always know how to read you.

“Reckless.” He mutters, as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, as if it’s something he’d known all along. You watch his jaw clench, his fingers digging into your cheeks. It’s not angry — it’s something more. A possession. “You do not get to leave me.”

You’ve known this man for barely a year, and yet he understands something you cannot. Something different from all your previous CO’s. Something that goes deeper than protection of a superior. And for the first time, you realize you can’t hide—not from him, not from whatever this is.

“Is that an order?” You whisper. Smirking.

He leans in, the heat of him branding against your spine, and you feel his words before he speaks them, rough and low on your throat.

“An order,” he echoes, hands sliding down to your hips. “And a threat.”

Your breath stutters, head spinning too fast to think. This is dangerous — whatever this is. It’s like the two of you are careening off the edge of a mountain, barreling toward something irreversible. You should stop this. You should pull away.

“Mm.” Instead, you arch your back, pressing against him with a low, breathy hum. “Now who’s being reckless.”

“Mhm. Knew you’d like that,” he mutters, mouth dragging against your jaw. His hands are already working, tugging down your zipper. “Brat.”

You should hate that word. Before him, you would have even more so. But something about the way he says it makes you bite your lip.

“You want to be put in your place.” His hands are purposed. Tugging down your cargos, undoing his belt. “That it?”

“Depends.” Your breath hitches. “Where exactly is my place, Captain?”

“Right here.” He presses you forward, palm splayed between your shoulder blades. His other hand grips your hip, dragging you against him, the thick weight of his need sliding along the slick between your thighs. You swallow a moan. “Right underneath me, Sergeant.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your head is spinning too fast to think. Then, he’s pushing inside you, and you lose the last of your breath.

“Fuck.” Your eyes catch in the mirror, watching as he sinks in, stretching you wide, splitting you open. The breath punches from your lungs, knuckles strained where you brace against the counter. Your head falls back, and he groans — a low, guttural sound that ripples through you. “Price—“

His fingers press into your jaw, turning your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at me.”

You do. And God. You wish you hadn’t.

Dark, blown-out pupils devour the blue of his irises. His chest heaves, the cords of his neck pulled tight. You don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more wrecked, more devastating, than the way he looks at you now.

“Good girl,” he mutters, voice thick with it, and your cunt clenches around him in response. His breath stutters. “God, you take me so—” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his, and he hisses. “Yeah,” his mouth finds your ear. “Show me what you can give me—”

You try. You really do. But fuck—

“Huge,” you gasp, tipping onto your toes for respite as he buries himself to the hilt. “Fuck—John—”

“Mhm. Don’t run—” his hand slides up your throat, fingers curling, just enough to make it dangerous. You gasp, pulse hammering against his palm. He knows. Of course he does. The way he knows everything about you. “You’ll get used to it.”

You’ll get used to it.

The words echo back at you. The same ones he murmured the first time you asked him if he’s always this persistent. If you could think, you’d laugh. But you can’t. Because now you know the answer. Yes, he is always this persistent. And no, you will never fucking get used to it.

Your moans have long since lost restraint, spilling from your lips in time with his thrusts, raw and wanton and so fucking desperate. He takes you like it’s not the first time, like he’s not far too big to be this deep — his grip bruising in the best way, dragging you closer and closer to the edge. You feel the fractures of yourself, a thousand pieces of you suspended midair, trembling on the verge of shattering. You’ve never been this close to the sun. And god, if it doesn’t feel like fire.

Then, he says your name.

Your name. Your real name.

And it’s like breaking the surface of water after nearly drowning—like oxygen flooding into starving lungs. It strips you raw, turns the world molten beneath you, sends you spiraling into release all over again, the pleasure so sharp it almost aches. His hand claps over your mouth, muffling your sob of a moan as your body locks up, trembling.

“Yeah. There we go. Let it all out f’me.” His voice is dark, rough with something that sends another sharp pulse between your legs. His hips slap against your ass, relentless. “I’ve fucking got you.”

And you know he does. In a way you don’t trust your breath or your bones. In a way that terrifies you just as much as it makes you need.

Your vision blurs, heat rippling through your limbs, but he—he is unmoving. Steady. Like steel. Like he can take you at your best and your worst. Like he could tame this thing between you, whatever reckless, nameless thing this is, and make it his.

“That’s right. You look at yourself,” he grunts, one hand digging into your hip, the other still clamped over your mouth. Your glassy eyes flick up to the mirror, catching his reflection behind you—pupils blackened, lips parted, gaze locked on you. “M’gonna dumb you out. Fuck you ’til you can’t walk, never mind run.”

Your nails scrape divots into the granite as he shoves you further over the counter, forcing you to take him deeper. A wrecked whimper slips through your teeth, body caught between overstimulation and desperate, eager want. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the slick drip down your thighs, soaking into your ruined cargos — you know he can feel it too.

“Shit.” He rasps, voice fraying. His hand leaves your mouth, slides down to your throat, not squeezing, just holding as his other moves. Fingers finding the mess between your legs, pressing slow circles over your swollen clit. “Tight little slut.”

Your body jerks. “Fuck—John—”

“That’s it. Gimme another,” he mutters, rolling his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your vision blur. “C’mon, sweetheart, I know you can.”

It’s too much. The thick, hot drag of his dick with every punishing thrust — the rough slide of his fingers. The weight of his body pressing you into the counter like he’ll never let you go. You can’t think. Can’t breathe—

And then he growls your name again, deep and needing, and it sends you over with a broken sob, body writhing, mind slipping into static as you cum again, clenched so tight around him it makes him stutter.

His hand fists in your hair, dragging your head back so his lips brush your ear. “Good girl. Fucking perfect—”

You feel it when he loses himself. Through the fog of pure bliss. When his grip turns almost punishing, when his hips stutter, when the ragged groan tears through his throat. He grinds deep, burying himself to the hilt, body rigid as he groans and spills inside you with a choked curse.

And then, there’s stillness.

Both of you breathing uneven — more so him, heavy against the nape of your neck. And for a long moment, it’s just that. Just the sound of your bodies slowing, just the lingering thrum of pleasure untwisting from both of your bloodstreams.

Then, his fingers tighten on your throat. Just enough. Just to make sure you feel it.

“You ever pull some reckless shit like that again,” he mutters, voice raw, scraping against your ear, “you won’t be able to fucking talk when I’m done with you.”

Your breath stutters, thighs twitching at the promise in his tone.

“You got a problem, you come to me. You don’t run. Don’t put yourself into the fire just to fucking feel something.” His hand slides up, grips your jaw, tilts your head just enough so you can see him in the mirror — blue eyes all pupil, sharp jaw clenched. “You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I take care of what’s mine. No matter what.”

A slow, shuddering breath leaves you. He watches your lips part, watches the way your body reacts to his words. Then, his grip on your throat eases. A slow drag of his hands down your body, like he’s memorizing the feeling of you ruined under him.

“Understand me?” His voice is quieter now, but no less dangerous.

You swallow. Nod. “Yes sir.”

He hums. Seemingly satisfied, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder.

“Good.”

[sandersstudies]

I’m sure other people have talked about this more at length and know more than me but I would like to see a true-life rendition of the Middle Ages and Renaissance where gay marriage is on the table.

Because it actually is very diplomatically useful! One thing you want as a member of the ruling class is children to 1) inherit your lands and titles and 2) to make alliances with other rulers. However, there are many cases where marriages made for alliances resulted in children that disrupt the line of succession or planned inheritance (differently under primogeniture than under split systems). (See Henry VI)

If rich people in that time weren’t pretty solidly convinced that marriages were solely between one man and one woman, they could have had the benefit of alliance without the muddling of the inheritance tree.

A lot of wealthy young men and women, even members of the ruling class, were committed to the church partially (there are a host of other reasons) to avoid their offspring making competition for their siblings (this was largely centered around gender, too, in eras where women came after their brothers in succession). (See Queen* Matilda) A child living as a member of the church can do you some favors, but arguably so can a child in a guaranteed-childless marriage.

And then there’s sooooo much diplomacy required to feel out this stuff. If you offer a childless marriage to another ruler who NEEDS descendants, he’s going to take offense, whereas if the marriage seems like your own family grabbing for his power via succession, he might prefer a childless one. Think of how courting and arranged marriages would be handled differently, and the amount of intrigue required.

Oh, the third son stood to inherit little, and was betrothed to a man, but then his elder brothers die and he is suddenly in need of an heir? Alas! Whatever shall he do!

Oh, the most eligible bachelorette in the land is seeking male OR female suitors… how interesting… I wonder why her father has arranged it so…

Oh, the lord chose to marry another man for love and lo and behold! This man hath conceived, and his family confirms that he in his childhood bore a girl’s countenance and bearing!

[archivalofsins]

Guess what's coming up in a few days! It's Mikoto's birthday~ (Well technically here now.)

So, in preparation let's talk about the many shades of Mikoto Kayano!

But before we do I'm gonna need everyone on the same page.

So, please take a look at these images, if you will-

Now, I would like for everyone to focus on the coloring of the tips of Mikoto's hair. I would like you all to note the color you see here. As this is the most direct and accurate to reality depiction of the prisoners we have.

Even aligning with their portrayal in Es music video Undercover.

Something that seems to be a creative rendition of Es looking over the prisoner incarceration records. Something that Es is alluded to be doing in their voice drama.

Sakurai, Haruka?

"I’m so lonesome, please love me." - "He's making a somber expression, isn't he? Well good thing is, if you open up his heart, you'll hear lots from him."

It is further implied that during Jackalope's tour of the prison Es was looking over the prisoners papers through the climax of the voice drama. It begins with the bell ringing as the ending of many of the voice dramas do then Jackalope stating,

"It's time. The prisoners are gonna wake up. Time to meet them face-to-face!"

And then ending with mechanical noises being heard, Jackalope giving a few more encouraging words then Es walking off after stating,

Sure. Let's do my first job as the prison guard.

Their footsteps being heard before they introduce themselves to the prisoners proper with,

"Good day, prisoners. My name is Es. I'm the prison guard. This place is Milgram Prison. It exists to judge your sins, the ten of you. I don't know much about you lot. What I do know is that all of you are killers that's it. From now on, I'll have you all enlighten me about yourselves. Once again, welcome to Milgram. Have a nice life in prison."

The first anniversary art possibly being a rendition of this introduction taken from Es' perspective.

As it seems to be from the perspective of someone just entering the room.

I've mentioned before that the Anniversary images seem to be telling a story albeit in a disjointed order- Though that's quite normal for Milgram.

First Anniversary: Introduction to Es (Shown Above)

Second Anniversary: Incarceration/Stained with Sin (Ruined Reputation)

Third Anniversary: Moments after the crime/ Es Stained by Their Sins (Mirroring the prisoners stained hands from the second anniversary. Also alludes to Es' ruined reputation through association with the prisoners. As well as their muddled or strained morality due to this.)

Fourth Anniversary: Victim's Funerals/ Memorial of Sin

All the prisoners shadows and Es' creating what look like jail bars over the image of flowers in the back creating this atrmospher of entrapment. That works to say there's no way back now.

Basically it reiterates this statement from Harrow,

"Every time death comes the soul moves forward."

In this case implying one moves forward because there is no longer anywhere to go back to. The placements of the characters even making a curved arrow as though pointing at the only direction left to go.

Outside of all that. The reason that I believe the images of the prisoners provided on the Milgram website and within the Undercover music video are the most accurate physical depictions of the prisoners is because unlike the imagery provided. Outside of the fact that there physical depictions with the music videos are not always true to life. Is due to the imagery provided on the website remaining consistent, as well as the Undercover video taking the depictions of the prisoners from that.

Along with Backdraft even portraying the validity of those same depictions,

This brings up another bias the music video plays on. That being how people perceive themselves physically will always differ from how people perceive them in reality. These sort of contrasting self-perceptions are typically discussed when it comes to things like eating disorders.

I.E some individuals with eating disorders tending to perceive themselves as weighing more than they do at times. There are many other instances in which someone's mental image of themselves may not align with how they look in reality outside of those cases as well. Yet, that was the most common framing I heard this concept discussed under growing up.

A more Milgram related example outside of the one that will be discussed later on. Is how Mu visualizes herself as an insect in It's Not My Fault, Mahiru visualizes herself as significantly younger in I Love You, Haruka visualizes himself younger in Weakness, Futa visualizes himself as a knight in Bring It On then a hooligan in Backdraft, the multiple different versions of Yuno and Amane etc.

So, the representations of the prisoners within the music videos have never be true to reality. However how other prisoners and Es view them will tend to be more rooted in reality. Leading those perceptions to align more heavily with the information provided through the website. Creating this idea of consistency.

At least that's what I believe is occurring here. So, I'm working under the website sprites and Es' depictions of the prisoners within undercover being the most accurate and up to date physical images of the prisoners we get from trial to trial.

Alright, now with that explanation and small tangent out of the way.

May we all agree that the tips of Mikoto's hair as depicted in these instances are a sandy brown perhaps even leaning a bit towards sandy blonde? Something that has remained a consistent depiction of his dye job even when his hair grew further out. Such as in his trial two depiction.

Is it possible to come to a consensus that the color he dyed his hair is somewhere around this color of dye job?

Okay, since it's impossible for anyone to answer this- I'm going to move forward under the assumption that most people continuing to read this can generally agree with that statement.

That or at least want to see where this is going exactly. Considering that when Mikoto and colors are discussed it's usually for a reason completely unrelated to his hair.

So let's discuss the different shades of Mikoto Kayano with this handy image made by @doctorbunny

He went through the trouble of color picking the color of Mikoto's highlights over the course of Milgram. Comparatively with his skin tone and the shadow applied on the the art itself.

I'd like to focus on the ones from MeMe and Double.

As one can see the images in MeMe have two distinct highlight colors-

The greenish tint and the redish-pink tint. These aren't the only changes that exist but we'll be focusing on this first. Now the use of red and green within Milgram isn't really new territory for anyone. Especially when it comes to Mikoto's case. However the more subtle ways it's used throughout his music videos tends to go understated.

The colors red and green are used within Milgram to denote innocence and guilt.

From the website-

to the videos,

Not just in Mikoto's but other prisoners videos as well. Using red to denote guilt and green innocence has become quite synonymous with Milgram over the years.

Yet these variations and more subtle use of these hues tend to be overlooked.

Which is probably a part of the reason it was made more glaringly obvious in Double. Outside of green showing up more prominently due to the focus being on Mikoto (John) and not Mikoto such was the case in MeMe. Hence the hair difference and more prominent use of red.

While red for the majority of Double takes more of a backseat role. Not being the star of the show as much as it was previously. Being used more as an accent color. Yet the parts they choose to have it take center stage at are very telling-

"Doesn't matter if you didn't wish for it. Can't get rid of me now."

Along with running in fear for his life being incredible instances for the staff to choose to have the color red appear. Outside of ya know the blood accenting everything. At least with the running for his life thing green is there as well.

But picking at the design choices of Double is like trying to read in a dream. It breaks the immersion and your brain can only do it a few times before things get weird. There's a lot of colors here in this segment alone.

Even still that doesn't change how Red and Green specifically has been used over the whole of Milgram.

I just think it's neat to point out the difference in this mental perception of Mikoto's own hair. Since how one views themselves can be heavily impacted by dissociative tendencies. Which is first visually highlighted through MeMe,

Also admittedly when he's brushing his teeth here his hair seems to be the right color,

Though it could be off given the lighting in this shot in particular which segues me into my next point. This issue is in the thumbnail as well. Now this could be a compression thing too.

But given how every color looks a bit lighter in the thumbnail image it seems like it was just brightened to me. But yeah that's a fun little fact about MeMe and Double.

Plus there are other changes with their hair throughout MeMe including this one,

Where it does turn lighter and looks more reminiscent to how it's portrayed on the website.

Like just visually flashes through these two different shades seemingly purposefully but it could be an animation error. Yet the expression work on Mikoto where these change in color occurs leads me to think it's intentional.

Something that when put side by side in the way above makes it look more like a back and forth conversation between the two. The thing which is implied to be happening through MeMe through other directing choices.

Also during this part of the video is one of the few times that Mikoto isn't making direct eye contact with the camera. Instead looking at someone seemingly offscreen.

The other time is when he's looking at the mirror after seeing the other one,

Which are the few times in MeMe where we get a side shot with Mikoto looking at something else while in this space. The other being the pan over when he's looking at the ground and the side shots during the attacks and other parts that take place outside of this space.

Outside of that I find it difficult to believe that no one caught this before it was uploaded. Unless it was caused by uploading it which it could have been who knows. However, it's pretty obvious when watching the video regardless of what quality it's on. Even though it goes by rather fast. Plus, we know from the Yuno Tear Drop early release that they upload and unlist/private videos for before the premiere.

So unless they had a different system back then they had ample time to check, do fixes or delay it like they have with other music videos before.

It would make sense if this was put in to allude to a conversation taking place between the two at the end of MeMe. Since there are things within that video that already imply that without this tidbit being added on. Such as the snapping that the Mikoto sitting on the couch was not in the position to do or even moving to do himself at the time.

As well as a card being slid across the table and then picked up by someone else.

Someone else Mikoto promptly lifts the head up of and punches square in the face without even pausing. With zero hesitation-

MeMe: 3:31 to 3:44

So again seems like a back and forth was going on there already. That is reiterated in Double.

Also really makes me understand why Mono Poisoner was just such a good and fun fit for Mikoto as this scene really can bring to mind the line,

"With my fist balled up from our little game of 'rock, paper, scissors', I hit you square across the face."

This entire time I've felt like I've just been repeating myself. Like all of this is stuff I've said before here. Though since I've been info dumping in private about it so much it's difficult to remember if I ever posted about it or if I've just talked about it too much generally. We'll all find out because I'm going through the trouble of linking every pertinent Mikoto post I've made at the bottom of this one.

Hooray... This took a while. I hope a few people enjoy this. Now I'm gonna go try to celebrate and catch up with responding to messages.

Well, good bye and hopefully everyone has a good weekend! And something finally interesting instead of more set up happens in the portal timeline. Because I can't take more set up.

Also here's a master list of all the other posts I've made or worked on regarding Mikoto,

Past Mikoto Posts

Tarot Cards

Spread One: January 16, 2023

Spread One Continued: July 24, 2023

The Murders, Music Videos, and Voice Dramas

The Incidents: March 18, 2023

The Incidents Part 2: April 29, 2023

The Vape Pen 1: May 26, 2023

Tidbits from MeMe: July 3, 2023

Difference in Speaking habits: August 2, 2023

Swing and...A Miss!: August 7, 2023

The Vape Pen 2: September 23, 2023

Highlight Colors 1: October 18, 2023

Highlight Colors 2: October 19, 2023

That's Just Advertising!: December 8, 2023

Dreams Vs. Reality: December 18, 2023

Difference in Signatures: January 10, 2024

Order of Events: February 9, 2024

Comments on the Viewers: February 20, 2024

Difference in Habits and Clothing: March 14, 2024

The Callback: March 22, 2024

Joke about the trial 2 end report statement : July 17, 2024 (Side note: This never fails to make me laugh. I always imagine the skeletons going in a decrepit squeaky voice saying "We were". Bro people will be out here like I got skeletons in my closet, bodies under my belt then show those skeletons and others will still go I don't see it. Meanwhile some will be like I know, I see it, I hear you, and I forgive you anyway this is objectively fucking hilarious.)

Jackalope Bias??? Towards him?!: July 19, 2024

Character Parallels & Dynamics

Mahiru and Mikoto: June 29, 2023

Yuno and Mikoto: September 2, 2023

Minor Yuno and Mikoto Parallel: June 10, 2024

Yuno, Mu, and Mikoto: July 9, 2024

Futa and Mikoto Dynamic: May 22, 2024

Mikoto and Kotoko Pairing: January 17, 2024

Mikoto (John) and Mikoto's dynamic: September 9, 2024

Kazui and Mikoto: August 5, 2024

[finalgwen]

Lucky Day thoughts

(Spoilers within.)

So I chose a very good time to rewatch season 12, huh. I think the use of the Think Tank name is kinda brilliant for a group trying to end UNIT. Even if they persisted in a few more stories, Robot was the end of the true UNIT era, so it's an echo of that, and really if you need a name for petty fascists who think they're smarter than everyone else...

There's a bit of an essential problem with basing the story round UNIT, though. I think the metaphor the story is going for is how fascists try to tear down the few institutions there to protect us, (Human rights, unions, etc), in a world with more literal monsters to face.

But how big and militarised they are is a bit of a problem that hurts this episode. We're meant to unequivocally side with UNIT because Conrad is such a dick and we know that aliens are real, but it's very hard to argue people are wrong when they're pissed off soldiers are pointing guns at people and doing illegal rendition. We've already seen how grim this can be played with Tosh in Fragments, and do we really wanna be in a situation where Chris Chibnall was more nuanced about military overreach?

In the UNIT era itself, there was always that slight friction with how it was percieved, with Barry Letts at the top being this Buddhist who's into environmental causes and things being pretty right-on while also being the era when Doctor Who joins the army, witnesses a genocide and is like 'cool, I'll keep working with you' and the Brig grumbles about all the monsters being immune to bullets because guns should solve every problem.

To me it always played best as a ramshackle offshoot operation with just enough authority from the UN to get involved, trying to do the best they could while being hampered by British politicians, a vision of a united world scraping against the dying vestiges of empire.

But that barely lasted through that era, it got bigger and the stories gave them less oversight. Battlefield gave us a more modern military version with extra firepower. And now UNIT is the establishment, the Avengers, complete with their own tower. And for all the usual jokes about Kate doing child labour being kinda trite, it's an odd feeling that they're unequivocally the good guys, the extended 'fam' when they have all this unchecked power.

As far as muddled politics go, I don't think it's McTighe's worst (hello Kerblam, you fucking wretched story), but I do think it maybe needed another pass to either make UNIT feel murkier or to make them less evil, because what does work about the Think Tank and the horror of them is great. And Conrad was played fantastically as a subversion of Elton and Eugene. That hopeful upward inflected narration, but all as a mask. And the Doctor's brutal cutting down his delusions of grandeur was a fitting punishment. Finally, the Doctor meets someone who isn't important. I saw @rassilon-imprimatur point to it as a darker take on the Eighth Doctor predicting people's futures in the TVM and yes, that's so good.

Think this episode also did a lot for Ruby, too. In the same way that once Clara stopped being a mystery she could just be an interesting and fun companion, here we get a different side to Ruby, with PTSD after facing all the wonders and evils of the universe, unable to let go of its mindset, and her one attempt to rebuild sadly pulling her back in. I do wonder if we'll see her meeting the Doctor again this series, and how it'll affect her, especially if it's while similarly apocalyptic things are happening. It's a refreshing take on what a post-Doctor life looks like.

All in all gonna give this a 7/10 I think? There's a lot I loved about it, the pacing of the story was good and a fantastic villain, but I do have enough qualms that I can't really push it any higher.

[hbyrde36]

Times Like These (The Anniversary Edition)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Hold Your Peace

WC: 4695 | AO3 link

“Are you sure you have it?”

At the sound of Chrissy’s voice Eddie’s eyes snapped open, though he didn’t exactly remember closing them. For some reason he was a bit more disoriented this time when he–

…This time?

There she stood in the middle of the room again. Chrissy—alive, and breathing, and beautiful, and…

Holy shit!

Was this really happening again? 

Had he, despite his own stupidity, earned another chance at redemption?  

In an instant he was across the room, placing gentle hands on either side of her face. She blinked up at him, eyes wide, too surprised at the gesture to move away. Eddie knew he only had a few precious moments until Vecna would take her again. There was no time to explain anything, but he had to ask the one simple question that’d been plaguing him since the beginning of the last loop.

The last loop. 

Jesus, he was really buying into this thing wasn’t he. Hard to deny it when the proof was standing right in front of him.  

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, and I know this isn’t gonna make any sense right now, but I need you to humor me, okay? Can you tell me your favorite song? Please?” 

He wasn’t above begging. At this point he would do just about anything to not have to watch this poor girl die again in the most awful way imaginable. 

“Oh!” Chrissy squeaked, furrowing her brow and sputtering for a moment before answering, “We Belong? By P-P- Pat Benatar?”

She said it like a question, as if she were unsure that it was the right answer, but Eddie knew it had more to do with the odd circumstances of the situation at hand.

He smiled broadly, pleasantly surprised at the answer—surprised to have gotten an answer at all, really. He stroked a thumb across her cheek once, still in a bit of disbelief that she was real, and let his hands fall. 

“Pat Benatar, huh?” He said, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded to himself, already thinking furiously about how he was going to pull this off.  "Okay, yeah, I can work with that. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

Eddie bounded to his bedroom, bypassing the black and red Warlock hanging from its place of honor on the wall, and instead grabbed for his old acoustic guitar that was sitting in the corner collecting dust. 

He rushed back out, unsurprised to find Chrissy already in the enemy’s thrall. As her feet slowly lifted off the ground he did his best to recall the song. It still played on the radio all the time but Pop-Rock wasn’t exactly his style, and he had a habit of switching stations whenever the ballad came on. He hummed out what little he could remember and strummed a few chords to get a feel for the notes, working in the few lyrics he knew as he tried to muddle through his own uniquely awful rendition of the song. 

He faltered for a second, almost dropping the guitar as her first limb bent back with an audible crack. He choked on a sob, but did his best to continue to sing and play through his tears and the tightening of his throat. 

It wasn’t working. He knew it wasn’t working but still he kept on. It was the only help he had to offer now, and on the off chance that she could hear him, he hoped it would give her some comfort to know she wasn’t alone in her last terrifying moments.

He didn’t stop until her lifeless body fell, landing hard on the carpet in front of him.

Eddie screamed his frustration wordlessly as he knelt down beside what was left of Chrissy Cunningham. A girl he had barely known, who he hadn’t shared more than two words with before all this shit started, but who he would give anything to be able to save. 

She’d done nothing wrong. She deserved to live, and selfishly he yearned for the opportunity to get to know her. They hadn’t shared much, a brief conversation at the picnic table that had mostly consisted of him goofing around to try and make her smile—to cheer her up because it’d been obvious to him right away that she was struggling with something. He thought they could be friends, given the opportunity. The Freak and The Cheerleader, weirder things had happened.  

“God.” Eddie gasped, gripping onto her hand that was already growing cold. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t do better. I… “ He trailed off, letting her hand go as he rose stiffly to his feet, rubbing aggressively at the wetness on his face.  

“Next time, I- I’ll learn the song if it kills me.” He let out a wry laugh at himself and the irony of his choice of phrase, looking back at her one last time before walking out the door. 

-

He’d promised Dustin that he would tell him as soon as possible about the loops, and briefly Eddie considered heading straight to the kid’s house. But, it was getting late. He didn’t want to scare Henderson’s mom, and truth be told he needed a little time to get his shit together anyway. 

Might as well let the little guy get one last good night’s sleep in before all hell broke loose.  

Eddie parked his van in the woods and walked the short distance from its hiding spot to Rick’s house, just as he had twice over, using the key under the mat to get inside. He knew he should probably get some rest himself, having not had more than a few scattered hours of sleep here and there in… christ, like two weeks now? 

Did sleep debt accumulate in a time loop or was the gauge on his fuel tank reset each time he went back? Not that it mattered, he was too keyed up and nervous about how in the hell he was going to explain all this to everyone tomorrow to sleep.  

Instead he tore through the drawers in Rick’s kitchen until he found a notebook and a pen, and spent the rest of the night writing down every single detail he could remember about what had happened, or would happen, over the next few days—committing it all to paper in case his nerves got the best of him and he forgot something important. 

At dawn he reluctantly moved to the boathouse. From all his time spent here so far he knew it was unlikely that anyone would notice him sneaking around, at least not until Jason and his goons showed up, but at this point he was running on autopilot and figured, better safe than sorry. 

Eddie paced inside the small shack restlessly until finally he heard them, voices outside, Dustin, Steve, and the others calling his name. This time when they approached the door he didn’t hide, he called out, “yeah, Henderson. It’s me… uh, come on in.”

Dustin barged right in at his reply, but was quickly pushed aside by Steve, moving past to get between him and Eddie. Max and Robin eased in behind them and closed the door.

Steve eyed him warily, taking on a protective stance, and Eddie couldn’t really blame the guy.

He also knew exactly how fucked up this was about to get, so he took a big step back and raised his hands, wiggling his fingers to show they were empty. No reason to make Steve more skittish than he already was. “See, Harrington? I’m unarmed.”

“I told you.” Dustin grumbled as he muscled his way past Steve, walking right up to Eddie and throwing his arms around him without hesitation.

It knocked the wind out of him in more ways than one. 

Eddie was a touchy guy by nature, always ruffling his friends’ hair, or throwing an arm over their shoulders, and it wasn’t like Dustin hadn’t hugged him before, but somehow this felt different.

He hadn’t even explained himself yet. Dustin had absolutely no proof of his innocence and yet here the kid was gripping him tight, face buried in his chest as he mumbled something that sounded like, “I’m so glad we found you, I know you didn’t do it.” 

There was also the fact that he’d died in this kid’s arms twice now, and Eddie was pretty sure he’d be hearing those heartbreaking cries in his dreams for the rest of his life, however long that might be. 

Eddie slowly lowered his hands as he kept eye contact with Steve, trying to convey with his eyes that he was okay, that he wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

“I’m glad you found me too, buddy,” He said, smiling sadly to himself as he patted Dustin’s back.

The kid pulled away a moment later, gesturing at everyone else. “Eddie, these are my friends Steve, Robin, and Max”

“Yeah,” Eddie snorted. It was funny enough to ease a bit of the tightness in his chest. Even if he hadn’t been through multiple rounds of hell with these people, Dustin had to realize he never shut up about them. ”Yeah, Henderson. I know who they are.”

Steve was looking at him apprehensively still, like he might snap at any minute. He wished he knew what to say to make the guy chill out. 

“No need to look so stressed, Steve. I swear, I didn’t–” Eddie paused, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, voice shaking when he went on. “I didn’t kill her.”

The feelings that he’d been swallowing back all night started to bubble to the surface as he thought about Chrissy, and he honestly wasn’t sure how he was going to do this without falling apart. 

“It’s okay.” Robin said, stepping out from behind Steve for the first time and approaching him. “We just want to know what happened.”

“We want to help.” Max added.

Eddie nodded absently, clearing his throat. “I know,” he said, and couldn’t help noticing how Robin and Steve shared a confused look at that. “And I'll tell you everything, I just, uh– I need a quick word with Dustin first? Alone.”

The kid tilted his head, but shrugged and motioned to the far corner. 

Before either of them could move, however, Steve stepped between them again. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Dude, come on! It’s fine. It’s just Eddie!”

Steve gave him an unimpressed look and assumed what Eddie had begun to think of as his– mom stance—hands on his hips accompanied by a disappointed glare. “I don’t see why he can’t say whatever it is he needs to say to you in front of all of us.”

“You’re being an asshole.” Dustin spat. “Eddie is my friend. He doesn’t know you, and maybe there’s something he doesn’t want to share with the whole class, hmm?” 

Steve pursed his lips, his face and body language making it clear that he had no intention of budging on this. “I’m sorry. I know it might seem harsh, but it’s my responsibility to protect you and I can’t do that if he’s keeping secrets.”

Eddie sighed heavily, this whole thing was already so fucking exhausting. 

He got where Steve was coming from. To him, Eddie Munson was still nothing more than The Freak. A drug dealing super-senior who regularly stood on lunch tables to perform tirades about the dangers of conformity. He didn’t know yet that they would come to trust and rely on each other in a way neither of them would have ever expected, Or, how Eddie had, against his better judgment, jumped into Lover’s Lake and helped save him from a swarm of Demobats– twice. Steve couldn’t know that they bonded a little when they were stuck in that awful place, or that before he died, Eddie had started to consider them friends.

He understood all of that, but it still sucked. 

“Fine, we’ll do it your way.” Eddie said, and plopped himself down on the floor. He was too tired to do this shit standing up.  

The others joined him, sitting in some semblance of a circle as Eddie began his tale. 

He started off easy, matter-of-factly telling the same old story about Chrissy approaching him to buy drugs, and how he hadn’t had what she was looking for on him, so they made arrangements to meet later after the game. He detailed most of what happened at the trailer, keeping the part about trying to play the song for her to himself for now. 

The silence was thick when he was done, and Eddie let it settle around him for a moment as he prepared for what he needed to say next. He saw Dustin open his mouth to speak and it gave him an idea about how to convince them of the truth.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Eddie said quickly, before the kid could get a word out.

“You really don’t. Look, you know how–”

Eddie cut him off. “Actually, uh, I do. Fuck… “ He trailed off and took a deep breath. “This is gonna be, like, really hard to believe, but I need you to let me say it– all of it, before you ask any questions. Okay?”

The foursome all turned, looking away from him for the first time since he’d started talking, to share a loaded look with each other. Eddie, on the other hand, only had eyes for Steve, knowing it was his approval he needed. That he would likely be the hardest to convince.  

“Okay.” Steve said with a little nod. 

Eddie dropped his eyes to the floor and let it all out in a rush. “I know all about the Upside Down. I know Will Byers was taken by a demogorgon in ‘83. I know about the mind flayer and Billy Hargrove, and that …something happened with Steve and Robin involving some Russians at the mall. Though honestly, I’m still waiting to get more details on that one.” He paused briefly, chancing a look up to see how everyone was taking his little monologue. 

“I know all these things because you told me, before.”

Steve looked absolutely livid, but the fire in his eyes wasn’t aimed at Eddie, it was Dustin he was staring daggers at. 

“Damnit, Henderson!” Steve shouted, running a hand through his hair roughly. “I can’t believe you told him all that stuff, man! You know we can’t do that! Think of the danger you put yourself in by blabbing, not to mention the danger you put Eddie in by telling him! I mean, shit! Did you not stop to consider what sort of threats were included in those NDAs we all signed?”

Eddie was more than a little taken aback by Steve’s apparent worry for his safety. 

“I’m touched by the concern, Harrington. Really I am, but Henderson didn’t tell me all that stuff until I was already involved. You all told me things.” Eddie hesitated, raking a hand down his face. This was getting messy, he needed to just spit it out. “I… I’m stuck in a time loop. I’ve lived last night and the next few days twice over now. This is my third go-around.”

He slipped the little notebook that he’d filled from cover to cover out of his pocket, and tossed it to Dustin, who caught it clumsily.

“When I got here last night, I wrote it all down. Everything that’s going to happen. Well, the stuff I was there for at least.” Eddie chewed nervously on his thumbnail, darting his gaze to each of them in turn and taking in their disbelieving looks.

“I know this is crazy, and you probably don’t believe me, but I swear it’s the truth. I didn’t tell anyone last time until near the end because–” He stopped abruptly, blowing out a long breath. If he told them what he’d really thought they’d think he was certifiable for sure. “Because, I honestly wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. I told you, Dustin, at the last minute and you made me promise to tell you again as soon as possible if I got another chance. So here I am, telling you.”

A long moment went by where no one spoke, and Eddie was sure that he had botched this whole thing. There was no way they believed him. He still had Henderson’s family secret in his back pocket, and he’d pull it out if he had to, but not in front of all of them.

“What resets the loop, Eddie?” Dustin asked suddenly—quietly, a slight quiver to his voice. 

Eddie looked the kid in the eye and knew without a doubt that not only did he believe him about the loops, but he had already done the math, figured out the catch. Too smart for his own good sometimes, really, but in this case it was almost a relief. As much as he would have liked to protect Dustin from this particular truth, there was no way around it. 

“I died.” Eddie said, eyes falling once again to the floor, unable to face Dustin as he confirmed his suspicion. 

“We go into the Upside Down to fight the bad guy, and I die. Then, I open my eyes and I’m back in my trailer, minutes before Chrissy gets attacked.”

Dustin said nothing else in response, quiet in a way Eddie had never seen. Max and Robin just looked like they wanted to throw up, and Steve looked skeptical, obviously gearing up to argue, or at the very least ask some follow up questions. Which was fair, he supposed.

Before Steve could so much as open his mouth though, Dustin shoved the notebook in his face.

“You read it first, Steve. Just give him a chance.”

“Fine.” Steve said, snatching the book out of Dustin’s hands and cracking it open, taking one last hard look at Eddie before starting to read through it. 

As Steve read, Eddie could almost see the animosity draining out of him. The scowl that had been stuck on his face since arrival smoothed out into a concerned frown, and worry lines appeared at the corner of his eyes. It was a good sign, but as the other boy turned the final page, an awful thought occurred to Eddie, and he realized he’d made a huge mistake. 

“Wait. Steve, stop. I think I fucked up here.” Eddie said, wringing his hands. “I shouldn’t–I shouldn’t have told you any of this. Not yet.”

“Wait, what?!” Dustin shouted. 

“Why?” Steve asked.

“I swore to Chrissy that I would save her, I have to go back. I have to–” He cut himself off leaving the word unsaid. “I shouldn't have burdened you all with this shit, not when I knew I had to do it all over again. I just… I wasn’t thinking. I promised Dustin right as–”

Steve cut him off mid-spiral, scooting across the floor to sit in front of him. 

“Eddie, man. Listen, I understand, believe me I do.” Steve paused, fidgeting with the notebook with one hand while reaching out with the other to place it tentatively on Eddie’s shoulder, and even through all his layers of clothes he could feel the other boy's warmth sink into him.

“You said you know about what happened to Will in ‘83, but what you might not know is… that same year Nancy’s friend Barb was also taken by a Demogorgon. She– died in my pool, the Upside Down version of it anyway. She died on my watch and-” Steve hesitated, taking a deep breath before going on. 

“I get the kind of guilt you must be feeling right now, okay? I lived it– am still living it, but if we have the chance to save you and kill whoever this Vecna creep is? We should take it. What if this loop thing has a limit? What if this time you don’t get to come back? Do you know what that would do to us when we’ll know we could have saved you?!”

Eddie couldn’t help feeling a certain way about Steve sharing that with him. In all the days, and repeats of days, that they’d spent together so far, it was the first time the other boy had told him that story. 

“I get what you’re saying, Steve. Shit, it’s pretty much the same thing I'm trying to say. I'm sorry that happened to you, but tell me something, and be honest. If you had even the slightest chance to go back and save Barb, even at your own risk, wouldn’t you take it?”

Steve’s eyes, which had hardened again in frustration by the end of his own speech, softened as he took in Eddie’s words. He gave a single reluctant nod of agreement and squeezed his shoulder before letting go. Eddie missed the contact immediately. 

“But you can’t! That’s like, suicide!” Dustin screeched, probably feeling a little, or a lot betrayed by Steve taking his side. 

“Not if I plan on coming back it's not. Sorry, Henderson, I know you don’t like it, but this is my choice, alright? I’m not leaving Chrissy behind. End of story.”

“B-b- but...” the kid sputtered.

“Stop.” Steve cut in. “He’s right, Dustin. I hate it, but it’s his decision. This thing is happening to him, and even if we want to help, we have to respect that and hope we get another do-over.” Steve sighed, turning his attention back to Eddie.

“So, how do you wanna do this?” He asked, looking deep into his eyes, the air between them suddenly impossibly heavy. 

Because Steve knew what was coming now. 

He’d just finished reading about all the fucked up shit that was about to happen and now he was looking to Eddie for direction. Jesus H. Christ, he was really regretting not thinking this through, because the only answer he had was to do nothing… keep everything the same to make sure that the outcome was the same, and that meant putting them all through the ringer. It meant Steve getting hurt, nearly drowning, nearly dying– again.  

“I know it’s not fair to ask this, now that you’ve read that.” Eddie said, gesturing at the little notebook still resting in Steve's hand. “but I think the best thing to do– the only thing to do, is to let things happen the way they have been for now. Not tell the others, keep it between the five of us.”

“I’ve been through worse.” Steve shrugged, seemingly unbothered save for a tightness around his eyes that Eddie might have missed if he wasn’t paying attention. 

“Besides, if it works we won’t remember any of it anyway, right?” He continued. “And then we can finish this for good. You save Chrissy, and we’ll save you.”

“If you're sure.” Eddie said, offering him an out. If Steve really didn't want to do this he wouldn’t force him, he could always try and find another way to… cause the reset.

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

-

Dustin continued to argue with both of them for a while, but now that Steve was on his side Eddie knew that was it. Eventually the kid quieted down, accepting the fact that he wasn’t going to change anyone’s mind. 

As the others prepared to leave, knowing they needed to find Nancy and Lucas to let them know the Upside Down was back, and maybe try calling the Byers in California, Steve lagged behind, using giving the notebook back to Eddie as an excuse. 

“Do you need anything?”

“Might be a long shot, but could you get me a walkman and a Pat Benatar tape?”

Steve pursed his lips, thinking, but it only took him a moment to put it together.

“Chrissy’s favorite song?” He asked.

“Yeah. I went into it this time knowing I had a second with her before the attack, so I asked. I did try—to play it for her, I mean. I didn’t have the tape, it’s not exactly my type of music, y’know? I'd heard the song once or twice though, so I gave it a go on my guitar, but it wasn’t good enough.”

Steve gave him a small sympathetic smile. “Robin likes Pat Benatar too, and I actually have a few of her tapes in the car. Headphones too, but how will that help? You won’t still have it with you after–”

“No, but I learn a lot of songs by ear. if I listen to it over and over again now while I can, when the loop restarts I should be able to play it for her, get her out like you’ll do for Red.”

Steve raised his eyebrows and actually looked a little impressed. “You’re-” He cut himself off, as if changing what he was about to say at the last second. “You’re not anything like I thought you’d be.”

Eddie let out his first genuine laugh in far too long. It looked like they'd be doing the same song and dance every time. Of all the things he had to repeat, getting to know the real Steve was the one thing he didn’t mind. 

“Right back at ya big boy.” Eddie said, throwing Steve a wink before he went back out to his car.

-

Eddie listened to the song dozens of times over the following days, concentrating on learning every single word and note as a distraction from everything else that was happening around him. 

He was worried at first, when he was finally brought into the fold with the others who weren’t privy to the conversation in the boathouse. But Steve was true to his word. Neither he or Dustin, Robin, or Max, said anything about Eddie’s predicament, and he never once complained or so much as gave Eddie a dirty look, even when he was grabbed by those vines and dragged through the lake, down and out the other side. He did catch Dustin giving him a few sideways looks here and there, but the kid said nothing. 

Eddie was grateful for that. He didn’t exactly want to die. He certainly wasn’t looking forward to feeling the bats gnawing on his skin again, and he didn't need any outside influence making him lose his nerve when they were so close to the end.  

When the time came, Eddie considered not cutting the rope. It wasn't like it stopped Dustin the first or second time, not to mention that he hurt his leg dropping down from the hole without it, but what if that small delay was the only thing that kept the kid safe? It wasn’t worth it, just in case. If something went wrong he could live with, or rather, die with knowing Dustin would suffer only a sprained ankle and not something worse. 

It was a bit more difficult this time to find the will to fight so hard against the oncoming hoard, when all he wanted was for it to be over so he could see if the third time would be the charm, but he was too worried that any deviation from what he knew would change things. Maybe he had to die in just the right place, at just the right time, to set things in motion to send him back.

So he ran, and he fought, and he bled, and found that the pain didn’t bother him quite so much anymore. He was getting used to it. 

It might have been his imagination but Dustin’s limp looked more pronounced this time as he approached Eddie’s broken body. He felt horrible for causing this kid, his friend, so much suffering.

Dustin fell to his knees next to Eddie and began to sob uncontrollably, and for the millionth time Eddie wished he could somehow spare him this. He could only hope that the loop would start over again and no one but him would have to remember.

“Don’t cry, buddy. Please.” Eddie forced out around the blood filling his mouth. “I’m gonna fix it.” He coughed, struggling to take his final breaths.

“I love you, man.” Eddie said. 

Dustin bowed his head. “I love you too.”

Chapter 3

Thanks to @penny00dreadful for being the best beta, friend and cheerleader.

Reblogs are always appreciated and if you want to be tagged, just let me know! I'd be more than happy to do so 💜

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Let Me Love You | Eddie Munson

Day Eight of Kinktober

Summary: Eddie comes over to nurse you back to health after catching a cold.

wc: ~1.9k

Pairings: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Warnings: pet names, no use of Y/N, Friends to lovers, kissing, sickness (reader has a cold), although this story is tame, my blog is 18+ so MDNI!!!

In collaboration with the lovely @darknesseddiem. Stay tuned for the latter part of October for their stories!!

You had been looking forward to this Friday since you got the invite. You had hung out with Robin and Steve before, and you of course had attended the past few weeks of Hellfire club, but you were excited to get an official invite, by Eddie of all people. But when you woke up that morning, you felt the sensation of molten lava behind your eyes. Your ears were plugged and you could hear a shrill ringing. When you sat yourself up in your bed, you moaned loudly. Your head felt like it was going to explode. You thought you would miss school to sleep this cold off so you could go to your inaugural group-hangout. You shuffled to the bathroom in search of some relief, took a big swig of cough syrup (with a wince) and laid yourself back into bed, in hopes that you were going to wake up a new person… what wishful thinking that was. 

The shrill tone of your phone jolted you awake. Your new place of respite being the couch, surrounded by half drank cups of tea and an empty bowl of soup. All of your last ditch efforts to feel human again failed miserably, the only relief you feel from your fever is the one leg sticking out of your comforter. You trudged your way to the phone with a groan and a sniffle.

“H-hello?” you croaked.

“Hey champ - woah you sound awful!” a boisterous voice greeted you. You couldn’t help but crack a smile as Eddie interrogated you from the payphone at Hawkins high. “Wanted to check in on you because I didn’t see you at lunch or in History, but I can hear why… you okay?” Eddie’s shoulders were by his ears, why was he so nervous to call you?

Calls between you and Eddie were not unwelcome, but definitely not routine. He had requested your phone number when you joined Hellfire in case he needed to call you about upcoming campaigns. As much of a unorganized slob Eddie could be, he had every member’s phone number written neatly on chart paper in the front of his DM book. His DnD setup was his pride and joy. He had called you a few times before to talk about secret messages your Drow Bard could decipher. Oddly enough, you felt your heart in your stomach every time he called you…

“Yeah,” you sighed. “I’m okay ish. I think I have a head cold.” You sniffle, words being muddled by the phlegm in your sinuses. “I hate to bail on movie night with the gang last minute, but I think I better stay home.” You were worried you were going to ruin your chances to infiltrate the gang of teens you so desperately wanted to be friends with. 

“What’re the symptoms, kid?” Eddie asked in a terrible rendition of a transatlantic accent. 

“Well, Dr. Munson… I have a fever, headache and I can’t breathe out of my nose.” you giggle. 

“Shit… looks like we’re gonna have to put you down” he joked. His shoulders relaxing as he took a deep breath out. “I’m really sorry you’re feeling so shit, champ.” The nickname rang through your ears like a sweet symphony. Eddie had a really great way of making you feel special, even though your friendship was still budding. 

“No, I’m sorry I’m not going to be there. I was really looking forward to it.” He can sense the genuine disappointment in your voice. 

“Well, I’m not gonna lie I’m pretty bummed, and the gang will be too, but there’s gonna be other times!!” Eddie cooed. You wished you could wave a magic wand and make yourself feel better. You wanted to be friends, you wanted to be included so badly. You said your goodbyes to Eddie and he hung up the phone with a saccharine sweet ‘get well soon, sweetheart’ that left you smiling in your kitchen for what felt like an hour after you put the phone receiver back on the wall. Disappointed with the foul return of silence, you curled yourself back up on the couch and turned on the TV to a rerun of Match Game. It was no time at all until the clapping and laughing on the TV lulled you back to sleep. When you woke up, you were met with a setting sun and a rumbling tummy, but your body was too tired to pull you off the couch to the kitchen.

You aimlessly flicked channels until you were interrupted by a rhythmic knock on your front door. You looked at the clock on the wall. It's 6:45… your parents were out of town and all of your friends were at Eddie’s trailer for movies. You tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. Your eyes grew twice in size when you saw a familiar head of curls and big brown eyes. Eddie had a large paper bag under his arm. You swung open the door, a bewildered smile plastered on your face.

“Eddie! What are you doing here?” You beamed. Even though your eyes were sunken in, your face was pale and your nose was bright red, you were glowing. Eddie greeted you with an ear splitting grin.

“Well can’t have a movie night without the movie superstar, so I thought I’d bring the movie night to you.” he winked. “Plus, I brought reinforcements” he smirked as he jiggled the bag he was holding. You stepped aside and let him slide through the door. He took in your small living room with a smile. Pictures of your grade school portraits hung on the wall, different poses with you and your parents with different states in the backgrounds rested neatly on a bookshelf. The couch was decorated with scatterings of tissue and blankets. You scurried past him to bundle up the kleenex and ran to the kitchen to discard them. You hurried back to your guest.

“I’m really sorry about the mess,” you babbled, scrambling to pick up rogue dishes and napkins. Eddie grabbed your shoulders to stop you and grabbed the dishes out of your hand. 

“It’s all good, champ. You aren’t feeling good.” he sauntered into your kitchen like he owned the place. “Plus, your house is a mansion compared to mine… even when it is messy.” He turned to wink at you and placed the dishes in the sink. He came back to the living room to your small coffee table where he had put down the mysterious paper bag. It was so full, it barely stood up on its own. You lowered yourself onto the couch and Eddie joined you. He grabbed for the bag, pulling out his wares full of Family Video tapes and various bags of chips. 

“I didn’t know which kind of chips you liked, so I bought 3 different kinds. Plus, I heard sour patch kids are really good for sore throats.” Eddie giggled as he continued to organize your snacks. “Oh! And nothing makes a cold better than homemade chicken noodle soup.” You laughed with your whole chest as Eddie pulled out a can of Campbell’s soup out of the bag. You felt like you could cry, none of your friends had ever put this much thought into making you feel better. Eddie looked back at you with his signature crooked smile. You thought that he was handsome enough, but he was quickly proving that he was just as beautiful on the inside, if not more.

“You lay back down and get yourself comfortable. I’ll get the movie set up and go make you some soup.” Eddie made himself at home in your house quickly. He maneuvered around your small kitchen with ease and before you knew it, you could smell the faint saltiness of soup cooking on the stove. You and Eddie sat on the couch comfortably, soup steaming on your coffee table and the foreboding melody of the Shining playing on your TV. You had barely made it to Danny meeting Halloran and you had been lulled to sleep, head slumping forward. Eddie had been glancing over to you periodically, his smirk plastered to his face as he watched you fall into your slumber. When you slumped over, Eddie timidly placed his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into him. Your tired body happily obliged him. Everything about this evening had just felt right. You let your head lull onto Eddie’s chest, letting his pounding heartbeat guide you into a deeper sleep. 

-

Darkness had swept through your house. You opened your eyes to the fuzzy static of the stopped VCR on your TV. You were welcomed back to consciousness with the feeling of Eddie’s chest rising and falling and the soft snores coming from his mouth. You stretch your arms and legs with a small groan, not wanting to wake the sleeping metalhead next to you. You turned your head to look at the clock. 1:24 am. Shit. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Eddie rasped. His voice was small and low, you felt your heart melt. 

“Yeah, we must have fallen asleep. I’m sorry” You croaked. You were scared to admit to hin, but sleeping on Eddie made you feel much better than wallowing by yourself all night. 

“Hey, what are you sorry for?” Eddie cupped your cheek to pull your gaze to his. “I wouldn’t have wanted to spend my Friday night any other way.”

 Eddie’s eyes glimmered in a way that made your heart flutter. He looked at you with such adoration, you felt confused and excited. That isn’t how friends looked at each other; but if you were being honest with yourself, you would rather Eddie look at you the way he was forever. You didn’t miss how his eyes flickered to your lips as he licked his own. A flash of nervousness basked his face and you sat yourself up to look at him properly. 

“Can I tell you something?” Eddie whispered, his eyes glued to where his ringed fingers toyed with the frays of his jeans. You nodded your head at him.

“Before I called you, I was hoping that all the others were going to cancel on movie night, or that you could stay later than everyone else so I could get some time alone with you.” His pale cheeks dusted pink. You felt your heart begin to beat out of your chest. You couldn’t help the shy smile that grew on your face.

“Really?”

“Yeah” Eddie exhaled. His nerves left him when he took the chance to look up at you. You radiated reassurance and excitement, making it now impossible for him to take his eyes off of you. He leaned himself closer to you. 

“Can I kiss you?” Eddie gulped. He felt like you were taking all the air out of his lungs. You nodded at him, your glassy eyes drowning in him. Eddie softly pressed his lips to yours. He was cautious, he didn’t want to scare you off, but everything about kissing you was exactly what Eddie thought it would be. Your lips were soft, even though they were slightly chapped, and they fit perfectly on his. His hand came up to cup your cheek; he was desperate to show you how much he liked you. You pulled away from him suddenly, your eyes full of guilt and nerves. Eddie’s face matched yours immediately.

“What’s wrong?” Eddie questioned you. His mind immediately went fuzzy. He took it too far and now you’re going to push him away. 

“Eddie. I’m gonna get you sick!” you sniffled. The boy let out a chesty laugh and pulled you into his lap.“Well, then it will be your turn to take care of me next week.”

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Anvils without words

I have thought that I was done with anvil posts about 4 times now but I just. Keep finding more videos!

This time, it's renditions of "The Ring Without Words", which is an arrangement by Lorin Maazel to condense the whole cycle from 7+hours to a mere ~80 minutes, which is symphony-length (famously, the length of a CD was set at 90 minutes so that it could include the entirely of Beethoven's 9th). The iconic anvils made the cut, of course.

Starts 8:07. We begin with one I find quite funny, because the tempo! That is hilarious. Other orchestras GIT GUD. This is the NDR Youth Orchestra, with NDR being North German Radio. Conducted y Stefan Geiger in 2018. This is the first time I've seen that square anvil piece setup from Kolberg percussion in action!

Starts at 7:40. This is the North German Orchestra Academy in 2019, conducted by Kiril Stankow. We see a variety of anvil junk, from I-beams to rectangular pipe. This is the first video I've seen where the pitching is really clear and you can see+hear the different pitches in play with each other.

Starts at 8:00. This is the Rostock University of Music and Performing Arts Orchestra in 2013, conducted by Christfried Göckeritz. It's nice you can see how there's a clear dynamics change from piano to forte, with the percussionists even slightly muffling in the first half. I also very much appreciate the collection of junk here. Looks like some manhole covers, collars, and wheel barrels/rims for the lower pitches ones?

Starts at 6:52. This is the Southwest German Radio Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Teodor Currentzis in 2023? Nice that you can see a musician wearing earplugs in the thumbnail here. Meanwhile, this recording has some more aspects of the pitch interplay popping out in the stereo. Also another great variety of junk, and this time with the dampening patches more visible, like the piece of duct tape on that pipe piece. Do they not have moon gels in Europe yet?

Starts at 6:12. This is the Dutch Radio Philharmonic Orchestra in 2016, conducted by Markus Stenz. What I like about this one is that you can clearly see the different patterns each percussionist is playing relative to each other, the complementary spaces. Also funny: the trombonists plugging their ears with their fingers. The timpanist even gets to participate in this one!

A bootleg cam of the Shanghai Philharmonic premiere conducted by Zhang Yi in 2022! Around 8:20, and the balcony location once against provides a unique hearing of the various pitches in conjunction. You can really clearly hear all four pitches as intended here.

Starts at 19:44. This is Andreas Delfs conducting the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra in 2012. Oh no, the junk comparatively sounds like shit. XD You can see not only is there a much less amount of dampening, so you have a lot more overtones muddling the harmonics, but they're also using brass mallets, only using the hammer on the one plate. I've experimented with alternatives to chime mallets on chimes, and weight does make a difference, even when the striking material gets you a fair initial sound!

I guess it tracks that the German orchestras have spent a lot more time optimizing their performances of Wagner.

On the other hand, there is a conflict of theme to optimizing the sound of the anvils, since the intent was apparently to "engulf the audience in the sound of soulless existence [...] love is being hammered to death".

But hey, narrative context has never stopped music lovers from prioritizing the Aesthetic before! (I really do love that Rosencavalier Suite.)

The Vancouver Symphony Orchestra knows we're just here for one thing. An actual anvil showing, but the other variety of hanging rigs here are pretty great, too. Also the nice touch of the high-pitched one being played with pipes rather than hammers, so you could get a double on the ringing that way?

Oh fuck me, I did not need to learn that there's a Mahler hammer in this. Hello, next stage of the post spam, say hello to Donner's hammer. (I already did a Mahler hammer spam, you can go look that up later.)

This is the Florida Orchestra in 2023. I like how they have two of the Grover Pro official tuned percussion anvils, but also bring out a real anvil and a brake drum on top of those anyways. The hammer is included here, but confusingly after Ride of the Valkyries, out of order.

[droughtofapathy]

"Welcome to the Theatre": Diary of a Broadway Baby

Show/Boat: A River

January 19, 2025 | Off-Broadway | Target Margin Theatre | Matinee | Musical | Adaptation | 2H 30M

Target Margin Theatre has readapted a classic (and poorly aged) musical in a way that is meant to deconstruct the period-typical racism of the day. In this show, actors of all races play black and/or white, and for once, it's the white part that gets denoted by a physical indicator, in this case pageant sashes with "WHITE" painted on them, and later prize ribbons with a big "W". I thought this was fine, though I'm seeing a lot of (white) people all in a tizzy about it. Whatever, it was fine. I didn't think it was particularly egregious, and I've got bigger fish to fry here. Putting aside questions on why David Herskovits (a white man) would choose to be the adaptor of such a piece in such a way, the show's textual changes may be noble and academically interesting, but ultimately ineffective and relatively minor. Much of the first act consists of confusing and ill-conveyed meta action with the house lights on full blast. I don't know the traditionally-staged musical all that well, but it seems like not much was changed material-wise, and was just directed really poorly. There are moments that almost manage to effectively deconstruct the piece, but they're largely overshadowed by the poor costuming (seemed like someone just raided the miscellaneous costume closet in a community theatre), scenery (there is neither boat nor river, and I'm still not sure about the show part either), and direction.

The show seems conflicted on whether it wants to perform Show Boat or simply rail against it from within, and as a result, all cohesion is lost. The commentary that could have been woven into the material or represented by the staging instead just felt muddled and unsure what it wanted to commentate on. Actors double roles, often overlapping on the same role (two actors play Parthy and stand like they're doing Side Show). The original cast called for a massive company of 40+ actors, so downsizing to ten does the confusion no favors. I'm still so baffled by what I saw and why what happened ended up happening. Why do the conductor and one of the actors have blue-taped "x" marks on backs of their collars? Why do like half a dozen of the actors play that one character with the only indicator a big newspaper hat? Why are we screaming the lyrics? Why are we speaking the lyrics? Why are house lights still up forty minutes into the first act? Why does this theatre always act like a fucking farday cage and not let me connect to the Wi-FI? It's the NYU Skirball center and I'm an NYU alumn, so why are you not letting me on the wifi???

Musically, when the show allows the songs to be played straight and not overlayed with purposeful amp feedback, you can hear the rich and familiar Hammerstein in his early pre-Rodgers years. But none of the renditions I witnessed deserve a relisten.

Verdict: Someone Put This Dumpster Fire Out

A Note on Ratings

[sophisticated-creepy]

          The friends spent the next several moments cleaning up the parlor before continuing on their quest of exploring the Manor House for ghosts. With all that had transpired during the attempted séance with Lazare, and Modesta’s tarot reading, they approached the remainder of their investigation with caution. The energy in the house wasn’t threatening, per se, but the air seemed to crackle with a pent up need to release a burst of paranormal activity. It just needed a catalyst to give it the spark and ignite. As a group, they traversed into the underground rooms of the basement, exploring the reserved private party space, trying their best to capture disembodied voices and dancing skeletons. Eventually, their steps brought them outside, where they took advantage of roaming the grounds under the protective gaze of the silver moon peeking out between billowing thunderclouds. A summer’s storm brewed in the distance, the occasional glimmers of lightning leap frogging from cloud to cloud as the cooler air of the storm front fueled a steady breeze to finger through the treetops with a hint of rain scenting the wind.

          They congregated under the old, wooden gazeebo, where a spontaneous play broke out amongst them to perform an impromptu rendition of an amalgamation of fairytales both traditional and newly made up before the watchful eye of Jack’s camcorder lens. He balanced the device on the railing so he, too, could participate in the drama-filled shenanigans of playacting. He jumped into the role of bard, sing-songing his lines effortlessly, Raphael obviously playing the hero knight in shining armor, while Modesta adopted the role of town baker, Lazare, the dastardly woodsman-thief, and Lola donning the guise of duchess. Laughing almost the entire time, they muddled through their “plot” of rescuing the town baker, who had been kidnapped by the woodsman-thief to thwart the duchess’s birthday, for without a baker, there would be no cake, the play then culminating in a swordfight to the death between knight and thief with some sticks they found lying around, whereupon the duchess’s birthday was saved thanks to the power of teamwork and creative ingenuity of the silliest kind.

          Lightning flashed more frequently, and a low growl of thunder was their cue to pack up and head indoors for the remainder of the night. Despite being a haunted house in the path of an oncoming thunderstorm, the rooms felt peaceful, the previous underlying thickness of energy having abated, and the close-knit cluster of friends agreed it was time for bed. Once everyone said their goodnights, they headed towards the grand staircase, but Lola lagged behind to lean in the doorway of the main parlor, observing in the stillness the stately room where the Gray Lady met her passing. A warm arm encircled her shoulders, Raphael’s presence comforting and unhurried, patiently waiting until Lola was ready to retire upstairs. After a heavy sigh, she waved goodnight into the empty room, and hooking her arm around Raphael’s waist, the two of them walked in step towards their bedchamber.

          They showered, the two squeezing into the intimate glass cubicle to quickly wash the day’s events off of each other before the storm grew closer, but it was inevitable to start sharing sweet kisses, each press of their lips lingering longer and longer as the shower continued. Eventually, Lola darted out first, wrapping herself in one of the white, fluffy spa robes hanging on the back of the bathroom door provided by the Manor House, and tossed Raphael his own robe as he stepped out of the shower enclosure after her. The two went about their nighttime routines, Lola finishing first to wait for her love in bed. She stretched herself out on top of the plush, gilded comforter with a pleasant sigh. Absentmindedly, she held out her left hand, admiring her engagement ring around her finger, the other hand twisting the band side to side, catching sparkles in the dim room lighting.

          The jewelry was a fourteen karat white gold vintage inspired twisted band set with diamond accent stones, brandishing a cushion cut amethyst at its center. The ring was stunning, to say the least, and an unexpected surprise when Raphael proposed to her with it, the item far more beautiful than she had ever dreamed of receiving. It was too beautiful, too precious to remove from its black velvet box, but the amount of love emanating from the ring, as well as the man offering it to her, eclipsed the imagined tender fragility of the thin metal, and when Raphael placed the ring upon her finger, it felt as if the jewelry had always belonged there from the start.

          “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

          Lola turned her head at Raphael’s voice to see him leaning against the threshold doorframe of the bathroom, the terrycloth of his robe tied at his waist barely containing his broader form. He was smiling, his expression one of contentment as he had been observing her upon the bed. “Perish the thought,” she scoffed, going back to admire her ring.

          “What has you in such deep contemplations?” he asked, walking over to the bed. He sat down at the end on Lola’s side, picking up her legs so her feet rested across his lap, and began to massage one foot, feeling her body melt as he worked the muscles along her arch.

          “Did you notice what Annie called us while giving the tour?” Lola asked. When Raphael shook his head, she continued. “She called us Mr. and Mrs. Glenbrook. That’s the first time anyone has called me that, and we’re not even married yet.”

          “And how does it make you feel to be called my wife?” he asked, a smile slanting his mouth in a handsome grin.

          “Excited,” she replied easily. “Terrified,” she added after a pause. “Happy,” she continued. “Delighted…but nauseous, like I’m going to throw up a bucket full of butterflies.”

          “I didn’t know the idea of becoming my wife had your stomach in such knots,” he laughed, the sound warm and intoxicating.

          “In a good way,” she stressed, laughing with him. “I think I’m just feeling all the feels, and I know it’s technically only a ‘title’, but it’s a pretty big title. What if…I’m not…good enough?”

          “You are more than enough,” he punctuated, leveling her with a look that meant she should know better than to say something so ridiculous.

          “I’m serious. What if we get married, and it turns out I’m horrible?”

          “You have nothing to worry about, as you are already an excellent wife.”

          “We’re not married, you can’t know that,” she countered.

          “Dandelion, how would you describe the role of a wife?” Raphael asked, switching to massage her other foot.

          “Someone who’s loving, attentive, a good partner and communicator, as well as listener,” she answered, ticking off her mental checklist on her fingers.

          “You’re already all of those things and more. Firstly, you have my absolute trust. You’re kind and generous with your mind and heart. You challenge me to be the best version of myself without me feeling judged or belittled, and that’s not even beginning to scratch the surface of your many bewitching attributes in how we work together in this partnership. I have, with every confidence, no doubt that you will not only fit the ‘title’ of wife, but flourish as the already exquisite woman that you are.”

          Lola wiped unshed tears pooling in the corners of her eyes, his loving words reassuring her heart and soothing her soul. “Thank you for believing in me, Honey Love. I will be a good wife for you, and for the record, you’ll make for a pretty spectacular husband yourself, even with your cheesy albeit endearing one-liners.”

          “Naturally,” he preened, “for what good is a husband if he’s not filled with cheese? Now, no more frowns.” He lightly waggled his fingers against the sole of the foot he held, and the appendage was gone before he had the chance to acknowledge the force of her pillow smacking him across his face, the blow sending him sprawling flat on his back over the mattress. His wrists were pinned next by the sides of his head as Lola’s weight settled on top of him as she straddled his waist. Turnabout was fair play, in her mind, and if he was going to be cruel and attack her weakest spot, then she had every right to go after one of his.

          “Thou art a wretched, saucy fellow,” Lola growled as she hovered above Raphael. “Prepare for a taste of thine own medicine.” Her words were all the more satisfying as she watched the expression of his smug, cocksure arrogance shift into terror.

          “Now, Lola, wait just a minute---.”

          But she didn’t wait, she lunged, and buried her nose to snuffle and snarfle like a pig hunting for truffles against his ear. Her tufts of breath and light nibbles around the soft skin sent Raphael into a laughing frenzy, unable to control the dam of his mirthful outburst as the unbearably ticklish sensations of her lips short circuited his senses.

          “Lola!” he guffawed heartily. “Dammit I yield! I yield!”

          She relented in her attack, pulling away from his ear to plant a loving kiss upon his cheek before settling back on his hips, victorious. She released his wrists, resting her hands on the broad plane of his chest that was flushed and slightly heaving from the recent bout of play. He laid beneath her, catching his breath, his hair disheveled and robe splayed open. His eyes sparkled from his laughter, his smile wide and relaxed, and Lola’s heart cocooned in warmth as she remained observing the man with whom even the stars themselves could not compare. A glint of light twinkled in the corner of her left eye, and she reflexively flicked her eyes towards her engagement ring.

          “Are we going to change?” she asked, her voice quiet and tender.

          “Probably,” he answered, equally soft to match her tone.

          “I mean, is this going to change?” Her fingers lightly traced the edge of his chest exposed from the loosened robe. “When we’re married, are we going to eventually drift away from these games and affections?”

          Raphael’s hands came to rest on Lola’s thighs, his thumbs disappearing under the hem of terrycloth bunched up around her legs. “We are going to change,” he said, “but not in the way you’re thinking. If anything, we’re going to find even more ways to be weird. Our relationship is going to grow and evolve the more we grow and evolve to accommodate all the new ways you’ll cause mischief and mayhem and loopholes and schemes.”

          “I’m not all trouble,” she laughed.

          “It’s one of the many reasons why I want you to be my wife, because of your troublemaking talents.”

          “You’re not so innocent yourself, mister. I’ve known you to be a scallywag on occasion,” she teased, prodding his chest playfully.

          “A ‘scallywag’,” he repeated. “I wasn’t aware I had such a devious reputation." His hands moved higher up her legs, completely, now, disappearing under the folds of her robe. She gasped, shifting forward as his palms filled with the roundness of her backside. “However, you are correct. I have plenty of schemes hidden up my sleeves.” He moved his palms in soothing circles on each cheek, and she shivered.

          “Yes, but your schemes involve me more often than not usually underneath you,” she said with a roll of her eyes, the back of her mind having trouble deciding if the sensual attention to her butt was threatening or promising based on his statement.

          “And I plan on spending the rest of our lives crafting more clever and mischievous ways to find you so,” he pledged. His hands stilled when she reached behind her, stopping his ministrations, and he quirked an eyebrow in question.

          “Thank you,” she said, and leaned down, kissing him soundly.

          “I love you,” he announced as their lips parted. “Past, Present, and Future, I love you.”

          “I love you,” she declared against his lips, falling forward to kiss him again. Their mouths worked against each other’s passionately, Lola giving appreciative little moans of encouragement as his hands resumed to knead her ass before trailing his fingers in tingling, heated tracks up and down the backs of her thighs. She had to brace herself against the mattress as he yanked the sash of her robe open, pushing herself up with her hands falling to either side of his head, breaking their kiss and creating a curtain around him of her hair and now fully opened robe. She was completely exposed to him, and he savored every angle and curve and dip of her body, his eyes drinking in her supple form. He swallowed; hard.

          “You’re going to want to grab onto the headboard,” he spoke, his voice laced with gravelly lust, eyes deepening into a darkened sapphire the longer he stared at her hovering above him on all fours.

          Lost in a fog-cloud of hazy, amorous feelings, she soon found herself clutching the top of the sturdy, decorative wooden headboard, her knees still straddling Raphael’s waist, his own body sitting propped up against the soft plethora of satin pillows. She wasn’t sure how he moved them into this new position so quickly, but she didn’t care, as once again his distracting lips landed on her mouth. She moved her hands to grasp his shoulders, wanting to feel him, but he stopped her, guiding her hands back to the headboard.

          “Keep them there,” he said, his lips brushing along her jaw and neck. She nodded in understanding, and he purred. “That’s my girl.”

          “Oh, Jesus,” she gasped as his praise caressed her heart. He commanded in a way that wasn’t commanding, his guiding confidence unraveling her into a sopping puddle of pure bliss. Her head fell back, exposing the vulnerable surface of her neck, and he descended upon her, making sure to favor the fluttering pulse point in feathery kisses, his hands, all the while, exploring, teasing, whispering over tender places. He took his time, treasuring every sound and shivering tremble he coaxed out of her, savoring each pleasurable jolt of electricity that caused her breath to hitch. Her arms began to shake, and he rubbed her elbows as a subtle reminder to keep them from locking up, and she sighed, relaxing when his lips returned to hers.

          The weight of the terrycloth combined with the mingling of their tongues was causing her body to overheat, and she huffed out her frustrations, gruffly mumbling “too hot” as she released the headboard to rid her body of the too cloying fabric, never breaking stride with Raphael as he helped to remove the affronting material. A deluge of rain could be heard pattering the roof as the storm unleashed its fury, the hard staccato of water hitting the windowpanes matching the timing of her wildly beating heart, a crack of thunder rattling her bones as well as the timbers and framework of the house. She embraced him, her hands diving into his hair, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck, flushing herself against him with every plane and curve molding harmoniously together of their bodies.

          “Hands, Dandelion, hands,” Raphael reminded, breaking their kiss to utter his request as he unraveled her arms, again guiding her hands towards the headboard.

          “You’re killing me, Honey Love,” she groaned, taking hold of the bedroom furniture. She shrewdly lowered her hips, slinking down his body to make contact with what she craved, but a light tweak on her backside caused her spine to straighten, a startled yelp of surprise escaping as she reared up high onto her knees.

          “Patience,” he chuckled. “I’m not done honoring your birthday.” Before she could retort, he placed his hands on her waist, holding her steady, and leaned forward to move his lips against her throat. “Happy birthday to you,” he began to softly sing. His heated breath fell over her neck, the vibrations to the low acoustics of his song creating goosebumps to explode and pebble over her skin, her mind frizzling when the kisses at her neck shifted to touch her collar bones to then graze in a devoted, revered gentleness over the tops of her breasts. His nose trailed down her sternum, inhaling her natural scent as he scooted down the mattress, following an imaginary line leading straight to her bellybutton.

          “Happy birthday to you,” he continued the song. His tongue dipped into the hollow of her navel and she nearly fainted from the touch, a strangled, rattling noise of pleasure sounding from the back of her throat as her head fell back from the sensations dancing along the tender skin. Her fingers ached with how hard she clutched the headboard, her body flinching from each delicate swipe of his tongue.

          “Happy birthday, my sweet, delicious Lola,” he sang, descending lower. Teeth nibbled her hip bone, and she could have leapt out of her skin. She was delirious, her head swimming as tiny, electric tickles skittered over every nerve ending, her body hyper aware of her lover’s intended final destination. He lingered too long at her hips, and although the attention wasn’t unappreciated, she feared she was going to collapse if he didn’t proceed.

          “Raphael…please,” she begged, the torturous anticipation of when his lips would move next leaving her breathless, teetering on the verge of her wit’s end.

          He grinned, unable to deny his love of anything. He dragged his fingers down the sides of her waist to grasp her firmly at her hips while peppering her panty line with tantalizing, breathy kisses, easing himself farther down the mattress, concluding his song.

          “Happy birthday to you.”

          All at once, she was flying, surrendering to the dreamy, euphoric weightlessness her soul yearned for, disconnecting from all earthly attachments, her body singing the ancient and sacred song of the angels. A warmth familiar as home bloomed from her chest, crawling up her neck to flush prettily upon her upturned face as every fiber of her body thrummed and pulsated with the language of the universe. Stars erupted behind her eyes in a multitude of cosmic colors as she skyrocketed higher and higher, leaving the world behind, and upon shattering through the clouds of an ethereal dimension, realized heaven had never looked so beautiful.

~*~*~*~*~*~

H-eeey, everybody! Hope you all enjoyed a glimpse into these two lovers' world. Normally, I write closed door/fade to black scenes when it comes to mutually consenting adult special fun time activities, at least, for the public, but I wanted to prop the door open just a little bit.

Plus, we've had a lot of spooky chapters back-to-back, so it was fun breaking up the pace a little bit. More spooky happenings are on the way, so keep an eye out for more of this tale!

Thanks as always for being awesome, and until next time, happy reading!

~Melissa

[the-zapped-part-timer]

▲ MUDDLEBURG ▼

ˏˋ⚡︎ MASTERPØST ⚡︎ˎˊ

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This is a Muddleverse (my AU) take on every episode of PZPTH.

It follows Rippen Jhhbrhhhrnnen, an art teacher of Muddleburg Central High who moonlights as a part-time hero! Leading the way on interdimensional missions alongside his sidekick and principal, Larry. Zapping into the bodies of heroes in need and saving the day!

On the opposing side, Penn Scillan's ultimate goal is to finish his parents' main mission: finally defeat Rippen! With the reluctant allyship of Boone Henchman and Sashi Watanabe. All it takes is zapping into the bodies of the most wicked villains and simply trying to win one singular mission.

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|- TAGS -|

#Muddleburg AU

#Muddleverse

#Muddled Renditions

#A Muddled Situation

#Muddled Fanart

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|- A MUDDLED SITUATIØN -|

Chapter Øne: Zapped (Ao3)

Chapter Twø: I'm Nøt Super! (pending)

Chapter Three: Ghøst øf the Wild West

Chapter Føur: Wøuld Yøu Like Fries With That?

|- DRIBBLE DRABBLE MISCELLANEA -|

(Muddleburg/Muddleverse Related)

Strained, Tø Say The Least... ~ Muddled Dad!Rippen (Ao3)

|- MUDDLED RENDITIØNS GUIDE -|

(Chapter placement and title names subject to changes)

|- SEASØN ØNE -|

Nørth Pøle Døwn (Ao3)

A day before Christmas, Rippen and Larry are zapped to the North Pole to save the holiday from a festive uprising by the hands of their students and armed gingerbread men.

In With the New West, Out With the Old West

Rippen and Larry enlists the help of the new sheriff of Big Butte, Amber Briggs, to stop Penn and team from rustling all the Cow-o-saurs in town.

Chicken or Fish?

Baby-Pocalypse

That Purple Girl

We're Super!

The Fast and the Floor Rugs

Brainzburgerz

Chuckle City

Flurgle Burgle

Temple of the Porcelain God

Defending the Earth

One Wheel, Two Wheel, Third Wheel

Double Trouble

Cereal Criminals

We're Still Super!

Balls!

The Princess Most Fair

Hail Sashi

It's a Colorful Life

Larry Manor

Lady Starkeeper

Rippen becomes entranced by peaceful space captain, Lady Starkeeper, who shares similar sentiments as he does. Seemingly finding his perfect match, he hopelessly falls for her as does she. How could this possibly go wrong?

Fossilized Feller

Totally Into Your Body

Fish and Chips

The Ripple Effect

Where Dragons Dare

Rip-Penn

Chuckle City 500

Rock and Roll

Plantywood: City of Flora

Boone's Apprentice

The QPC

Shirley B. Ruthless

Massive Morphy Merge Mechs

Ultrahyperball

Mr. Rippen

Rippen's origin story is revealed in a flashback on his birthday, from being hired to his very first mission flood his mind on what should be a happier day.

Zap One

Penn's origin story is revealed in a flashback after his 50th loss, from his first day in high school to his first mission. Setting up for future failures all caused by his art teacher.

Save the Worlds

When Phyllis' MUT is damaged and dangerous vortexes open throughout the multiverse, Rippen, Larry, Penn, Boone and Sashi team up on a journey through every world they visited to close the vortexes before it's too late.

|- SEASØN TWØ -|

The Pirates, the Parrot, the Puzzles and the Talking Boats

Alpha, Bravo, Unicorn

A Game of Cat and Mouse

Wings of Destiny

Sensitivity Training

The Bewildering Bout of the Astounding Automatons

Back to the Past of Future Balls

A Tale of Two Wizards

Rockullan, Papyron, Scissorian

Be My Ghost

The Chinchilla

The Kobayashis

Cereal Fugitives

The Last Mountain Beast

Ninki Ninja Fight Town

My Mischievous Bunch

That Purple Guy

Rootilda

Tredecuple Troubles

The Most Dangerous World Imaginable

Trading Faces

At the End of the Worlds

|- BØNUS EPISØDES -|

Always the Sidekick Never the Hero (s0)

Larry's origin story is revealed in a flashback during a surprise party for his workiversary, from his first day to important moments with his old team.

The Old Old West (s0)

When Rippen and Larry are zapped into an old west cowboy world where the cowboys ride dinosaurs, the town's sheriff joins them on their mission to prove he still has what it takes.

Glass Bottled Thoughts (s0)

The Shadøws We Cast (s0)

A Wiseman Ønce Said (s0)

Boone's origin story is revealed in a flashback

Minion For Hire (s0)

Sashi's origin story is revealed in a flashback

Scrambled Egg Hunt (s1)

Striking Gutters (s1)

Deep Sea Trouble (s1 or s2)

A Wedding Most Fair (s2)

Memoirs of a Dinosaur Ridin' Cowboy (s2)

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The concept of this AU was based on a scrapped episode by the same name ⬇️

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[thelastdiamondpiratealchemist]

Challenge of the GoBots: Guardians headcanons.

The Guardians, have something in common with their human companions.

They get songs, jingles, or random television/movie moments that live rent-free in their heads.

But they all react a little differently from each other.

Leader-1 would be a little annoyed hearing the familiar Disney song in his head. He would try to refocus his thoughts into something else.

A rhythmic, almost hypnotic melody had infiltrated Leader-1's processor. It was the opening riff of "Friend Like Me" from Aladdin, a song that jarred with his usual focus on battle strategies and tactical maneuvers. The thought of a flamboyant genie offering wishes was anathema to his logical mind. He attempted to drown it out with the usual strategic calculations, troop movements, and potential Renegade threats.

Yet, with every strategic dismissal, the song would sneak back in, a jarring reminder of carefree days before the war. A deep sigh, a physical impossibility for a GoBot, escaped his vents. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, a little dose of unexpected melody wouldn't hurt his focus. After all, even the most stoic leader needed a moment of levity now and then. He focused on the underlying beat, transforming it into a mental drumroll for his next daring mission plan. The "Friend Like Me" melody, once an annoyance, became an unexpected source of inspiration.

------

Unlike the others, Turbo wasn't having it. The chipper tones of "Be Our Guest" grated on his circuits with every repetition. He, the fastest Guardian, craved the quiet solitude of deep space, not the cacophony of a bustling restaurant. The song became a personal torment, its forced cheer a constant reminder of the confinement of their base. He tried blasting heavy metal through his audio receptors, hoping to drown out the sugary melody, but the nonsensical lyrics only served to further muddle his thoughts. Turbo paced the room, his engine growling in frustration, yearning for the open expanse of space where he could scream into the void without the soundtrack of a never-ending banquet.

------

Scooter: The melody thrummed through Scooter's circuits, an irresistible earworm that had him humming along with every action. He'd tap his wrench to the beat while tinkering, dodge training punches with a flourish, and even burst into a slightly off-key rendition during patrol briefings (earning him a withering glare from Leader-1). The only problem? Scooter couldn't remember where he first heard the song. It felt familiar, like a long-lost friend, but the source remained a fuzzy memory. He pestered Leader-1 with questions ("Was it during that mission on Zeron? Maybe it's a secret Renegade anthem?") but the stoic leader just shook his head, defeated by Scooter's boundless enthusiasm. Undeterred, Scooter continued his crusade, humming his way through every mission, hoping a spark of memory would ignite and reveal the song's origin.

(The song was "Let it Go." From "Frozen")

------

-------

Smallfoot: Patrol duty was usually a time for quiet reflection for Smallfoot. Gliding through the metallic corridors of the Guardian base, her keen eyes scanned for any potential security breaches. Suddenly, a high-pitched, warbling sound pierced the usual hum of machinery. It was Scooter, butchering the melody of "Let It Go" at the top of his lungs while polishing his tools. The unexpected assault on her senses made Smallfoot wince. This wasn't the peaceful patrol she'd envisioned. Instead of Mary Poppins' soothing tones, a different Disney classic began to play in her head – "Cruella De Vil" from 101 Dalmatians. A wry smile touched her lips. Scooter's enthusiasm, while endearing, could be a bit… much.

She envisioned him as a manic Cruella, gleefully smoking her cigarette, instead of having an obsession with fur coats. The image brought a much-needed spark of humor to the otherwise mundane patrol, and Smallfoot found herself humming a subdued version of the villain's theme song, a private joke between her and the oblivious Scooter.

Matt: Matt, ever the pragmatist, found Scooter's relentless humming of "Let It Go" to be a source of amusement, albeit a low-key one. He'd occasionally raise an eyebrow or give a dry quip like, "Sounds like someone's got a princess stuck in their circuits," but mostly let Scooter be. Secretly, he found the wide-eyed joy radiating from his friend to be a refreshing change from the usual seriousness of their battles.

-------

Aj: The most level-headed of the human trio, noticed the subtle shift in Smallfoot's demeanor during their patrol. Smallfoot, usually focused and meticulous, seemed a touch… distracted. A knowing smile played on Aj's lips as she caught Smallfoot humming a suspiciously familiar tune. When their eyes met, Smallfoot winked, a silent acknowledgment of their shared amusement at Scooter's oblivious enthusiasm. Aj simply shook her head, a silent promise to keep Smallfoot's secret weapon (Cruella De Vil) under wraps.

------

Nick: Turbo's predicament was a source of endless amusement for Nick. He'd approach Turbo with a mock frown, "Feeling a little less 'Be Our Guest' today, are we?" Turbo, already at his wit's end, would growl in response, only fueling Nick's teasing. One day, Nick, unable to resist, snuck a recording of "Be Our Guest" onto the base's PA system. The saccharine melody filled every corner, causing Turbo to whirl around in frustration, glaring daggers at Nick, who doubled over in laughter. Despite the annoyance, a small part of Turbo couldn't help but admire Nick's mischievous spirit. Maybe, just maybe, a little payback would be in order once the song curse lifted.

[pyr0cue]

Feel free to answer privately if you'd like- i know the Longlegs discussion is getting a bit muddled up in the notes and i'm actually really interested in people's takes on the film, especially when they bring up things i'd never consider, like Longlegs being a bit of a touchy subject when it comes to being potentially transgender, or just repeated (typically negative) stereotypes in horror in general. i find this type of stuff really fascinating!

(i apologize if i get a little lengthy in this lol)

while i don't particularly see Longlegs as trans, with the idea of Buffalo Bill being in a lot of peoples heads as a reference for Longlegs can definitely nudge them in that direction, and ill never fault anyone on their interpretation on a character in a film, it's kinda what makes films art to begin with. tho i also think (personally) that it may be a bit unfair to a character who, throughout the movie, is not a Buffalo Bill character other than the fact that Bill and Longlegs are both murderers. Bill is regarded as feminine because of who he kills and why he does it, where as Longlegs is sort of guided more towards the 'epitome of evil', to the point where Longlegs isn't even killing anyone directly, because its simply his influence with Ruth, the orbs, and the dolls. the through-lines are surely there, especially in terms of the ambiguity of gender, the cliches, and the harmful stereotypes associated with them. i'm just under the impression that the more you pick at it, the more the similarities kinda dissolve- but that's just me!

not to get long winded and annoying but i perceived Longlegs as not a human at all, but a rendition of the "Beast" itself, with Ruth being the other, forming the triangle that Longlegs seemed to be obsessed with, or less satanically accurate (i guess?? im no where close to religious so hoo boy if im wrong consider me a silly goose) , maybe a portrayal of the Antichrist itself. Longlegs is unnerving to look at and listen to because its desperately trying to be something that it perceives as 'beautiful,' when in actuality, is horrifying, like a 'demon' would present itself (if we want to pretend we know what a demon would do, but its fiction, so wooooo!) there is of course issues that are going to spike up with that- the 'feminine' presentation can set off alarm bells for a demographic that's already viewed in an (unfair, of course) 'evil' sense. but i think that unfortunately makes things more interesting- Longlegs can be perceived as anything, but at the end of the day, is evil, nearly on a cosmic level because we truly dont know what the hell Longlegs even is.

i super apologize for this being long and probably obnoxious but i personally love having discussions when it comes to interpretations of films, ESPECIALLY horror. Longlegs is bringing up a lot of different ideas and concepts for things that i havent seen in quite a while and i think thats really neat.

thank you again for humoring this ask! :) one thing i will fight you on is saw 5 being picked over saw 6, how dare you! the shotgun carousel was a masterpiece!

You are all good!! I also love discussing film and don’t mind long asks at all!! In fact this made my day!!! I just didn’t want to answer rude anons lol) I…also just typed a giant response so I’m sorry for not knowing how to be concise

I actually love your analysis! It’s a lot of things I hadn’t really considered! I think my personal gripe with the movie is that I just don’t find satanic motivations in film scary, I was so much more frightened and intrigued when longlegs was just a killer with an odd obsession with the 14th, when he was untraceable by his own power and not ‘the devil.’ Longlegs wanted you to be scared of both longlegs (the killer) and supernatural aspects, and I just lost all fear of the killer when he started being all ‘hail satan,’ it immediately made the character and their motivation entirely uninteresting and overdone. I spend a lot of time watching bad horror movies just to see if the reviews were wrong (sometimes horror gems were so poorly received and written off), and maybe I’ve just seen more horror about the devil than other people and I’m too jaded about it to find longlegs refreshing or new :/

I do love the idea of longlegs not being human and I can totally see that in the film, it could recontextualize the scene where he smashes his face and his nose falls off as an inhumanity rather than like…hey look at how bad plastic surgery is, which is what it came off as to me at first!! I love that line of thought actually!!

I like the idea that longlegs is portrayed as someone who lacks a gender is less with interpretations like yours which are so fun and interesting to examine is there’s JUST as much, if not more room for bad faith interpretations about trans people. I think my gut reaction of ‘oh no this is about a trans coded killer,’ comes from, both the actor confirming they were portraying a character who doesn’t follow traditional gender roles, and also the social climate rn that is SO violent towards trans people. While I love the idea of a killer who embodies evil, I just think a lot of people are going to walk away with the image of another ‘androgynous’ devil worshipping child killer in their heads, which I think was a dangerous choice on Oz and Cage’s parts. I wish they’d gone in a different direction to show inhumanity, maybe make the killers limbs unnaturally long, get rid of the lipstick and make his lips barely visible, instead of big cheeks have bulging eyes. There’s so many directions they could’ve gone that would’ve led me to immediately think “inhuman” and not “trans stereotype,” on my first watch, but I definitely think there’s a lot of room for interpretation and I loveee the idea of longlegs potentially being infected or changed internally/externally due to close contact with evil and the devil, it’s something to think about!

Ok forgive me for yapping about things you didn’t even mention because my other issue with the film was that it dedicated like 5 whole mins to explain, in depth, exactly how the dolls and Lee’s mom work with longlegs. Like. Ok I can give them the devil worshipping, I wish they’d been more creative but that’s not the ultimate sin, I just WISH they’d let me decide how that supernatural element worked for myself, I don’t want you to explain it to me. Same with Lee’s psychic abilities: you just dedicated a pretty creepy scene to showing that Lee could perceive things others can’t, I don’t then need you to tell me ‼️she’s psychic‼️‼️don’t forget‼️just in case you forgot in the last 2 mins ‼️ our main character is a psychic. This is a movie that held my hand because they were so obsessed with what they wrote that it ruined the horror of the unknown, at least for me. But on the other hand, there’s so many plot holes and issues with the story that don’t really fit in the ‘crime horror’ genre. Idk, this movie left a lot of contradictory thoughts in my brain and I think a lot of why I didn’t like was that I’ve just seen so many better horror movies that do all the things this movie does and more. I don’t think it’s bad but…it didn’t live up to the hype. Whoever was in charge of marketing for this movie needs the biggest raise possible lol

(Ok look the traps in saw 6 are so much better but I love Hoffman and Strahms dynamic in 5 they’re so silly goofy…glass coffin…but ur so right shotgun carousel is one of the best traps in the entire franchise)

[krispyweiss]

Song Review: James Taylor - “Mexico” (Live, July 18, 1979)

James Taylor and Leland Sklar stand face to face and share some words before launching the number. And then, Waddy Wachtel adds a bunch of electric licks on what turns out to be a relatively unusual rendition of “Mexico.”

Which is to say the song is entirely recognizable; however, Taylor and his band were a little, er, loose, on July 18, 1979, in Ohio, making this freed-from-the-vault video a real treat.

Taylor ad libs just a bit throughout the song and on the coda; not enough to muddle anything but just enough to mix it up. In the end, it ain’t the record, which will please some, and it’s close enough to the record to please the rest.

Grade card: James Taylor - “Mexico” (Live - 7/18/79) - B

8/18/23

[nominalappraisal]

aback the prismatic escapes a'wade - the pretensions lift to man's bold alacrity circuitous emblematic expanses, on route to further control and ebb positives unlatch thematic pendulous contraptions on end the endearing selective approach to fragmentation to append faculties nary far the firth at large; attest fast to the eloquent in masks that the damsel in dark quarters enlists fallacy to exist that without the world here no one may live extraneous and so-tell-us the matriarch and foreign complexes woolen undying mechanisms sudden ellipses from the path and mull that the industrious surmount with woven claw calamitous arears and indoctrine's wealth the nominations valise a'sect the capricious and inherent sprawl fallacious, systematic prone to wield and abase it's terrestrial common attractable consecutive ebb of worldly wont exercising the pungent stridents, paladin held responses the teetering end of business on spare to issue prominent discourse articles reflecting what opt hath the inevitable in as a song says the prudential affiliates boil down the broth as official prerogative none to escape it's filament and ghastly ineptitudes when the uproarious devout insistent partake image what softly spaces radio-waves conceptions techniques around the universal advocate rather be its tune surmount - eclectic intuitives for all renounce backed by civil liberty to compound functions the notwithstanding segments of irritations flounder propound the intensity sought after when the mull officially adopts authority the back and forth of indecisive's modest share hold inequities problematic at first, farther around the world as perverse inclinations attribute distinction while the pavilion works on weakness so imbibed as the foster of uncongenial proctors hence something like inefficiency has no mottos, whilst the productivity is frayed to swallow inept sequences of direct the plausible features target on synchronous valley dart's worn, investigable in atrocious policy that which supports conduction's split discern as a crucial dialectical intuition as sakes for soaring the mesmerized renditions of sallies along edges houndstooth and or thunder-symbolized in retractable concern said the predominant endure, the malaise of inert webs undo themselves in turn biased to every program known to man, while artificialities in platonic worth's command materialize and demand flout substances meritocratic synopses break apart the incessant contractibles saw pungencies muddled in cupric sun-dance, official enticed the movement of flotsam to the renditions take of vice in sentience's arears politely taken with the wearinesses that entrench the favoritisms and succeed to offer any suspense callous to the inopportune freelance take known from conglomerate pending catastrophic indesire's worth patents sent to momentum at firth, collective revitalizing tonics away and skirt the component attendances sat as stark as wren amongst the suspended ill-found integrals of an adorn' wood matrix found ashore the vibes of water intake salve connections of opaque regowns matters forceps intervene as sustenance porouses formulate resources with an obscene contractual ritual and seize amongst mitigating prolific flocks the tune crock stock the fulfillment cease while in a set of patience i superior connect with the status points in parallel to opinionate commerce founded steady, with clemency to tempt me congressions' empty empiric conduits latent selection's entries bound bordered by spelling accounts and disorder pageantry of perfection's quay-known-for-it's-intentions as born to say and order undo the latch of perfect's quota, adapt to the technological advances that unearth the stratum furry indelible articulations worn of pallid incremental's-forth identification chorus

[adyaalcalde]

"I walk with you."

January 24th, 2025*

Winter Storm Enzo in the window of 901 Canal Street, on the corner of Canal and Dauphine. January 21st, 2025, 9:43 AM.

The incarnation of my father I can summon best is of him lit only slightly, in profile, by the lamp mounted on the sliver of wall between Max’s room and mine. In my memory he is perched perpetually on the edge of my bed, immediately after concluding his nightly rendition of Paul Simon’s “Father and Daughter” as a de-facto lullaby; a ritual that had begun before my mind held water and continued into my early teens. He is always just leaving, and if I listen closely I can hear the sound of his sandal on the concrete floor, moving to go. 

In the years after he left I spent days at a time weeding photos from albums and boxes, meticulously scanning the ones I was throwing away on the flatbed built into the family printer. The act of preserving digital copies served as a means to make private the portion of my life he had occupied alongside me. It was impossible, now, for any friend to uncover them; impossible for me to be accused of sentimentality. In discarding the prints, I was effecting a shift in the visible narrative of my life: making an effort to erase from my early childhood the presence that would no longer occupy the oncoming years. While I was not precisely intending to suggest he had never been present, I was (although perhaps not consciously) attempting to muddle the strength of his parenthood. If my records could suggest his absence from birthday parties, from family weddings and dinners, it seemed they could foreshadow the condition's movement into permanence. The act of selection presented the miraculous possibility of making his departure comprehensible. In removing him, it seemed as if I could retroactively brace myself—at three years old, four—for the blow I’d just incurred. 

In my personal archives, my father slowly became more print than flesh. I cannot, now, so much remember the summer vacations spent in New Jersey’s Ocean City as I do the sight of him in the viewfinder, standing calf-deep in the surf. Though I can’t remember the day he held styrofoam blocks (almost certainly insulating waste from some mail-delivered contraption) up in the air for my sister and I to kick, trying to make the white foam on the patio the wood board at a martial arts tournament, I can see him crouched beside the picket fence separating the concrete from the patches of grass in the yard, and Tiana and I in our matching pajamas before him. In any other form I try to conjure him, his body assumes the position it was captured in by photographs. He is smiling or else making faces, his cheeks swelled with air and his eyes bulging in an exaggerated playfulness. In all other scenes save this one, he is frozen in place by the flash.

Baggage claim at the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, circa 2005.

At the edge of my bed, in my single clear memory sharpened only by its repetition, it could easily be any night of my young life. A glass of water is making rings on the shelf beside my bed, and the cheap slats below my mattress creak under his weight. My exchange for his motility in this scene is the absence of his face, obscured completely in the darkness. In my mind, one sense must necessarily dim, and I trade the sight of him for his smell, and the sound of his voice. My father’s words flow imprecisely from his direction, his face made expressionless in the nighttime. In the years of my life we spent together, he told me many times—as he is saying now—that it is impossible to lose anyone completely. Even when death suspended their rights to visitors, they could meet you, sometime, in the country of your dreams. It was within the borders of that incipient nation he rediscovered his own largely absent father, Jerome, in the middle years of his own life. When he himself was gone, my father always said, I could in turn visit him there. 

My father and his father, circa 1975.

A self-described “amateur oneirologist,” my father’s life was built about signpost dreams. In a sketchbook he’d carried with him through Italy in June of 1988, he recorded alongside his renderings of architecture and sketchy, blockish sunbathers a log of his dreams. Discussions of dreaming fill even his waking entries, as (between clipped descriptions of activity, often “shopping,” “golf,” et cetera…) he writes about dreams like other men write of fish. September 12th was, he writes, a “good night to get back in the dream game.” On the 7th(“?”) of the same month, he wrote he had hoped “to catch at least 1 dream tonight.” Additional entries describe his waking compulsion to “reality check:” to pause for a moment during the day and concentrate on manifesting a desire. To produce from the mind a long-lost friend. To raise the dead. To be swimming in some other sea, perhaps the world over. Though his exertions necessarily failed while he was awake, the practice was led in service of developing a habit. Ultimately, he hypothesized, the checks would confer upon him the ability to dream lucidly: while in a dream, to recognize he was dreaming, and thus change the conditions of his experience at will. To raise the dead. To swim.

Two unfortunate qualities I’ve inherited from my father are his penchant for understatement and his superstitiousness. In my childhood he restrainedly but consistently described the first woman he’d been married to as a “practice wife,” a term I had understood to mean he’d entered with her into a staged, pre-arranged domestic partnership. As practice spouses, they would have learned from one another how to cohabitate successfully: how to temper grating idiosyncrasies while maintaining individuality; how to remain respectful of and kind to someone in constant and close proximity to you. I pictured a manicured lawn. White sunlight streaming through open windows like liquid. The term conjured a manufactured serenity, and it never entered my mind they might have loved each other. It was not impossible, actually, they’d in fact had an agent of some sort who visited periodically to sit with them in their front room, filling in bubbles on clip-board secured forms in accordance to their responses to his questions. I imagined a proffered cup of coffee cooling on a saucer of the same color: their house the variety (unlike ours) filled with dishware that matched. I imagined a sort of graduation at the end, when they divorced. I thought they might have shook hands. I don’t know his first wife’s given name, though I must have been aware of it, somehow, before. I’d seen at least one photo of her, which I had cut up in my teenage years; preserving the irregular x-acto edge rectangle of my father’s face and torso in a posed Sears studio portrait, as I thought he’d looked particularly handsome in it—the way your parents do as captured in a youth you played no part in—but thought displaying the photo intact was somewhat bizarre. I seem to suspect it was something beginning with “A” and Italian. Andrea. Angela. What I do recall is that my father changed his surname to hers (whatever that might have been) in what he described as—and it was understood he still believed indeed was—a subversive, anti-establishment resistance to traditional roles in marriage. The union must not have lasted very long, though I can’t venture a guess as to its duration. I mean, firstly, that my father tended toward dismissal in conversations about his past: brushing massive swaths of his life under the proverbial rug whenever his nosy children hunted for dust bunnies. Secondly, he appraised his time on Earth as a de-facto experiment: in his resistance to discussing their attendant emotions, his experiences were reduced to raw data, which he could then mine for some conclusive, essential lesson. Everything itself all at once meant nothing and yet signified: pointed to something greater. His studies of dreams were motivated by a combination of these somewhat oxymoronic qualities—his indifference and his faith. 

Snow over the French Quarter, as seen from the second story window of Rick's room, January 21st, 2025, 9:02 AM.

On my inaugural telephone call of the new year, I stood at the base of a stained glass mural rising like the moon up the side of a Catholic church in Wupatki. I was speaking hurriedly, against the preternaturally rapid decline of my cell battery, and asking my mother if she would drive the near three hours distance between us and pick me up. The sun was actively vanishing over the horizon, leaving the sky a discordant, hopeful orange. I was aware my call to her would be the last I could make; aware of the enormity of the favor I was asking. As I made an attempt to swallow the rising bolus of anxiety in my throat, the streetlamps came on violently, having been lit altogether and at once, dappling the brown evening with sudden spots. I distinctly recall flinching at them. After I’d hung up, I looked down the street in hopes of finding someplace nearby to sit, knowing the moment my phone died, my distance from town (as well as my bereftness of a cable and adapter) would make me completely unreachable and I (thus) needed to remain close to where I’d told her to look for me. Near the street, I found a bench haloed by a streetlamp, and as I settled over it, the temperature lurched downward as though collapsing in the seat alongside me. My jaw had inadvertently clenched to keep my teeth from chattering, though the shrill cold had already worked between my molars. I felt everything deeply: my multifold regret (over having stepped off the bus in the first place, over asking my mom to collect me); the sudden cold; my usual complement of sorrow. I knew it would be a long time until she got there, just as surely as I knew she would come. 

Not minutes earlier, I had been returning home from a trip to the North on a bus-bench seat. Seated closest to the window, I had made an effort to hold my body away from Michel, seated beside me and in the center: conscientiously keeping my thigh from resting against his. Aiden sat farthest from me on the opposite end of the bench where his long, spindly legs—which could not have fit straight in front of him without entering half a foot into the withered foam of the seat in front of us—sprawled like windfall into the aisle. Michel’s arm, once crossing the seat-back at the bend of his elbow, his hand tapping with a performed idleness on the brown pleather back side of the seat behind my head, seemed somehow—in increments—to have rolled over the incline and snaked over my shoulders. The tips of his fingers rested at the center of my bicep. They had gone on drumming. At first, I had shrugged him away, content to dismiss the contact as accidental though it was plainly not. I leaned forward and turned toward the window. His hand promptly dropped, and his arm sandwiched itself low in the chasm I’d opened between my back and the seat. His hand on my hip; nightmare: the sensations were indistinguishable. It was raining outside, and in the blue cast of the window, the drops ran into each other like river tributaries: combining and separating again in accordance to the wind and the dirt. I felt him rescind his arm. In another moment, it was back again. At a certain point, my silence and willful obliviousness met their tolerance threshold. 

I had gone to bed that very evening thinking of the many hands laid on me as encroachments, as counting coups on my boundaries: in my refigured attic of a bedroom in Flagstaff, the clammy grip of a research partner that had seized my hand as I’d spoken animatedly about my concept for our presentation, how I could mirror the delivery of George Whitefield’s revival sermons when we moved into the section about rhetoric in The Great Awakening; my recognition of the strange, abrupt darkening of the room as a friend leaned his face suddenly toward me in his living room, obscuring the lamp behind him as his body took up huge swaths of what had moments ago been empty space my periphery; the perpetual fingers of virtual strangers: former classmates and friends-of-friends grasping at me in Bandoleros on the slow, rainy nights when Ethan and I deigned to go out for karaoke. I had sat there, rigor-mortis stiff on the edge of a barstool, focusing all my energy on listening to Craig sing Incubus’ “Drive” in the adjacent room while looking vacantly down at the hand on my thigh. I’d been thinking, I can’t believe I didn’t wear stockings. I’d been thinking of Barbara Stanwyck as Lily Powers in Alfred E. Green’s 1933 Baby Face, burning her own leg with hot coffee as she poured a full cup over the wandering hand of Ed Sipple. Later, having walked to the bar to tell Ethan I was leaving, I would hear the bartender—who he’d gone out with the previous night—tell him he (meaning he, the hulking shape in the corner I’d walked out from under, who claimed, somewhat lamely, he "got handsy when [he got] drunk") should “just buy her a beer.” I remember my revulsion, as if to her this was clockwork. As if a pint was a fair exchange for sex. As if my following him home was mechanical: an obliging thing to do. I remember Ethan’s emphatic response, shouted above the music. “He already did!” So what?

I walked home. 

In retrospect, my neutrality in the circumstances above defies explanation. Distance from them has in no way clarified an understanding of my silences, or what it was in me that did not so much acquiesce to the contact but did make it distinctly impossible to put any words to my interior, articulate plea for it to “stop.” Twice I managed a particularly forceful overcompensation for what was possibly timidity but more probably some convoluted sense of worthlessness, and, with a steadiness I did not feel, said with incredulous contempt: I’m not doing this with you. Emphasis on the object. But even those rebuffs did not sever the attempts as I believed they would. In the first case, the young man would grab me again not minutes later, completely disregarding both my obvious discomfort and what I’d felt was a clear-stated position. In the second, I (foolishly) stayed and made an attempt to explain myself, finding it intolerable to imagine his thinking I believed we should be together, then back-pedaled when that entanglement was imminent in a performance of coyness, or disinclination to appear over-eager. It was imperative he understood I didn’t want him (them, respectively); that whatever signals he'd interpreted as affection had been misread. Both times, I was playing into a nonnegotiable, unbudging futility. My explanation of disinterest was either interpreted as nervousness or frigidity (which it seemed they felt they could shake out of me if only they were persistent in their contact and attentions) or otherwise was outright ignored. Regardless, in another week, they’d invariably lurch toward me again. 

All I can muster now is the assumption that whatever variety of cowardice it was that inhibited me in those situations propelled me, oppositely, into the waiting arms of the doomed relationship I retreated into for want of comfort or, when that ceased, want of having someone around who I never doubted would stop—anything—when I asked him to. I had begun to feel hounded, and the foxhole I understood then as solace, manifest, and which promised safety from harm, appeared months after the fact as it really was: a hole in the dirt to hide in.

To say: there was a moment, on the bus, when I turned from the window, away from my commitment to pretending nothing was happening, and toward Michel. When I told him to take his fucking hand off me. Because the crowning achievement of my months of fear was met with a mild huff of indignant laughter, and because Aiden (the shared friend who bridged the acquaintanceship between us) had hardly lifted his head in recognition of what I'd intended as a shocking outburst, I got off the bus, preferring to be left in the dwindling light at Wupatki than to be rested on a second longer.

In all my righteousness, I could well have walked home. It would be third, a Friday, when I arrived, but the distance (some two hundred miles) seemed secondary to my resolve.

The night boiled into early morning in the sky above Wupatki.

Walking to Rick's in the unprecedented snow, January 21st, 2025, 8:56 AM.

Early in the morning on the first of January, James let me know he’d been thinking of me (as he’d promised to) when the year of the unburned goat rolled over into the next. He had been sequestered in a dark booth in the corner of his cabaret club du jour. And, he’d wanted to know, had I been where I’d promised to be? 

I had. On a plastic-coated metal bench, I had been waiting for the sun to rise over Arizona. I’d been shivering in the pre-dawn, watching the barely distinguishable bodies of fruit bats speckle the sky, visible only where they blotted out the stars. I’d been asleep in a room with fourteen foot ceilings, under a mortised roof held together by wood pegs. I’d been deaf to the ululations of police sirens pouring from Bourbon.

Thus far, January has opened the blossoms of improbable yellow roses on the street, placed upright against the buildings in mourning and solidarity: resplendent and sweet-smelling in defiance of the cold. The City of New Orleans, and I within her, have walked into this new year trepidatiously, solemnly, bearing in mind the people of our past and acknowledging their absence. So too have we been dreaming, however unimpressively, of things to come. The hope of courage. The sun rising.

* edited for length on February 9th, 2025