#and poor Filip had to grow up with him

[youwontbelievethethingsiveread]

Reading Babylon's Ashes, it's striking me how Marco Inaros is making a fair bid to drive humanity extinct altogether. Killing Earth is bad enough, but he's also doing a really bad job in the Belt; scattering supplies all over the solar system in random containes, throwing away all the water on Ceres and leaving six million people to fend for themselves. I know he doesn't actually think anything through, but the Belt is not going to survive him either if he's left to run rampant.

I remember where he finishes from my first read but not how it got to that point; I really hope more people are going to abandon his grand revolution because throwing out water and air is something only a madman would do (and we know he is and they should see it too)

[bramble-mouse]

The Faery Doctor

Chapter 2

Tags: G/t, gentle giant, timid tiny, fantasy setting, adventure Content warnings will be tagged appropriately for subsequent chapters. These may include death, gore and vore. They will include no sexual themes. CW: Vore (non-fatal), gore, vomit, implied death (Trish is fine!) Minors, please do not interact!

A marriage of peace and fear saturated every inch of Trish’s body the moment she stepped foot in the northern woods. Places as old as these carried stories, the voices born of nature itself that whispered to any with an open ear. While kind things could dwell in wise old trees, hungry monsters lurked, cunning and smarter than any ordinary beast. In truth, Trish was unsurprised that poor tanner’s son had vanished here. She could taste the old magic in the air, the countless memories of blood. 

If there’d been a road through these parts at some point, it hadn’t been maintained in a very long time. The only evidence it ever saw foot travel was an area where weeds didn’t grow between the remains of cobblestone. Trish had heard once from her mother that a great empire walked the world a long time ago, gifting roads, aqueducts and all manner of marvels to the common folk before departing to parts unknown. Some said these strange folk died out while others told of spying cities in the sky for a split second, only for them to vanish behind the dense cloud cover. 

What would it have been like to know this mysterious folk, Trish wondered? Were they elves? Old fey that predated even the sidhe? Were they beyond mortal knowing? Perhaps there would never be a true answer to the question, but Trish satisfied herself with coming up with theories whilst she picked her way along the road. 

The fork came quicker than expected- or perhaps Trish’s head had been so deep in the clouds she’d barely noticed time passing. She chewed on her lower lip. Perhaps being distracted was a poor choice. 

At the centre of the fork was a ruined statue, only the legs and the bottom of a robe remaining, captured in cracked plaster. Trish lingered, reaching out to trace the weathered surface with curious fingertips. A twig snapped to her left.

Trish’s head whipped towards the source of the noise and found a wolf staring at her, stalk still and muzzle coated in gore. It’s eyes were intense, alien and focused entirely on Trish.  Trish lowered her hand slowly, never once taking her eyes off the canine.

The wolf bolted and left its meal behind. She tiptoed forward out of morbid curiosity and peered over the small gathering of sparse brush.

Half a man’s torso, bare of clothing, with most of the ribcage exposed lay in a pile of gore and ichor on the permafrost. Trish covered her mouth and gasped, stumbling backwards away from the gruesome find. Was that from the tanner’s boy? No, frost giants generally ate their prey whole. The thought of the lad kicking as screaming as he was shoved into a maw of sharp teeth overwhelmed Trish with nausea.

The faery doctor found her feet and sprinted up the right path at the fork. There was nothing chasing her, yet she felt like a child rushing back upstairs when all the light went out for the night to escape the danger of shadows. 

Trish knew what could be in these woods, and meeting man eating giants in their element would be a death sentence. She pushed on up the incline, remembering her duty as a doctor. She had a patient in need at the end of this path, and come what may, her journey would be worth it if she could treat what ailed him.

Blessedly, it was spring and the majority of the snow had cleared off from the mountainside. Occasionally Trish came across piles of dirt flecked ice that stubbornly refused to yield to the sun. The trees grew taller, scragglier here with little successful underbrush beneath their high boughs, and soon enough, there was no longer a road to follow. Trish kept her eyes forward nervously. Would she get lost?

The lake Filip mentioned came into view, sweet relief in the form of an open space peppered with wild flowers, grass still recovering from the weight of heavy winter snow now since mostly melted and the bullrushes that flanked a corner of the water. Ducks floated atop the still waters of the lake, disturbed only by their movements and the jumping of trout. The fish were large, no doubt lovely if baked with lemon and herbs and a good dollop of butter. 

Trish felt sweat stick to her skin beneath her many layers. Despite the sunshine, she still felt the sting of the cold on her nose, a welcome relief after the most laborious leg of her trek. She longed to pause for a nap but there was a job to be done. Rest could come afterwards.

The faery doctor skirted around the lake and came to where the mouth of the cave should have been. Instead, there was a solid wall, seamless, jagged and unlikely to admit her any time soon. And yet the Sight bestowed upon her family generations ago by the faery yielded a flaw in the wall, a shimmering in a huge arch up the side of the cliff. Trish pulled out the stone Filip had given her and sure enough, the runes glowed, humming with a soft, electric power. The faery doctor drew in a few deep, grounding breaths before she touched the stone to the wall and watched her hand go through. The rest of her followed on nervous feet.

Inside of the cave was surprisingly bright, a tall corridor from the mouth illuminated by magical fire blue as sapphires. Every inch of this place thrummed with arcane power, both the wilder sort and the cultivated. The hairs on the back of Trish’s neck stood on end. She swore she smelled blood and ichor in the air still, shivering from both the chill of the higher elevation and the fresh memory of a discarded human torso.

There was a certain majesty to this place, carved into the very mountain as ancient dwarves had done. Though the handiwork was nowhere near as neat as a dwarf’s, the alcoves fit for the lights had been carved out by hand, high above on the walls. Trish still wasn’t sure she would get over just how high the ceiling was in this place. Would the end of this tunnel be just as massive?

Her answer arrived soon as she found a great opening nearly a hundred feet high, blocked off by a heavy patterned curtain embroidered with golden birds. The entire thing was beautifully sewn in a way only loving hands could craft.

Trish froze when she heard a pained groan from beyond the curtain. The voice was…big. Larger than any she’d ever known, like a clap of distant thunder.

‘I heard you treat anyone.’

The hooded woman had said.

Something dawned on Trish that turned her blood bitter cold.

Trish sidled around the heavy fabric and into a space that managed to be cozy despite being a cave. A kitchen counter had been carved from the stone, shaped and smoothed meticulously. She could not hope to spy what was on the countertops but she smelled something like stew and baked bread. There was a variety of rugs on the ground, handwoven, woolen and fur pelt alike. They served to make the hard ground more friendly to bare feet. There was a cold hearth straight ahead with an enormous iron stew pot over it, a well used kettle kept on the unlit augur in front of it. A plush cushion rested before the carved stone hearth, beside which was a ball of yarn and a half-knitted woolen shirt. Curiously, the shirt was a tiny thing, something made for someone her size rather than a giant.

A quick glance at the ceiling as Trish crept mouselike across the floor yielded a sight that made her gasp in quiet awe. Thousands of glowing crystals sprouted, like stars overhead. It was as if she were looking up at the nightsky, the soft myriad pinpricks of light chasing awake the lonely darkness in the cavern.

Another groan caught Trish’s attention and she snapped frightened eyes towards a large figure laid out on what appeared to be a bedroll. The figure appeared almost human- save for the sheer size, clad in simple grey breeches and a loose cotton shirt. The fellow must have been a good eighty feet tall, give or take. She was little more than a mouthful in comparison, and the consideration made Trish’s skin crawl.

But she was a faery doctor, Trish reminded herself, trying to bolster courage into limbs locked by terror.

She was a faery doctor and this creature was in pain. Trish had healed injured, grouchy dragons before, helped ogres with fevers and wargs with mange.

Would a giant be so different?

Trish decided not to dwell on that rhetorical question, lest what little bravery flee and send her running back the way she came.

“U…Um…Mister…Fr…Frio Frostfang?”

Trish’s small voice croaked out as she started forward towards the giant.

“E…Excuse me…Um..I…I’m s-s-sorry f…f..for b…barging in, I…”

Her throat closed up as the humongous  figure sat up with some difficulty. The giant’s eyes reminded her of the wolf’s she’d seen in the woods- pale, with slit pupils and fixed upon her with the intensity that could only belong to a predatory sizing up if she was a worthy meal. And yet the rest of his face sat at odds with such an assumption, a soft mouth, smooth angles, and an expression that while sick, showed concern.

“...You…”

The giant spoke breathlessly, his voice low and resonant in the closed space.

“Forgive me, I…”

“A woman sent me to heal you.”

Trish blurted out with the same intensity as one vomiting. She froze, wide eyed and shocked and her entire face went beet red.

The frost giant regarded her carefully, and Trish did the same to him in return. She noted soft, white waves of hair that fell in his eyes and down his neck. He sported short horns, like a young buck’s. Trish wondered idly if they were soft and velvety like deer horn too. She also noted, much to her own chagrin, that this giant was unfairly beautiful, utterly unlike any depiction of the burly, bearded and terrifying frost giants she’d heard about.

The giant’s lips perked up at the corners into a smile that softened his gaze, but the welcoming expression was fleeting. He winced and doubled over, clutching his middle.

“M…my apologies. I am not usually so terrible…”

He grit his teeth, hissed

“...A host.”

Trish swallowed thickly.

“...N..No, no, you’re… you’re unwell and…you weren’t expecting me, s…so…”

She trailed off, playing with the end of one of her braids. The ribbon fastening the end had loosened.

“I…I should like to give you an exam…if…if you’re comfortable with it.”

Frio hummed in assent.

“Gladly. Though I would like to know the name of my healer, I might thank her properly afterwards.”

Trish found she couldn’t meet his eye. Was he..was he charming? Yes, this giant was charming and polite- a gentleman, of all things. Not at all what she would expect from a frost giant. And yet here Frio was, well spoken and minding his manners even when he felt under the weather. She chewed on her lower lip. She continued to play with her hair ribbon, feeling the smoothness of the mossy green silk.

“T…Trish Mctavish, sir. I…I’m Doctor Trish Mctavish.”

She stammered.

“Sir?”

Frio chuckled softly.

“Please, my dear. Frio suits me well enough.”

Trish’s heart pounded. His laugh was gentle, too.

Trish made to approach the towering figure and the closer she drew, the more her fear returned. Her blood surged through her veins, a deafening pounding in her ear. She fought to keep her breathing even.

“I would never hurt my benefactor, doctor. Be as at ease as you are able.”

Frio said, his voice low as if he could read her thoughts. She tilted her head up and caught sight of his nose twitching in a manner more beast than man. Had Frio smelled her discomfort? He smiled down at her.

“Ah, but…I should lay down. I doubt you would like to try and…”

He paused, his jaw clenching as another wave of pain from his middle surged through.

“Y-Yes please.”

Trish cut in.

Frio nodded and laid down gingerly, pressing into his belly with one hand. His fingers were tipped with dark talons. They looked sharp.

She stared at the side of his head, noticing that he wore a blue tear drop earring.

“W…Would you turn to… to face me please?”

Frio hummed in response and tilted his head to the side. His lashes were long and pale, a veil over his monstrous, yet kind eyes.  She reached up to touch his forehead, painfully mindful of those immense gaze pinned to her form.

“You are quite pretty.”

He hummed, the statement decidedly too casual for the situation. Trish squeaked in response, her hand darting away. The giant laughed.

“My apologies. I am distracting you.”

Trish felt like she might explode from such velvety words- especially when they were close enough to rattle her very bones. 

Trish went through a mental checklist as she scanned over his body. A mild temperature (at least for an ice aspected being), sharp pain in his belly, and persistent nausea.

“Would you...o…open…your…”

Trish trailed off.

A giant’s mouth. Trish felt her courage falter and dug her nails into her palms to push on.

“Mouth. I …I need to…see inside your…”

Frio frowned. He appeared as if he wished to say something, to offer some word of comfort. Instead, the frost giant parted plush lips and revealed long fangs, a bluish tongue and the cavernous darkness in the back of his throat. The sight set off alarms within Trish- her instincts begging her to run, to flee, to hide, that she was in danger.

Frio’s breath gusted past her frame, tousling her tartan dress, coat and hair. It smelled of elderberries, and felt like a welcome, sunny breeze in early spring.

Trish could do this. She was a faery doctor and Frio was her patient.

The little woman set down her pack, shed her coat atop the mound of her belongings on the ground and poked her head inside the giant’s mouth despite the protests screaming loudly in her head. She sought any sign of poor health- discolouration of the tongue, a sore in the cheek, any inflammation in the throat.

Trish backed up, shaking from the ordeal and the moment she was far enough away, Frio snapped his jaws shut, causing her to squeak.

“Ah…My apologies.”

He said. Trish noted his features were flush and he seemed hesitant to meet her eye.

“Perhaps I should give a warning next time? If there is one. I would not presume…”

Trish chewed on her lower lip and fiddled with her skirts.

“N..No, I…It’s alright.”

A moment of awkward silence passed between them both before Frio cleared his throat and turned onto his side fully.

“Do you know what ails me, Doctor Mctavish?”

Trish rubbed her upper arm. There were several potential diagnoses but none that make sense for the sharp pains Frio described. A dull ache or a sour feeling would have made more sense- food poisoning, or a giant’s strain of stomach flu. And yet…

“Frio, what did you have to eat when you first noticed these pains?”

She inquired.

The frost giant’s face fell. He pressed his lips into a thin line. His brow creased and it was not anger that crossed his features but shame.

“...A giant hunter.”

He admitted, and his own voice wavered.

Trish knew logically what most frost giants ate. By rights, she could be on Frio’s menu once he was well again. Perhaps it would be the best choice to leave him here in pain and run before he could scarf her down too.

But that look in Frio’s eye- Why would a frost giant feel shame for admitting he’d eaten what was natural to him?

“You don’t like to eat humans.”

Trish mused aloud, words that had been meant to stay in her head tumbling free.

Frio laughed humorlessly.

“My nature would have me kill thinking, feeling beings for no reason other than greed and hunger. It is…disgusting to me, every time I falter.”

Trish frowned.

“And…and you said he was…was a giant hunter, didn’t you?”

Frio’s eyes flew back towards her, lidded and tormented.

“I could excuse myself for murdering him because he wanted to kill me first. Yet that would taste like a lie. I chose to consume him like a common beast. A man who most assuredly had a family. Who will now be a hole left in a child's life, a widow’s heartache.”

Fear was a strange thing in Trish’s line of work. It could manifest so easily when dealing with a stranger. She felt it even when she treated ordinary human men. It ebbed and flowed as easily as a tide while Trish treated every manner of creature both friendly to humankind and enemy to it.

So when every last mote of fear fled from Trish’s body, replaced by the adrenaline of compassion, Trish decided to follow that flow- that ever wobbling march of fear and bravery every faery doctor required.

“I have met very many different souls in my profession,”

Trish spoke.

“And…When a man regrets his actions this way, I…I find that such mental pain can make his illness all the worse.”

She glanced towards the giant’s midsection, so far away from where she stood. She’d noted the telltale sounds of indigestion when she’d made her observations there.

Trish lamented when she realized just how far she was about to go for a patient.

“What I…I mean to say is…is that I trust a man who desires to cause no harm, even if he falters. Because someone who makes a mistake so terrible is that much more steadfast in his conviction not to do so again.”

Frio’s eyes shimmered, reflecting the glowing crystals on the ceiling. He reached for her gently, slowly and when Trish flinched at first, he paused, extending the back of his index finger claw to her. It was an invitation. Trish hesitated once before reaching for the fingertip, placing her hand atop the pad.

“You think whatever I consumed with the hunter must be responsible for my pain, I take it.”

He said in a near whisper.

“Just as well.”

Trish fluttered her lips.

“Did you…”

How should she word this…

“Did you…eat him whole? With…with all of his affects?”

Frio cleared his throat.

“I…Yes.”

Trish nodded slowly, her hand still rested atop his finger. The cogs turned in her head. Resignation had her shoulders sagging, her hands reaching for the hem of her dress to pull it up and over her head. She kicked her boots off.

“What are you…”

Frio inquired and stopped.

“I…I need to perform an…extraction. And…”

Trish swallowed nervously, her voice cracking

“An internal examination.”

Frio appeared as if he’d been slapped. His eyes went wide.

“Absolutely not!”

He balked.

“I am sure the pain will pass with time. I will not subject someone I hardly know to…this!”

Frio gestured towards his middle with a claw.

“So you would swallow a friend, then?”

Trish mumbled before she could catch herself.

Frio’s mouth hung open a little. He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“No, no I would not.”

Trish, dressed in stays, bloomers and woolen stockings that only served to accentuate just how boney her tiny form was, padded closer to his mouth. Her hands shook. The cold and the fear crept ever nearer and Trish had to begin before she could back out.

“I-It’s the doctor’s orders, i…if you please!”

She countered.

“I…I will be alright. I…I…”

Trish knew the words the sought their place on her tongue. They calmed her. Somehow, some part of her, faery gift or her own innate instinct on people kicked in.

“...I trust you, Frio.”

The frost giant was clearly at a loss for words. He looked utterly horrified at the thought of consuming this frail little woman, terrified she would break at his slightest touch.

Gods, was she brave. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

“You have known me for mere moments and you would trust me.”

Frio said.

“You are either a kind or foolish doctor.”

He opened his eyes again, fixing them upon the little human in front of his face.

“Are you certain you are willing to do this?”

Trish chewed her lower lip and went to his mouth, placing a hand on his lip. He tensed at the touch, felt something inside of him twist wonderfully. The doctor had no idea the effect she had.

“Yes. I cannot leave a patient to suffer. No matter who he is.”

Trish felt the careful weight of the giant's fingers on her upper arm. She felt the gentle stroke, a reassurance.

“You have my word that I will keep you safe.”

He spoke with conviction that gave Trish no doubt he meant what he said.

The faery doctor nodded, grabbed a few things from her pack and returned to his mouth.

“C…Could you…?” She said.

“Of course.”

Frio replied and turned over, mouth open wide and chin on the ground. The giant’s posture brought to mind a prostrated man praying to his god for salvation in one of the great temples.

Trish steeled herself for what would come next- for the horror she would find within this (thus far) gentle being’s belly. She lifted her foot onto his lip and hoisted herself inside. Her first step sank into his tongue. Trish felt his shuddering breaths rush past her.

Drool pooled quickly beneath the giant’s tongue. Was Trish making Frio salivate? The thought was unsettling yet…not fully unpleasant, to be delicious. Something to unpack when she wasn’t about to journey to the literal belly of the beast shortly. Trish lowered herself down, keeping a tight hold on a little satchel of supplies that thrummed with magic. She could hear the squelching of his throat, the way it seemed all too eager for her arrival.

“...You can..”

Trish whimpered

“S…Swallow me..”

Frio’s tongue slid her towards the back of his throat and she gasped in surprise. The giant stopped instantly.

“K-Keep going!”

Trish insisted.

Frio sighed passed her little body and pushed her past the point of no return with a deep, meaty gulp.

Trish had never been swallowed before and frankly, the entire experience was terrifying. She shook and stifled sobs as the darkness of Frio’s squeezing throat forced her downwards. Claustrophobia, the imminent destination below her- the faery doctor’s eyes prickled with tears as her whole body shuddered in fear. A powerful heart hammered behind Trish. Was Frio afraid too? The erratic pulse nearly deafened her as she felt the final squeeze before a free fall into an active stomach. She let out a cry, muffled by walls of thick flesh as she dropped into a pile of liquid that made her skin tingle. Trish gasped and scrambled backwards in the dark until she felt a solid wall at her back. A loud gurgle vibrated the fleshy chamber.

The inside of Frio’s belly was pitch black, humid but blissfully not sweltering; Trish had his frost giant nature to thank for that small blessing. The stomach grumbled again, the distinct sound of imminent digestion. Regardless of Frio’s wishes, the giant’s stomach viewed Trish as food. She would need to work quickly.

As Trish dug about in her bag of holding, she heard a muffled, yet booming voice cut through the squishing, wet sounds of bodily organs working around her.

“...Are you alright?”

Frio. He was checking on her.

“Y..Yes! I’m..I’m just getting to work.”

She shouted back. Would the giant even hear her? Evidently so, because his heart rate calmed some at the evidence of her well-being.

“I will give you five minutes, doctor, before I bring you back up.”

Frio stated firmly.

The time limit was a bit of a comfort, but it also meant she had a tighter deadline to find the hunter’s remains and figure out how to deal with his armour. Trish groped about her bag of holding until she found her quarry- a little piece of expensive parchment. It glowed faintly, then brighter when Trish read its incantation aloud. A trio of glowing lights, yellow like sunflowers illuminated the rippling space.

Immediately, Trish noted that she was wading ankle deep in masticated stew- and floating human bones. She yelped at the gruesome sight and started to hyperventilate, the sour air making her nearly sick as it stung her eyes and throat.  Trish reigned herself back in, thinking of her mother’s calm voice, lessons that ingrained deep in her psyche.

‘Deep breath. Assess the patient, find the ailment and the cause, determine the treatment.’

Trish’s lip quivered, her whole body trembling, but she cast her gaze around the inside of Frio’s stomach. Wrinkled pale blue flesh pressed in against her, writhing and alive. There was a mark along the lining and instantly, Trish knew it was the culprit of Frio’s pain. It weeped dark blue blood and appeared raw and angry, unable to heal when constantly irritated by the chaos of a working stomach.

“An open wound…”

Trish mused quietly to herself as she dug about in her bag for a solution. The holding enchantment afforded the doctor the ability to bring all manner of potions along to unique locations- and the perfect one for the job sat in her hands now, a soft lavender coloured liquid that resembled a milky sweet tea. Normally, Trish would have had a patient simply drink it but she doubted it would do little other than get lost in the rest of his stomach contents.

Trish felt her ankles begin to itch as stomach juices soaked through her stockings. She quickly but carefully poured the potion over the wound- and thankfully got enough on it before Frio let out a grunt of pain and the entire fleshy chamber shifted. Trish screamed as she was thrown backward against the opposite wall, the wind blown out of her. A splash of stomach liquid on her front made her panic. It burned.

“Gods, I am so sorry.”

The giant fretted.

Trish shoved a stomach wall, a silent reassurance that she was still alive and well, and heard the way Frio’s lungs filled and emptied like a relieved hurricane.

“Forgive me.”

She felt something press in against her. His hand, perhaps.

Trish found her balance again and toddered back over towards the site of the injury. It steamed and already, it was closing. Good. That would be enough.

And now, the disgusting bit.

Trish turned around with a grimace and stared down at the pile of bones surrounded by horrifically blood red, murky liquid. While even the bones had begun to slowly erode, the chain mail and the leather armour the hunter had worn over it remained nearly untouched. If the faint shimmer of magic rising off the articles was any indication, they were enchanted to be incredibly durable.

 Frio’s stomach let out a bubbling groan around Trish, the wrinkled walls closing in on her. She wobbled but mercifully stayed upright; Trish never would have recovered from falling on the hunter’s corpse.

“Whatever you have done is working wonders.”

The giant’s voice spoke again with a deep sigh. 

Trish chewed her lower lip. His relief would mean nothing if the armour made another wound. With that, the faery doctor let out a whine, picked up a vomit covered chain shirt and stuffed it into her bag of holding.

“Oh…Good heavens above…”

She gagged, the bits of tougher leather going in next. The bones Trish would leave. A frost giant could digest that when given enough time. The bag of holding would be the best method of transporting the indigestible bits out without potentially tearing up Frio’s throat even if Trish feared she’d never get the smell out.

Trish cinched the bag shut and found her voice again.

“I’m…I’m done!”

She called up.

Trish’s expulsion occurred faster than expected. Frio’s stomach lurched around the live human and propelled her and a load of chyme rapidly upwards. Trish’s shriek cut off in his throat.

Frio remained doubled over and coughed the little doctor up in a pile of half digested lunch. He caught his breath, then rolled over onto his side, his collapse like an earthquake.

The faery doctor stared up at the ceiling, panting, gulping in lungfuls of clean air.

Trish had just been in a stomach. In a stomach. In a giant’s bloody stomach.

And she was still alive to hopefully never tell the tale to a living soul.

She shivered in the open air, her whole body soaked and slimy. Trish felt dizzy, overwhelmed.

Shock prevented her from registering when a pair of massive, gentle hands slid beneath her body and lifted her up. Trish’s last view before passing out consisted of two frantic, pale eyes fixed upon her, and a soft, rumbling voice apologizing repeatedly and thanking her in a jumbled mess of words Trish felt too exhausted to make out.

[sandssavvy]

A playlist for Sean Finnerty:

I Don't Wanna Play Solider No More

I saw Candela Obscura: Needle and Thread, and Brennan Lee Mullugan promptly desroyed my soul with his character, Sean Finnerty. Here's a playlist for my favorite broken boy.

On spotify

On 8tracks

Click beyond the read more to see the songs and reasons behind the selection. Spoilers behind the cut.

Warning for mentions of depression, self-hatred, & suicidal ideation.

Things We Lost in the Fire

Song by Bastille

After the war he came back to nothing.

Sorrow

Song by The National

Is it a Sean Finnerty playlist without a song about him being consumed by depression after the loss of his brothers?

Zombie

Song by The Cranberries

It's the same old theme, since 1916

In your head, in your head, they're still fightin'

With their tanks and their bombs and their bombs and their guns

In your head, in your head, they are dyin'

In his mind Sean never truly left the war.

The Chemical Worker's Song (Process Man)

Song by Great Big Sea

This song obviously paints a picture of impoverished factory workers (like Sean's father) being slowly killed by their jobs. It also reminds me of Sean's certainty that he & Marion won't survive working for Candela Obscura and that the organization doesn't care what happens to them. Not to mention all the lower-class young men who died by his side on the battlefield.

They'll time your every breath

And every day you're in this place

You're two days nearer death

Red Right Hand

Song by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Many powerful figures manipulate and destroy the lives of the poor and destitute.

Therapy

Song by All Time Low

Ah yes, a song about depression, suicidal ideation, and covering it all up with jokes and humor. We know this boy would never get therapy after what happened to his ma.

Dust Bowl Dance

Song by Mumford & Sons

One of the few things keeping Sean going was vengeance against the men who destroyed his family. This section of the song is particularly fitting:

Well, you are my accuser, now look in my face

Your oppression reeks of your greed and disgrace

So one man has and another has not

How can you love what it is you have got

When you took it all from the weak hands of the poor?

Liars and thieves you know not what is in store

There will come a time I will look in your eye

You will pray to the God that you always denied

Then I'll go out back, and I'll get my gun

I'll say, "You haven't met me, I am the only son"

Blood on My Name

Song by The Brothers Bright

We all know Sean felt monstrous and had suicidal ideation. Beyond that, he believed he would die young in the war and in Candela Obscura. "They're going to keep sending me down those holes"

Day Three: Pain

Song by Ayreon

It's fair to say that a large portion of Sean's mind is consumed by pain, depression, and wrath.

Devil on My Shoulder

Song by Orla Gartland

Unfortunately, I couldn't find this one on spotify. To me this one fits somewhere in where Sean is considering the deal.

There you are the

devil on my shoulder

smiling as the

flames are growing colder

how can I believe in what I have?

Lose Your Soul

Song by DJ Filip and Dead Man's Bones

Sean doesn't see any value in his own soul or life anymore. He's afraid of himself, but he's determined to follow through with his plans.

Uprising

Song by Muse

Rise up and take the power back

It's time the fat cats had a heart attack

He could take the power away from at least 5 of the powerful men who ruined his family.

Who Are You, Really?

Song by Mikky Ekko

The freedom of no longer trying to keep up his mask of being alright and fight for what he wants.

Me and the Devil

Song by Soap&Skin

Sean making a deal with "another monster" that looks just like him.

The Lion and the Wolf

Song by Thrice

I think that Sean sees himself as the lion and the wolf of this song. The Lion is who he is at war or whenever the humor drops away and there is only violence. The wolf is how he sees himself the rest of the time. He could be mistaken for a friend or faithful companion but believes he is only a monstrous beast that destroys everything around him.

The lion's claws are sharpened for war

The wolf's teeth are red

And what a monstrous sight he makes

Mocking man's best friend

When both the wolf and lion crave

The same thing in the end

Elsa’s Song

Song by The Amazing Devil

Marion and the others try so hard to reach Sean, but part of him died in the war.

"The truth is, I'm not that different from Tony and Jimmy. What happened out there, I don't think I could ever come home"

Seven Devils

Song by Florence & The Machine

Sean's last plan was simple. Kill the men who destroyed his family, free his ma, and die during the shapeshifter's plan. If he refused the plan and lost the fight? His mom dies in the basement of the asylum. If he wins the fight, he still has no way of covering up the murders in the basement and getting his mom out legally without suspicion landing on her. Not to mention he was told there were many other shapeshifters (and some could seek vengeance on his ma), so the plan to bring Marion to the mother is the only one that saves Sean's ma. He has to unflinchingly follow through with the plan and not give anything away? Fine, he'll just die (hopefully before his friends can start dropping). He left his mother at Marion's home, hoping that the others would help her after Sean is dead. He throws himself into the watery underground tunnel and afterwards acts as callously as possible in the fight, hoping that he will be killed first and the rest will survive. He died thinking that the plan worked and believing Marion would be able to look after his mom.

"I'm not a gardener, and the world doesn't need me. It's better for me to go away."

"I don't want your money

I don't want your crown

See, I've come to burn your kingdom down"

"See, I was dead when I woke up this morning

I'll be dead before the day is done

Before the day is done"

Brennan Lee Mulligan, you gave me psychic damage. I'm never recovering from this character.

[number63liveblogs]

Babylon’s Ashes, Chapters 4 & 5

Wait, is the whole book going to be Free Navy members and Holden as point of view characters? Honestly that doesn’t bode well for the longevity of the organization, if the authors feel the need to cram all possible points of view into this one book.

Although Pa is already starting to see through Marco’s bullshit, so that’s kind of a given. Most likely we will end up seeing several different ways that people get disappointed in the Free Navy, with maybe one person who will stay with them until the bitter end.

It’s kind of funny how Pa is starting to see the cracks in Marco’s public persona, without thinking about the ways his whole ideology is rotten to the core, and how they’re on their way to being even worse than the people who oppressed them. I mean, there’s still time for that too, but it’s definitely funny how even his true believers are losing faith in him.

It’s also interesting to see Filip from a neutral point of view. Thus far we’ve seen him through the eyes of his mother, who loves him and knows what kind of an upbringing he’s had, and from his own point of view, which is its own thing.

And my rection is still: that poor boy, how his father has stunted his growth. There’s so much growing that he never got to do.

[nessieart]

IRIDESCENT GREENS

CHAPTER ONE

Summary: Revna was a little girl when she traveled to Midgard with her grandfather. Though, she can’t remember why. Pairings: ??? x Original Character WC: 2.8K AN: just getting this out of my draft box!!

Previous

Tønsberg, Norway. 1803. Two weeks later.

The young couple that took Raven in – the little girl could only remember that name – had tried to search the nearby villages for any signs of her parents. To no avail, and the couple were losing hope on ever finding them. Who would just leave a sweet, innocent girl to defend herself in the middle of nowhere?

The couple, Jan and his wife Ailin, had two children of their own. Two sons, the older Filip, was around Raven's age, 10, or so it appeared. The youngest, Lòni, was 6.

Said children were outside playing while the couple spoke quietly in their cabin. It was a decent sized home for the little family, one large room with a big fireplace, a wooden countertop lined one wall, a basin for water on the other, and a big table separating the space in the center. Two rooms off to the side of the front door led into bedrooms, one for Jan and Ailin, and the other for their boys, and now Raven.

“What if we never find her parents? Or any relative for that matter, Jan?” Ailin worried her hands together, pinching the skin to distract her from the laughter outside. “That poor girl out there has no one in the entire world. What are we supposed to tell her?”

Jan furrowed his brows, his dirty blond hair falling over his forehead when he bent his head down and blew out a breath of frustration. “I don’t know, love, but we can’t send her out there on her own,” he looked out the window and could see his boys running through the tall grass trying to catch up with Raven, her long dark hair shining in the sun. Jan looked at his wife. They both worried for her, “What if… what if we take her to see Amma?”

Ailin’s eyes grew wide, her hazel eyes shining with worry, “You know what people say about her, Jan. Do you think it’s best we take her to some- some…seið-kona, magic-woman?” She paces away from him and back again, “They say she takes the souls of children to stay alive. I won’t take our children and Raven to see that witch,” she hisses out the end of her sentence.

Jan thought about it for a while, looking out through the window to see his sons rolling in the grass with the little girl. Her eyes didn’t seem as sad today as they had been since they took her in. The light wasn't bright, but it was better than the dull stormy green they were the first few days they knew her.

When Raven arrived at their home, she quickly took a liking to the boys. She was good at helping Ailin with housework and better at distracting the boys with yard work by making it a game. Jan and Ailin noticed the girl was full of mischief, always playing small tricks and jokes with Filip and Lòni. The boys loved it, and they seemed to grow attached to Raven in such a short time.

Jan nodded, and looked at his wife, "she can stay - she should stay here," he held up his hand to stop his wife from any objection, "Kurt said I can take extra work down at the docks. It wouldn't be an issue."

***

A month has gone by, and Raven has woven herself into the hearts of her new adoptive family. Jan and Ailin never planned on having more children, but with the abrupt arrival of the little girl, they couldn't find themselves happier with the new addition.

Raven was a smart girl, for seemingly having no memory of who she was or where she came from. She knew things someone two or three times her age would know. What type of plants help with illness, others for tea, or what herbs are best used for sores and open wounds. Many times did the boys' scraps and cuts heal twice as fast whenever Raven prepared a salve.

She had said she 'just knew', when asked about it. Something in the recesses of her mind giving her muscle memory for healing or taking care of someone. Maybe wherever her home was, she too had siblings or relatives that were prone to injury.

It was a cool autumn evening, Raven was gathering herbs and plants near the forest edge. Filip and Lòni played off to the side, running around tree trunks and branches, waiting for her to finish. While Raven was tying the last bundle of herbs together, she heard a pained shout not too far from her.

She looked around, standing up straight with brows drawn together, "Filip? What was that?" She called to him, and a few moments later, he came scrambling out of the treeline, breath heaving and tears staining his face.

"Raven! Raven, please!" Filips frantic cries reach her before he does, "There's a beast in the woods! It-it has Lòni trapped under some roots!" He grabs her by the hand and begins to pull her along, basket of plants left and forgotten.

"What do you mean, a beast? Filip, please slow down!" Raven struggled to keep her feet under her as she was being pulled behind Filip, breath huffing out as they ran through the woods. Not a moment later, they come around a large tree to see an extremely large beast indeed. Hooves beating down into the earth, sending mud and moss flying with each scrape. The muscles rippled under thick fur as it snorted and shook its massive antlered head.

“Elgr,” whispered Filip, his voice laced with fear as he gripped Raven's hand even tighter. “I have never seen one so close to the village,” he tells her. He then points to a mass of tangled roots that act like a cage, half covered in moss and dirt, and a giant boulder tangled in the mess. In the back of the cage-like roots was a small figure, clutching at his knees and face buried in his arms as his sobs and sniffles echoed through the clearing.

The giant Elgr, elk, reared back and beat his massive antlers against the roots, scraping and shaking the moss and dirt free. Some parts of the roots came free as it brought its head back up. Standing at its full height, it seemed to tower over even the highest tree. Raven crept closer on silent feet as she came out from behind the tree, Filip trying to hold her back, but his fingers slipped from hers. He hisses out her name, trying not to draw attention to themselves.

Raven could see scaring across the beast's haunches and shoulder blades. Thick fur cut through to show skin with healed over deep wounds. What looked like spears and arrowhead wounds, some places across its back still had arrows sticking out of it, but it seemed the wounds had healed over, no longer causing pain. The massive antlers upon the beast's head were long and sharp like sword edges, its black fur deep like a starless night sky only marred by the scars upon its body. The heavy hooves beat against the earth again, and Raven swore she could feel it deep in her bones. The elgr thrusts its antlers against the roots again, tearing away more moss and dirt trying to get to Loni.

Without another thought, Raven ran forward and put herself between the roots and the massive beast in front of her. It let loose a loud bellow, it shook the very ground they stood on. Lòni let out a sob as he looked up. He saw Raven with her arms held wide, her hair free from her braids as it flowed long down her back in the wind. Lòni and Filip stared in awe. They swore she seemed just as large as the beast in front of her. She seemed immovable, set in her determination to protect the young boy she thought of as a brother.

ᛒᛖ ᚷᛟᚾᛖ, ᚷᚱᛖᚨᛏ ᛒᛖᚨᛋᛏ. ᛚᛖᚨᚡᛖ ��ᚺᛁᛋ ᚺᚢᛗᚨᚾ ᛒᛖ.

The words flowed out of her without a second thought, they sounded ancient and magical falling from her lips, the boys had no idea what she said, but they noticed the elgr raised its head to his full height and his breath fogged out of him in a giant snort.

Raven’s brows were set in determination as she stared down the beast in the eyes, her own eyes shining with unshod tears. She wasn’t going to let this creature cause any more harm to Lòni, or Filip, or anyone else, for that matter. The beast took a step toward her, his massive face lowering to look her in the eyes better. His eyes flashed with recognition for a moment, his eyes scanning her face before he sniffed at her, and a big exhale brushed the rest of her hair from her face.

Guds datter. Du snakker på gammelt språk. The giant’s voice echoed in the clearing and in her head. Raven dropped her arms and brought a hand to the elgr’s snout. He closed his eyes as she ran a hand up to his giant forehead and back down to his nose. A long exhale left the creature.

“Lòni, come out and follow your brother home,” Raven spoke over her shoulder to the boy. Her voice left no room for arguments, and Loni crawled out from his safe haven in the roots and ran to his brother. They embraced and looked back at Raven. “I will be fine,” she smiled at them. A blueish green glow lit up her eyes and surrounded her in waves of sparkles.

The boys stared at her for a moment, their feet stuck in place as Raven quietly spoke with the massive beast as if they were old friends. In a language, neither of them understood, but they felt the power in the words, the magic in them. With one final look, they left and made their way back home.

Daughter of Gods, you said. What did you mean? Raven spoke in that old tongue she had no idea she knew, but once she spoke it, she couldn't stop.

You are no mere mortal, Child. The elgr answered. You may look like the humans, but you are not one of them. It has been long since my kin has seen one such as you.

Do you know where I am from, elgr?

Frode- he tells her. My name, little one, is Frode. And I do not know where you hail from. Only that you are not of this world. Frode turns his head and nudges Raven to follow, so she does. She places a hand on his leg. She is just above his knee when he stands to full height.

Frode leads her deep into the woods, the canopy high and blocking out any sun from entering, whatever light does filter through. It's barely enough to light the way. Raven clings on to more fur as they delve deeper into the wood. He bends his large head down to her and tilts an antler to scoop her up in it. Raven fits perfectly in the smooth part of his massive antlers, and he can move at a quicker pace now that he doesn't need to wait for her small legs to keep up.

***

They traveled for a while, Raven drifting off into a light sleep as Frode carried them to wherever the destination was. It must have been dusk when Raven was jostled awake, the giant creature shaking his head to wake the girl.

We have arrived. He had said, lowering his head so Raven could slide off and onto the ground. She looked around the clearing, keeping a hand on Frode as they walked closer to the tall wooden building. The house was tall and angular, dark wood seemingly reaching up towards the sky the closer Raven walked towards the house.

A plume of smoke billowing steadily out of the chimney made the house even more ominous as she stepped up on the porch, and when she raised her fist to knock, she looked over her shoulder to Frode. He was still at the path that led back the way they came, his head bowed once to tell her to continue. Without further hesitation, Raven rapped her knuckles on the rough hardwood of the front door. She waited on baited breath for an answer, a noise of shuffling, or acknowledgment of her being there.

The door opened, creaking quietly on its hinges, Raven stepping into the cottage on hesitant feet, her shoulders pulled tight up to her ears as she walked further in the entryway. The house was warm and inviting, a clear contrast to the outside of the rickety building. A few boots were piled in the corner by the door, mud caked into the soles of well-worn boots. Above them were knitted shawls and sweaters, hung up on a makeshift coat rack, and a few wide brimmed hats took up the other spots.

Down the hall, there was a warm glow spilling onto the floor, like waves lapping at the shore, and Raven made her way further into the house. When she reached the doorframe the light was coming from, she could see a fireplace with the embers casting a light glow around the room. Candles lit on the counter and tabletops, a few dozen herbs in bundles drying overhead on one side of the ceiling, and the other had hanging dried meat. The room smelled of burning wood and wildflowers, roasted meat, and sweet cider. A large rippled paned glass window was on the right side of the room, the moonlight from outside pouring into the space and filling it with a serene light.

There was an older woman with her back facing Raven, her silver hair pulled back in braids that fell down her back. As she stood, she spoke into the space, “Come, child, come closer.” Her voice was honey sweet and accented, like Raven’s. The little girl walked further into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room as she approached the older woman.

"Who are you?" Raven said with more confidence than she felt.

The older woman smiled. She was pretty, Raven thought. Now that she could see the woman more clearly, she wasn't as old as she appeared, maybe mid-30s. Her hair was more straw colored than the silver, and it appeared to be in the moonlight. Her eyes were a deep and dark green, her skin fair. She was tall, taller than the people who lived in her small village.

"The people around here call me Amma," her eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she studied Raven.

"My name is Raven," she supplied, "I have heard the children talk about a witch in the woods. Is that you?"

Amma laughed, light and airy, and she placed a delicate hand on Raven's shoulder. "Oh, my dear, I am so much more than that."

It felt like all Raven's worries and problems faded away at the touch of her hand.

"What brings you all the way out to me, little bird?" Amma ushered her to sit at the table, and she sat across from her.

Raven shook her head slightly, a fog rolling in around her mind. Her brows creased, "I-I was…looking for someone." Her voice lifted at the end, almost like a question. Now that Raven thought about it or tried to, she couldn't remember why she came into the woods.

Amma took the girl's hand, and as she did, the Runes that were long since forgotten on the inside of her wrists lit up. Amma hummed in amusement, “Oh, my my. Someone doesn’t want you getting out now, do they?” Raven's brows furrowed as she looked down at her wrists. She never noticed them before, or did she?

“Do you know where I am from, Amma? I have been looking for my parents, but I have been lost,” Raven twisted her wrist a little, the rune shimmering in the candlelight.

Amma thought for a long moment, eyes searching the little girl up and down. She hummed in thought and waved her hand in the air. A shimmer of greenish gold glow came from her hands as she did. “I might have a notion of where you are from, little bird, but it may take some time. To make sure, you see?” Raven nodded slowly, the Runes on her wrist glowed again. “In the meantime,” Amma continued, releasing the girl's hand, “why don’t you stay here? I could use the help around the house and garden,” she smiled sweetly and folded her hands on the table.

Raven was nodding her head yes before Amma finished her sentence, “I would love to stay, Amma, thank you.”

The woman let out an airy laugh, saccharine, and hollow, “My little bird, you can call me Amora.”

[theidiootti1]

My Mysterious Scotcman•

Chapter: 2

There it was. Their target. Sitting on a chair back towards the crew, seemingly writing something that made him sigh and rub his forehead. Filip swallowed and his throath felt thight, this was really happening now. No backing down anymore.

*you can do it..c'moon don't be stupid chicken shite..*, Filip thought .

Finally the group leader moved forward and it was time for action. They catched that guy without him noticing anything. The guy fell of his chair and stumbled on floor trying to get away from us. The blond haired leader catched the back of his jacket and banged the guys face against the hard wooden table.

Filip had taken his gun from back of his jeans and now held it with both hands. His hands shaking and heart beating. Everyone had gathered around there. Few watching out of windows or keeping eye on the doors. When Filip saw the guys face he was shocked. That guy who they were supposed to kill. He wouldn't be more than a bit over 20 years. Filip swallowed and held his gun lower, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Shoot him", growled the leader who was standing beside the trembling body.

"DO IT!!" The other one yelled with really annoyed tone.

It was like the whole time stopped in that very place. The only thing that the young boy with a gun heard was his own beating heart. He rised his gun, not shaking anymore. He shot twice that young guy to head and he dropped to the floor while his life was escaping his body. Filip lowered his gun and sighed. He couldn't believe what he just did. He watched the growing dark puddle of blood that was leaking on the floor. He felt heavy clap on his shoulder, but he couldn't react.

"Great now let's get the hell out of here..", one of the crew members growled until one of the boys runned to the mainroom.

"Lads..we have company", he said with an scared expression.

"Shit...", the boss growled when there was sounds coming from the front door "They said that the place will be empty...god, let's go !!" He yelled and all started to run to the door. But one stayed almost like glued to the floor.

Filip just stood there. Still eyes glued to the body that was laying at his feet. He couldn't take his eyes away from it, he couldn't watch away from the mess on the floor. The guilt flowed through him.

"Who the fuck are you?!" Came the voice of an confused and pissed man

Filip rised his gaze finally breaking the spell but too late as the other guy who came from the behind of the guy who spoke. That man had gun in his hand and rised it . Filip didn't have time to react as the Next thing he felt was the fastly spreading pain at his thigh as the bullet hit his leg. He stumbled down on to the floor, beside the already cold body of their victim's. He forced himself up from the floor with final glance to the body .

"I'm Sorry", he mouthed and jolted towards the back door where they came in .

He heard angry shouts and yelling from behind him as the guys discovered their dead friend. They started chasing after him down the streets under the dark and rainy evening.

They say that adrenalin makes you do crazy things. It's meant to help you survive in dangerous situation. Maybe that and the shock from the pain was driving the young guy forward through the side streets. He didn't feel the burning pain of the shot wound as he ran as fast as his legs could go. He probably haven't ever run as fast as he did now.

The only thought that was running through his dead was the voice telling him *murderer*. Why was he so weak. What lead him into this situation.

*? POV*

The rain was still heavily assaulting the city of Belfast as I left my work place in hospital. I was casually driving my car and silently singing along with a song that was coming from the radio at low volume. I was totally in my own world as i started jamming along with the song. My whole day had been hectic and total chaos because of this wet rainy day.

I'm still not used to these rainy days, not even after a half of year of living now in this autumn time Ireland. Yes you heard right. I am not from here. I was born and rised in the United States, I had lived my whole life there. Until that one day when i just wanted to get away and have a fresh start. Change of the scenario as you would say. So I ended up here, in this happy place called Belfast. I moved to live with my aunt who happened to live here and she gave me an offer to come to her place and crash there. I took the offer and soon I found myself from here. No one wouldn't believe that nor would I had as a kid. After few months of living on my aunts hair i decided to get my own place. I moved to live with my one long term friend who had moved here few years before me. We were almost like sisters before she moved to be closer to her family. Now we lived in the same house like some teenagers.

I started working in the hospital as a nurse. The job that i had went to school for. I think i always wanted to work in medical side. I loved helping peoples it was some sort of calling for me, but sometimes the hard job and being the superhero of the day can suck all your juices away and left you all weary. Like today. From all the days, today everyone chosed to break what ever bone they can break or fall at home and fracture something. Sick elderly people coming to reception just hoping for a chat with someone. There actually never was anything wrong just normal old peoples stuff. The list goes on and on. I was totally ready to get to my bed, pull the blanket over my head and sleep for the next 24 hours. Straight. Not kidding.

As I drived down the dark and dimly lit street, only the cars light illuminating the road with yellow light. I wasn't prepared that someone would be outside at this time of the night. There wasn't change for me to react faster than i did as some dark object run straight infront of my car getting hit by me. With a loud thud the dark object fell down onto the street from the force of the car.

I did fast brake and i rised my hands over my mouth. Did I just run over someone ?! All kind of scenarios started to run in my head as I opened the car door and i unbuckled my seatbelt. I hopped out of the car into the cold and wet air as i walked to the front of my car. On the ground there was laying dark clothed person who i assumed to be young man. He was hurriedly trying to get up from the street as i shook my head getting back into this moment.

"Hey, stay down !" I suddenly opened my mouth and the person tried to get up even faster but failed with their attempt. Apperently he was clutching at his leg.

I moved fast squating down and carefully placing my hand on the shaking body on the ground "Hey ? Did you get hurt ?" I asked. I immedietly mentally kicked myself. It was stupid question of course you get hurt when you get hit by a car. Stupid me.

The man still kept trying to get away from me what showed me that he couldn't be that much hurt. I studied him with my eyes in the light of my car and i saw blood on the street. The blood had to come from him and what ever it was that was bleeding, was bleeding heavily. And when i saw his bloody hands.

"Hey, don't move you are bleeding..", i said with a rised voice. I tried my best to stay calm and keep the man on the ground "You need to go to hospital..", I said as the man suddenly had his attention to me

"No hospital !!!", he growled at me "They..will find me", he Whispered almost with inaudible voice. He had an thick accent what was hard to understand. Even for me who was constantly around Irish and british accents. This was different.

I looked at him and then around to our surroundings. Who would find him ? What had this poor man put himself into. What ever it was i wouldn't liked to be part of that. No i was just an avarage working woman.

I was again snapped out of my thoughts as the man tried once again to get up but fell flat on his stomach on the wet street. Breathing heavily. It was more like huffing than breathing anyways. I needed to do something...it's my curse as an nurse I swore it in my vow.

Then the light bulp went on my head and i made probably the worst decision what you can make with completely stranger, but it was the only option at this point. I stumbled up from the ground and i sneaked my arms around his torso, getting only a painful grunts and growling from him

"C'moon help me a bit", i hissed at him and i got him up from the ground and to the backseat of my car we went. Slowly but we made it. After a little of fightning back, he was nicely seated there as buckled him up and i closed the door.

This mysterious man was already drifting from consciousness so i have to go fast. As i was walking around my car i saw dark clothed peoples at the end of the dark alley. I gulped and basically runned fastly to drivers side door and i hopped in . Fastly change gear and started driving forward. Those peoples didn't have any kind of nice vibe coming from them.

I looked at the backview mirror, and to the mysterious man who was now sitting at the backseat of my car. What the hell i was thinking about ?! Is he dangerous ?? What if those peoples were chasing him and they follow me back to our house . I couldn't put my finger on those thoughts and my heart kept racing the whole drive back to me and my friends house. As i watched at the rewiev mirror to the man who was hunched at the back seat i had feeling in my heart. I have to help him, I almost just killed him so i have it for him.

To be continued…

[owlespresso]

untitled emet fic

I take drabble/headcanon requests for 2 ko-fis. You can find my ko-fi HERE. This is a lewd fic. Be warned.

You draw your knees into your chest and don’t appreciate the coarseness of the bark at your back. Cicada chirps kick up again in the distance, thrown onto the forests already loud chorus. 

Only the shade and the scantness of your clothes protects you from the merciless heat, and even now, you’re sweating. It only figures that he’d call on you during one of the region’s worst heat waves. You have half a mind to ditch and swim in the nearby river. The sound of rushing water beckons like a siren’s sweet call.

“I half expected you not to show up,” Emet Selch’s languid drawl is all too familiar to you. He steps from the treeline and into the light, still clad in those thick, gaudy robes. How is he not dying from the heat? You’d be tempted to ask, but there are more pressing matters at hand, “What a good little hero, accepting a summons from the likes of me. Truly, your charitable nature is as generous as it is utterly foolish.”

You roll your eyes and sigh, bracing a hand against the tree trunk to stand to your full height. He towers over you regardless.

“Did you ask me to meet you here just so you could call me names?” you struggle to keep your voice flat, irritation already slipping through the cracks.

“Perish the thought!” he dismisses the prospect with a filipant wave of his hand, continuing his approach until he’s stood in front of you, the tree trunk still pressed against your back. A sense of uneasiness makes your skin crawl. He casts a shadow over you, the gleaming golds of his eyes seem to flash like dragon’s breath, framed by low eyelids, “I’m simply here to offer you… a favor,” he’s so close that his voice seems to touch every inch of your exposed skin.

“Alright, what kind of favor?” you squint suspiciously. Any “favor” he granted would wind up biting you in the ass. People like him didn’t hand out charity for the sake of it.

More than anything, you want to get out of his shadow, put some space between you. His aether presses tight to your own, relentless and oppressive. You take a broad step to the side, but a gloved hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you to him. You curse and stumble forward, landing face-first in his chest.

An arm wraps around your waist to both pull you closer and steady you. His body heat combined with the preexisting humidity makes you torid from the inside out, something tingly and unfamiliar settling in between your legs. Your hands reach for his sleeves, attempting to shove him away.

“What the hell!?” you seethe, lips curled back in the beginnings of a snarl.

“Hush, now. You fell and I was simply catching you,” The hand on your back doesn’t let go, and instead slid down, fingers splayed against the small of your back. Your pulse spikes, breath hitching because oh gods, his face is so very, very close.

It’s no secret that Emet-Selch as an incredibly, agonizingly handsome individual. Even with that awful, smug expression he usually dons. He gazes down at the people around him as though they are the mud beneath his sleek, black boots.

But he’s not looking at you like that.

The smile is wiped off his face, lips in a lax, straight line. His eyes are aglow with something new, something you’ve never seen on his face before. Awe, you recognize. Only awe. His nose is not even an inch from your own, and up close, you can admire the plush of his lips.

“You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?” his voice, a low maunder, sends a shiver down your spine, “A connection, something tethering us together?” one of his gloves reached up to cup your cheek, lips curling into the faintest of smiles, “Oh, poor hero. Yanked around by those who claim to care about you like a dog on a leash.”

“I’m not being yanked around,” you protest, voice much breathier than you would have liked it, “I want to help.”

“Do you? Or have you not known anything besides being the flawless savior they tout you as?” anger boils deep inside you at the pure gall of his suggestion, and you yanked backwards, away from his hand.

“You’re wrong,” you hiss and narrow your eyes at him, “And you know nothing about me! So stop assuming! I love my friends and I want to help them, and help the people who live here, too.”

“I don’t know anything about you, do I?” he echoes sardonically. His grin grows sour, but there’s no disguising the grief in it. A strange wistfulness takes root in your chest and shows on his expression. How strange, to glimpse vulnerability from someone usually so poised, someone who makes a show with his mere existence and betrays nothing beyond occasional aggravation.

It was gone as soon as it emerged.

“Your offer?” you ignore the unsubtle jab at your lack of understanding, because you’re unsure if you want to understand any of his hidden secrets or Ascian ways.

“Pleasures of the flesh,” he drawls.

Wait, what? Your utter befuddlement must show on your face because it coaxes a chuckle out of him.

“You’re pent up, hero. I can see it clear as day. All of these meaningless little errands you’ve been sent on have deprived of any time to enjoy yourself or the company of others,” he takes a broad step in your direction, eyelids lowering. A gloved hand reaches out to cup your cheek. In your astonishment, you let him, cheeks suddenly much too warm.

The iridescent golds of his eyes are near shadowed by his pupils, which have dilated, betraying an intense interest he likely wouldn’t have vocalized otherwise.

More than anything, you want to get out of his shadow, put some space between you. His aether presses tight to your own, relentless and oppressive. You take a broad step to the side, but a gloved hand wraps around your wrist, tugging you tight to his broad form. You curse as you stumble forward, landing face-first in his chest.

“Just the two of us,” he coaxes, voice low and velvety, “Just for an afternoon. No strings attached. You get to delight in my… talents, free of charge. Truly, I can’t think of a better deal” one of his knees shifts forward and you try to step back again, attempting to make sense of everything he’s offering.

Your first instinct was to snarl with rage, shake with anger at his pure audacity.

But he’s right, isn’t he?

The strong pull you feel towards him, as enigmatic and frightening as it is, cannot be ignored. Even now, your soul reaches for him, aether craves to join his own.

No strings attached, right?

No, no, this is such a bad idea!

It is. It is. But you can’t help how much you want him, how you long to wrap your arms tight around him and clutched him tighter. Your mouth feels dry. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

Wordlessly, instinctually, you nod.

“Good, good,” he purrs, and you hate how good the praise feels. His hands rise to press against your shoulders, pushing you backwards. You shout as the greenery of the forest passes by in a blur, brace for the impact of the ground against your back.

It never comes.

Rather, you hurtle through the air, the wind whooshing by as you fall and fall and fall down a tunnel of blurring colors and scenes, hands blindly grasping for any purchase.

“Emet Selch!” you snarl. Had this all been some elaborate ruse meant to trap you!? Your hands curl into fists, anger mixing with the cold sting of betrayal.

And then you’re in a bedroom, the chaotic blend of colors popping out of existence.

The room is dimly-lit and lavish, the mattress plush against your back. Your hands braced against the red comforter to push yourself into an upright position.

“Mine apologies,” Emet-Selch drawls. He melts from the shadows, eyelids lowered and lips curled in a sultry smile. His thick robes have been discarded, leaving him in a simple dress shirt and black slacks that compliment his sleek form, “I thought it best to relocate, unless you fancy a lay in the dirt?”

“Just warn me next time,” you give him a distasteful glout.

“Duly noted,” the mattress dips under his weight as he climbs towards you, a predator stalking among tall grass, the expanse of your skin a palpable buffet, “Now you’re certain you want this, yes? I don’t want any of your little friends coming for my head—”

“I’m sure!” you cut him off before he can insult about the Scions. As agonizingly handsome as he is, you can only stand to hear him badmouth your friends for so long before getting tired of it.

“Good, he says, voice lowered to a lascivious purr. His face is mere inches away from your own and your heart beats in your throat, fingers fisting into the plush comforter. 

Then his lips are on yours.

It’s a gentler kiss than you’d expected from him, slow, as though he’s taking the time to savor it (savor you). Just the idea of being cherished by him is somehow enough to make your cheeks feel warm.

Warmth you smother y pressing tight to him, roughening the osculation. Your hands grab his shoulders and you nip his lower lip, attempting to grasp some semblance of dominance. The only acknowledgement you get is a chuckle. How dare he!? Your frustration rises from a faint ebb to  a full wave, just in time for him to plant his hands on your chest and shove you back.

“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” he teases, but his voice betrays his breathlessness, “Let’s see what we can do about sating that hunger of yours.”

His fingers press together and snap.

A sudden chill ran over you as you realize, with surprisingly placidity, that you are naked.

“Ah, there you are,” his voice is the fondest you’ve ever heard it. His bare hand smooths over your stomach to rest on your hip, “So delectably soft under all that armor. It’s a shame—”

You kiss him again, if only to shut him up. Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders to pull him closer. The muffled noise of surprise he makes is well worth it. Your tongue draws over his lips in an attempt to coax them open, tilting your head for a deeper angle, shutting your eyes.

An involuntary sigh of relief leaves you as he finally opens his lips.

His uncharacteristic pliance ends  with the slow push of his tongue into your mouth. Your fingers curl into his dark tresses and tug. His knee presses ever-so-slightly to your moistening cunt, making you gasp and whine. Delighted little sounds which he greedily swallows down.

Your hips jolt upwards, eagerly grinding into the firmness of his thigh.

He plays your body. Your curves arch and roll depending on where he puts his fingers; your neck lolls to the side when his lips part from your own to journey there. He emblazons your skin with his ceaseless touches and you quickly forget yourself, content to nestle in his low burning hearth.

His teeth catch on your right shoulder. The hand not holding himself up greedily palms your breast, calloused skin teasing your nipple. The bud perks near instantly under his diligent attention and then—oh, he pulls on it, prompting a delighted cry from your kiss-bruised lips. He releases it, fingers curling your areola, mere millimeters from where you really want it.

“Emet!” you whine, arching your back.

“My sincerest apologies,” he says in a way that lets you know he doesn’t mean it. You scowl, grasping for coherency so you can properly ream him out—

Your efforts are made fruitless when he pinches with unrelenting vigor and bites hard at the crook of your neck. There’s going to be a mark there later, you realize at the back of your mind. He stokes the pyre between your legs, and already something hot and wet has gathered there, dripping from your untouched folds and onto the fine bedding.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” he teases, pulling your nipple ever so slightly and releasing it, watching your breast roll back into proper place with intrigue.

He paints over your skin with his lips and grips at the softness of your body. His eyes half-lidded in an expression almost too tender to suit him. He evokes your whines and moans, delights as you writhe. 

Desperate for something to cling to, you grip his shoulders tight. The scrape of your nails against his skin makes him hiss through gritted teeth.

And it’s satisfying to finally provoke a reaction from him.

He journeys down your body, sucking a mark to the underside of your breast, tongue tenderly lavishing over the blooming mark, fingertips dragging lightly over your side.

“Emet,” you breathe, watching him settle in between your legs. Your breath hitches, eyes widen as his gaze settles on your slick cunt with rapt attention. New warmth blossoms across your cheeks because oh gods, how did you even get here?

“Beautiful,” he praises. A single finger presses against your folds and slides up, coaxing a shiver.

…

And you’re plummeting again. The bedroom falls away and you scream, hands reaching up in vain. The air blasts by you, over your bare skin, disorienting you even as you “land” for a second time, blinking rapidly as you parse your new surroundings. It’s similarly lavish to the bedroom, all reds and silks with lamps nestled against the wall. The lighting is just as dim, and that’s all you get to see before he pops back into existence, blocking your view of the chamber.

There’s only him, you, and the plush chair you’ve been settled on.

“What part of ‘warn me next time’ didn’t you get?” you smack his shoulder, and he has the gall to roll his eyes, entirely unruffled and unremorseful. 

“My apologies,” he drawls, entirely hollow. You contemplate smacking him again, but the urge vanishes as he kneels between your legs.

Frustratingly, you want him to like what he sees.

His hands grip the backs of your thighs with surprising strength as his tongue licks a broad stripe up your slit. You sigh and lean your head against the cushioned back of the chair, thighs trembling as he repeats the motion. He pays thorough attention to every inch and piece, clouding your thoughts and stealing your coherency.

Every little flick and swirl of the swet muscle is low and explorative, causing the steady buzz between your thighs to rise into something more desperate and frustrated. 

Your hand instinctively reaches down to again grasp those dark locks, but your wrist is grabbed by something cold and firm, and decidedly not belonging to him.

A thick, black tendril clutches your arm to the chair. The sight of the alien limb makes you gasp, panic surging as a second secures your other arm. Your minute thrashing causes him to grumble and part from you, his lips glistening with your arousal.

“Hush, hero,” he soothes, smoothing a hand up your thigh, “They won’t hurt you,” and strangely enough, you believe him.

What even are they? You desperately want to ask, but his mouth is on you again and you shelve the question for much later. 

He slides a single digit inside of you, thumb against your clit and you decide to save the question for much, much later. He pulls whine after whine from you, nearly blinding you with each diligent stroke. 

There’s a second finger, a third (they’re already slick. With lube? How? You didn’t see or hear him apply any) and you’re biting your lip, the sensations compound. They undle together with the tight heat that ensnares your lower belly. Your eyes shut tight, head slamming against the back of the chair.

Your orgasm hits you before you can even process it, cunt clenching and spasming around his fingers. Your surroundings go near white, sight and sound fizzling into the background as the pleasure near drowns you. You breathe heavily as you regain your bearings, thighs trembling with the aftershocks, but he doesn’t relinquish his grip on them.

Oh, wait—

Cold tendrils, identical to the ones snaring your arms, slide up the backs of your thighs and curl around your knees, holding them open.

“Absolutely stunning,” Emet purrs, leaning over you. His forehead rests against your own. Up close, you can see the molten gold which hugs his pupils tight. His hands run you your sides to cup your breasts, giving a light squeeze. The head of his cock kisses against your folds. Your breath hitches, already oversensitive.

Somehow, he makes you want it anyway. Your hips nudge forward to try and press closer, urge him inside.

He chuckles, the noise dark and smoky.

And then he slides inside. Your cunt squeezes tight to his cock, breath stolen, pleasure thick and warm. You writhe helplessly against the chair, a listless mess of sensations. 

“Oh, sweet hero,” a calloused hand teases your breast, thumb swabbing over your nipple. The other cups your cheek, “They don’t know how lucky they are to have you.”

His words fall on deaf ears as he bottoms out, pressing a kiss to your temple. It’s a gesture much too kind for this relationship, this “no strings attached” coupling.

“They should be serving you on their hands and knees,” he continues, sliding his hips back and snapping them forward, beginning a steady pace that has you gasping for breath, “Worshipping the ground you walk on,” a hand at your side moves back down to tease your slit, “But no. They waste your talents, take you for granted,” he cuts himself off with a moan, breaths growing labored as he thrusts faster and harder.

Soon, his saccharine moans become a regular addition to the chorus, mingling with the sweet sounds of skin slapping against skin.

You’re hardly able to think about what he says, so helplessly overwhelmed, entrenched and entranced by him. He drowns out your thoughts with his smoky voice and velvet touch, makes you cry until your voice grows sore.

And then you cum under his soft praise and talented fingers, barely able to grasp for own ecstasy before he spills inside of you.

The carnal bliss is overwhelming. It warms you even as you gasp for breath and struggle to keep conscious, nearly content to nap. Your eyes shut, head rested against the back of the chair. He’s both delighted and exhausted you, leaving you helpless when he snaps his fingers.

There is no sensation of falling, no blurring of the room around you. Only blackness as you consciousness flickers out like a snuffled candle.

The relentless chirping of cicadas is what shakes you awake. The wood ceiling of the hut you’d taken temporary shelter fills your vision. Ah. Had it all been a dream? Your gaze flickers to the tiny windows. The darkness of late evening greets you.

Your hands braced against the hard mattress and grasp for the covers.

The marks that dot your skin and the blossoming ache between your legs tells you, very firmly, that it had not been a dream.

[interestingshitonmadikomgezrapou]

"On The Pleasure Of Hating" (c.1826)

THERE is a spider crawling along the matted floor of the room where I sit (not the one which has been so well allegorised in the admirable Lines to a Spider, but another of the same edifying breed); he runs with heedless, hurried haste, he hobbles awkwardly towards me, he stops -- he sees the giant shadow before him, and, at a loss whether to retreat or proceed, meditates his huge foe -- but as I do not start up and seize upon the straggling caitiff, as he would upon a hapless fly within his toils, he takes heart, and ventures on with mingled cunning, impudence and fear. As he passes me, I lift up the matting to assist his escape, am glad to get rid of the unwelcome intruder, and shudder at the recollection after he is gone. A child, a woman, a clown, or a moralist a century ago, would have crushed the little reptile to death-my philosophy has got beyond that -- I bear the creature no ill-will, but still I hate the very sight of it. The spirit of malevolence survives the practical exertion of it. We learn to curb our will and keep our overt actions within the bounds of humanity, long before we can subdue our sentiments and imaginations to the same mild tone. We give up the external demonstration, the brute violence, but cannot part with the essence or principle of hostility. We do not tread upon the poor little animal in question (that seems barbarous and pitiful!) but we regard it with a sort of mystic horror and superstitious loathing. It will ask another hundred years of fine writing and hard thinking to cure us of the prejudice and make us feel towards this ill-omened tribe with something of "the milk of human kindness," instead of their own shyness and venom.

Nature seems (the more we look into it) made up of antipathies: without something to hate, we should lose the very spring of thought and action. Life would turn to a stagnant pool, were it not ruffled by the jarring interests, the unruly passions, of men. The white streak in our own fortunes is brightened (or just rendered visible) by making all around it as dark as possible; so the rainbow paints its form upon the cloud. Is it pride? Is it envy? Is it the force of contrast? Is it weakness or malice? But so it is, that there is a secret affinity, a hankering after, evil in the human mind, and that it takes a perverse, but a fortunate delight in mischief, since it is a never-failing source of satisfaction. Pure good soon grows insipid, wants variety and spirit. Pain is a bittersweet, wants variety and spirit. Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal. Do we not see this principle at work everywhere? Animals torment and worry one another without mercy: children kill flies for sport: every one reads the accidents and offences in a newspaper as the cream of the jest: a whole town runs to be present at a fire, and the spectator by no means exults to see it extinguished. It is better to have it so, but it diminishes the interest; and our feelings take part with our passions rather than with our understandings. Men assemble in crowds, with eager enthusiasm, to witness a tragedy: but if there were an execution going forward in the next street, as Mr. Burke observes, the theater would be left empty. A strange cur in a village, an idiot, a crazy woman, are set upon and baited by the whole community. Public nuisances are in the nature of public benefits. How long did the Pope, the Bourbons, and the Inquisition keep the people of England in breath, and supply them with nicknames to vent their spleen upon! Had they done us any harm of late? No: but we have always a quantity of superfluous bile upon the stomach, and we wanted an object to let it out upon. How loth were we to give up our pious belief in ghosts and witches, because we liked to persecute the one, and frighten ourselves to death with the other! It is not the quality so much as the quantity of excitement that we are anxious about: we cannot bear a state of indifference and ennui: the mind seems to abhor a vacuum as much as ever nature was supposed to do. Even when the spirit of the age (that is, the progress of intellectual refinement, warring with our natural infirmities) no longer allows us to carry our vindictive and head strong humours into effect, we try to revive them in description, and keep up the old bugbears, the phantoms of our terror and our hate, in imagination. We burn Guy Fawx in effigy, and the hooting and buffeting and maltreating that poor tattered figure of rags and straw makes a festival in every village in England once a year. Protestants and Papists do not now burn one another at the stake: but we subscribe to new editions of Fox's Book of Martyrs; and the secret of the success of the Scotch Novels is much the same-they carry us back to the feuds, the heart-burnings, the havoc, the dismay, the wrongs, and the revenge of a barbarous age and people-to the rooted prejudices and deadly animosities of sects and parties in politics and religion, and of contending chiefs and clans in war and intrigue. We feel the full force of the spirit of hatred with all of them in turn. As we read, we throw aside the trammels of civilization, the flimsy veil of humanity. "Off, you lendings!" The wild beast resumes its sway within us, we feel like hunting animals, and as the hound starts in his sleep and rushes on the chase in fancy the heart rouses itself in its native lair, and utters a wild cry of joy, at being restored once more to freedom and lawless unrestrained impulses. Every one has his full swing, or goes to the Devil his own way. Here are no Jeremy Bentham Panopticons, none of Mr. Owen's impassable Parallelograms1 (Rob Roy would have spurred and poured a thousand curses on them), no long calculations of self-interest -- the will takes its instant way to its object, as the mountain-torrent flings itself over the precipice: the greatest possible good of each individual consists in doing all the mischief he can to his neighbour: that is charming, and finds a sure and sympathetic chord in every breast! So Mr. Irving2, the celebrated preacher, has rekindled the old, original, almost exploded hell-fire in the aisles of the Caledonian Chapel, as they introduce the real water of the New River at Sadler's Wells, to the delight and astonishment of his fair audience. 'Tis pretty, though a plague, to sit and peep into the pit of Tophet, to play at snap-dragon with flames and brimstone (it gives a smart electrical shock, a lively filip to delicate constitutions), and to see Mr. Irving, like a huge Titan, looking as grim and swarthy as if he had to forge tortures for all the damned! What a strange being man is! Not content with doing all he can to vex and hurt his fellows here, "upon this bank and shoal of time," where one would think there were heartaches, pain, disappointment, anguish, tears, sighs, and groans enough, the bigoted maniac takes him to the top of the high peak of school divinity to hurl him down the yawning gulf of penal fire; his speculative malice asks eternity to wreak its infinite spite in, and calls on the Almighty to execute its relentless doom! The cannibals burn their enemies and eat them in good-fellowship with one another: meed Christian divines cast those who differ from them but a hair's-breadth, body and soul into hellfire for the glory of God and the good of His creatures! It is well that the power of such persons is not co-ordinate with their wills: indeed it is from the sense of their weakness and inability to control the opinions of others, that they thus "outdo termagant," and endeavour to frighten them into conformity by big words and monstrous denunciations.

The pleasure of hating, like a poisonous mineral, eats into the heart of religion, and turns it to rankling spleen and bigotry; it makes patriotism an excuse for carrying fire, pestilence, and famine into other lands: it leaves to virtue nothing but the spirit of censoriousness, and a narrow, jealous, inquisitorial watchfulness over the actions and motives of others. What have the different sects, creeds, doctrines in religion been but so many pretexts set up for men to wrangle, to quarrel, to tear one another in pieces about, like a target as a mark to shoot at? Does any one suppose that the love of country in an Englishman implies any friendly feeling or disposition to serve another bearing the same name? No, it means only hatred to the French or the inhabitants of any other country that we happen to be at war with for the time. Does the love of virtue denote any wish to discover or amend our own faults? No, but it atones for an obstinate adherence to our own vices by the most virulent intolerance to human frailties. This principle is of a most universal application. It extends to good as well as evil: if it makes us hate folly, it makes us no less dissatisfied with distinguished merit. If it inclines us to resent the wrongs of others, it impels us to be as impatient of their prosperity. We revenge injuries: we repay benefits with ingratitude. Even our strongest partialities and likings soon take this turn. "That which was luscious as locusts, anon becomes bitter as coloquintida;" and love and friendship melt in their own fires. We hate old friends: we hate old books: we hate old opinions; and at last we come to hate ourselves.

I have observed that few of those whom I have formerly known most intimate, continue on the same friendly footing, or combine the steadiness with the warmth of attachment. I have been acquainted with two or three knots of inseparable companions, who saw each other "six days in the week;" that have been broken up and dispersed. I have quarrelled with almost all my old friends' (they might say this is owing to my bad temper, but) they have also quarrelled with one another. What is become of "that set of whist-players," celebrated by Elia in his notable Epistle to Robert Southey, Esq.3 (and now I think of it - that I myself have celebrated in this very volume4) "that for so many years called Admiral Burney friend?" They are scattered, like last year's snow. Some of them are dead, or gone to live at a distance, or pass one another in the street like strangers, or if they stop to speak, do it as coolly and try to cut one another as soon as possible. Some of us have grown rich, others poor. Some have got places under Government, others a niche in the Quarterly Review. Some of us have dearly earned a name in the world; whilst others remain in their original privacy. We despise the one, and envy and are glad to mortify the other. Times are changed; we cannot revive our old feelings; and we avoid the sight, and are uneasy in the presence of, those who remind us of our infirmity, and put us upon an effort at seeming cordiality which embarrasses ourselves, and does not impose upon our quondam associates. Old friendships are like meats served up repeatedly, cold, comfortless, and distasteful. The stomach turns against them. Either constant intercourse and familiarity breed weariness and contempt; if we meet again after an interval of absence, we appear no longer the same. One is too wise, another too foolish, for us; and we wonder we did not find this out before. We are disconcerted and kept in a state of continual alarm by the wit of one, or tired to death of the dullness of another. The good things of the first (besides leaving strings behind them) by repetition grow stale, and lose their startling effect; and the insipidity of the last becomes intolerable. The most amusing or instructive companion is best like a favorite volume, that we wish after a time to lay upon the shelf; but as our friends are not willing to be laid there, this produces a misunderstanding and ill-blood between us. Or if the zeal and integrity of friendship is not abated, or its career interrupted by any obstacle arising out of its own nature, we look out for other subjects of complaint and sources of dissatisfaction. We begin to criticize each other's dress, looks, general character. "Such a one is a pleasant fellow, but it is a pity he sits so late!" Another fails to keep his appointments, and that is a sore that never heals. We get acquainted with some fashionable young men or with a mistress, and wish to introduce our friend; but be is awkward and a sloven, the interview does not answer, and this throws cold water on our intercourse. Or he makes himself obnoxious to opinion; and we shrink from our own convictions on the subject as an excuse for not defending him. All or any of these causes mount up in time to a ground of coolness or irritation; and at last they break out into open violence as the only amends we can make ourselves for suppressing them so long, or the readiest means of banishing recollections of former kindness so little compatible with our present feelings. We may try to tamper with the wounds or patch up the carcase of departed friendship; but the one will hardly bear the handling, and the other is not worth the trouble of embalming! The only way to be reconciled to old friends is to part with them for good: at a distance we may chance to be thrown back ( in a waking dream) upon old times and old feelings: or at any rate we should not think of renewing our intimacy, till we have fairly spit our spite or said, thought, and felt all the ill we can of each other. Or if we can pick a quarrel with some one else, and make him the scape-goat, this is an excellent contrivance to heal a broken bone. I think I must be friends with Lamb again, since he has written that magnanimous Letter to Southey, and told him a piece of his mind! I don't know what it is that attaches me to H---so much, except that he and I, whenever we meet, sit in judgment on another set of old friends, and "carve them as a dish fit for the Gods". There with L [Leigh Hunt], John Scott, Mrs. [Montagu], whose dark raven locks make a picturesque background to our discourse, B---, who is grown fat, and is, they say, married, R[ickman]; these had all separated long ago, and their foibles are the common link that holds us together.5 We do not affect to condole or whine over their follies; we enjoy, we laugh at them, till we are ready to burst our sides, "sans intermissions for hours by the dial." We serve up a course of anecdotes, traits, master-strokes of character, and cut and hack at them till we are weary. Perhaps some of them are even with us. For my own part, as I once said, I like a friend the better for having faults that one can talk about. "Then," said Mrs. [Montagu], " you will cease to be a philanthropist!" Those in question were some of the choice-spirits of the age, not "fellows of no mark or likelihood'; and we so far did them justice: but it is well they did not hear what we sometimes said of them. I care little what any one says of me, particularly behind my back, and in the way of critical and analytical discussion: it is looks of dislike and scorn that I answer with the worst venom of my pen. The expression of the face wounds me more than the expressions of the tongue. If I have in one instance mistaken this expression, or resorted to this remedy where I ought not, I am sorry for it. But the face was too fine over which it mantled, and I am too old to have misunderstood it!...I sometimes go up to -----'s; and as often as I do, resolve never to go again. I do not find the old homely welcome. The ghost of friendship meets me at the door, and sits with me all dinner-time. They have got a set of fine notions and new acquaintances. Allusions to past occurrences are thought trivial, nor is it always safe to touch upon more general subjects. M. does not begin as he formerly did every five minutes, "Fawcett used to say," &c. That topic is something worn. The girls are grown up, and have a thousand accomplishments. I perceive there is a jealousy on both sides. They think I give myself airs, and I fancy the same of them. Every time I am asked, "If I do not think Mr. Washington Irving a very fine writer?" I shall not go again till I receive an invitation for Christmas Day in company with Mr. Liston. The only intimacy I never found to flinch or fade was a purely intellectual one. There was none of the cant of candour in it, none of the whine of mawkish sensibility. Our mutual acquaintance were considered merely as subjects of conversation and knowledge, not all of affection. We regarded them no more in our experiments than "mice in an air-pump:" or like malefactors, they were regularly cut down and given over to the dissecting-knife. We spared neither friend nor foe. We sacrificed human infirmities at the shrine of truth. The skeletons of character might be seen, after the juice was extracted, dangling in the air like flies in cobwebs; or they were kept for future inspection in some refined acid. The demonstration was as beautiful as it was new. There is no surfeiting on gall: nothing keeps so well as a decoction of spleen. We grow tired of every thing but turning others into ridicule, and congratulating ourselves on their defects.

We take a dislike to our favourite books, after a time, for the same reason. We cannot read the same works for ever. Our honey-moon, even though we wed the Muse, must come to an end; and is followed by indifference, if not by disgust. There are some works, those indeed that produce the most striking effect at first by novelty and boldness of outline, that will not bear reading twice: others of a less extravagant character, and that excite and repay attention by a greater nicety of details, have hardly interest enough to keep alive our continued enthusiasm. The popularity of the most successful writers operates to wean us from them, by the cant and fuss that is made about them, by hearing their names everlastingly repeated, and by the number of ignorant and indiscriminate admirers they draw after them: - we as little like to have to drag others from their unmerited obscurity, lest we should be exposed to the charge of affectation and singularity of taste. There is nothing to be said respecting an author that all the world have made up their minds about: it is a thankless as well as hopeless task to recommend one that nobody has ever heard of. To cry up Shakespear as the god of our idolatry, seems like a vulgar national prejudice: to take down a volume of Chaucer, or Spenser, or Beaumont and Fletcher, or Ford, or Marlowe, has very much the look of pedantry and egotism. I confess it makes me hate the very name of Fame and Genius, when works like these are "gone into the wastes of time," while each successive generation of fools is busily employed in reading the trash of the day, and women of fashion gravely join with their waiting-maids in discussing the preference between the Paradise Lost and Mr. Moore's Loves of the Angels. I was pleased the other day on going into a shop to ask, "If they had any of the Scotch Novels?" to be told - "That they had just sent out the last, Sir Andrew Wylie!" - Mr. Galt will also be pleased with this answer! The reputation of some books is raw and unaired: that of others is worm-eaten and mouldy. Why fix our affections on that which we cannot bring ourselves to have faith in, or which others have long ceased to trouble themselves about? I am half afraid to look into Tom Jones, lest it should not answer my expectations at this time of day; and if it did not, I would certainly be disposed to fling it into the fire, and never look into another novel while I lived. But surely, it may be said, there are some works that, like nature, can never grow old; and that must always touch the imagination and passions alike! Or there are passages that seem as if we might brood over them all our lives, and not exhaust the sentiments of love and admiration they excite: they become favourites, and we are fond of them to a sort of dotage. Here is one:

---"Sitting in my window

Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,

I thought (but it was you), enter our gates;

My blood flew out and back again, as fast

As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in

Like breath; then was I called away in haste

To entertain you: never was a man

Thrust from a sheepcote to a sceptre, raised

So high in thoughts as I; you left a kiss

Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep

From you for ever. I did hear you talk

Far above singing!"A passage like this, indeed, leaves a taste on the palate like nectar, and we seem in reading it to sit with the Gods at their golden tables: but if we repeat it often in ordinary moods, it loses its flavour, becomes vapid, "the wine of poetry is drank, and but the lees remain." Or, on the other hand, if we call in the air of extraordinary circumstances to set it off to advantage, as the reciting it to a friend, or after having our feelings excited by a long walk in some romantic situation, or while we---"play with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair"---we afterwards miss the accompanying circumstances, and instead of transferring the recollection of them to the favourable side, regret what we have lost, and strive in vain to bring back "the irrevocable hour" - wondering in some instances how we survive it, and at the melancholy blank that is left behind! The pleasure rises to its height in some moment of calm solitude or intoxicating sympathy, declines ever after, and from the comparison and conscious falling-off, leaves rather a sense of satiety and irksomeness behind it... "Is it the same in pictures?" I confess it is, with all but those from Titian's hand. I don't know why, but an air breathes from his landscapes, pure, refreshing, as if it came from other years; there is a look in his faces that never passes away. I saw one the other day. Amidst the heartless desolation and glittering finery of Fonthill, there is a portfolio of the Dresden Gallery. It opens, and a young female head looks from it; a child, yet woman grown; with an air of rustic innocence and the graces of a princess, her eyes like those of doves, the lips about to open, a smile of pleasure dimpling the whole face, the jewels sparkling in her crisped hair, her youthful shape compressed in a rich antique dress, as the bursting leaves contain the April buds! Why do I not call up this image of gentle sweetness, and place it as a perpetual barrier between mischance and me? - It is because pleasure asks a greater effort of the mind to support it than pain; and we turn after a little idle dalliance from what we love to what we hate!

As to my old opinions, I am heartily sick of them. I have reason, for they have deceived me sadly. I was taught to think, and I was willing to believe, that genius was not a bawd, that virtue was not a mask, that liberty was not a name, that love had its seat in the human heart. Now I would care little if these words were struck out of the dictionary, or if I had never heard them. They are become to my ears a mockery and a dream. Instead of patriots and friends of freedom, I see nothing but the tyrant and the slave, the people linked with kings to rivet on the chains of despotism and superstition. I see folly join with knavery, and together make up public spirit and public opinions. I see the insolent Tory, the blind Reformer, the coward Whig! If mankind had wished for what is right, they might have had it long ago. The theory is plain enough; but they are prone to mischief, "to every good work reprobate." I have seen all that had been done by the mighty yearnings of the spirit and intellect of men, "of whom the world was not worthy," and that promised a proud opening to truth and good through the vista of future years, undone by one man, with just glimmering of understanding enough to feel that he was a king, but not to comprehend how he could be king of a free people! I have seen this triumph celebrated by poets, the friends of my youth and the friends of men, but who were carried away by the infuriate tide that, setting in from a throne, bore down every distinction of right reason before it; and I have seen all those who did not join in applauding this insult and outrage on humanity proscribed, hunted down (they and their friends made a byword of), so that it has become an understood thing that no one can live by his talents or knowledge who is not ready to prostitute those talents and that knowledge to betray his species, and prey upon his fellow- man. "This was some time a mystery: but the time gives evidence of it." The echoes of liberty had awakened once more in Spain, and the mornings of human hope dawned again: but that dawn has been overcast by the foul breath of bigotry, and those reviving sounds stifled by fresh cries from the time-rent towers of the Inquisition - man yielding (as it is fit he should) first to brute force, but more to the innate perversity and dastard spirit of his own nature which leaves no room for farther hope or disappointment. And England, that arch-reformer, that heroic deliverer, that mouther about liberty, and tool of power, stands gaping by, not feeling the blight and mildew coming over it, nor its very bones crack and turn to a paste under the grasp and circling folds of this new monster, Legitimacy! In private life do we not see hypocrisy, servility, selfishness, folly, and impudence succeed, while modesty shrinks from the encounter, and merit is trodden under foot? How often is "the rose plucked from the forehead of a virtuous love to plant a blister there!" What chance is there of the success of real passion? What certainty of its continuance? Seeing all this as I do, and unravelling the web of human life into its various threads of meanness, spite, cowardice, want of feeling, and want of understanding, of indifference towards others, and ignorance of ourselves, - seeing custom prevail over all excellence, itself giving way to infamy - mistaken as I have been in my public and private hopes, calculating others from myself, and calculating wrong; always disappointed where I placed most reliance; the dupe of friendship, and the fool of love; - have I not reason to hate and to despise myself? Indeed I do; and chiefly for not having hated and despised the world enough.

_______________________________

FOOTNOTES:

[1]

Panopticons was the name given by

Bentham

to a proposed form of prison of circular shape having cells built round and fully exposed towards a central well, from which the jail keepers could at all times observe the prisoners.

Robert Owen

was the first in a line of 19th century socialists who in fact carried out experiments at his cotton mills at New Lanark mill where he erected a block of buildings in the form of a parallelogram to house the workers.

[2] Hazlitt refers to Edward Irving (1792-34), the Scottish divine and mystic who took over the Caledonian Church, Hatton Garden, London, and where he enjoyed a phenomenal success as a preacher.

[3] Lamb's Epistle to Robert Southey, Esq., was published in the London Magazine, Oct. 1823. See my page on Robert Southey.

[4] "On the Conversations of Authors" by Hazlitt and which first appeared in Sep. of 1820, and which was in his book of essays, The Plain Speaker (1826).

[5] Hazlitt seems to be referring to most of those who gathered at Lamb's house, c. 1808, more Lamb's friends than Hazlitt's: Captain Burney, Martin, his son; Wm. Ayrton, musician; James White, treasurer at Christ's Hospital; John Rickman, clerk to the speaker; Edward "Ned" Phillips, another clerk and Rickman's successor; Geo. Dyer; Joseph Hume; et al. One could have seen them at the residence of Charles and Mary Lamb where they met every Wednesday night; for discussion, cribbage and whist.

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

Chivalry

This is for the first prompt of rare pair week, which is First Meeting

England was excited that he was leaving his own island on an adventure. And it wasn’t just an adventure; it was a crusade to free Christians from the grips of a Muslim occupation, or so his king had said. 

His king had explained that it was a sacred calling and it would do England great honor to go with them, even though he would not go all the way to the Holy Land. There was a fight against the Muslims closer, so his king had said, and they would aid with that first. 

That was why England was on a ship crossing the channel, though some of the knight had objected. He knew why they did not want him in battle, even though the understanding irritated him. He was still very young, only beginning to grow out of the body of a child. But, old enough, he thought, to be trusted to handle himself well enough. He had learned how to use a sword and ride and shoot a bow long ago; his brothers had been good teachers.

But, he had never traveled before, not far away at least. The only other countries he had met were his brothers, and France. His brothers were men with their own affairs to deal with, which meant they disregarded him.

France was a strange mocking peacock, and England was at a loss of what to think of such a man. But, the Frenchman’s words came back to him in quiet moments, the jibes at his poor French, his lack of fashion, and his messy hair. 

England was glad to be sailing away in this moment to somewhere new; especially after the vicious years of civil war he had endured. Everything was calming now, but he still longed to see somewhere different, somewhere where the sun shone brightly through the year, somewhere unlike his foggy island.

He pulled his cloak around himself as the cold wind from the channel blew around him. His mind was far away from this cold wet shore, full of the words of poets and troubadours. He was going to help another country to free themselves from an occupying force. He would arrive in a suit of new armor like a knight from a poet’s story. 

He thought, perhaps he would meet the person he was destined to love like the knights in the poems. Those were the stories he loved best, the knight who loved so truly that he would do anything his lady asked. It was so romantic to think that love like that could exist. 

He smiled to himself, even though the wind was cold and he hardly knew what would come. Nothing could dampen his spirits now.

The march from the landing to the city was beautiful, and England found it hard not to stare at the beautiful landscape. It seemed that so much was green here, and trees heavy with fruit. It was so different and captivating. It was how he would imagine paradise to look.

When they approached the city that was under siege, which he was told was called Lisbon, he noticed the beautiful cliffs above the bluest ocean he had ever seen. England couldn’t help but compare them to his own white cliffs at Dover.

 It was so wonderful to be here that he smiled as he leaned back in his saddle. That earned him a glare from the knight riding next to him. How could someone focus only on fighting when there was beauty all around? But, he was mortified by the idea that he was being a wide-eyed child during an important campaign.

It would give his king a reason to make him stay in London next time there was the opportunity. So, to show that he was old enough and strong enough to be here, England straightened up in his saddle and put on what he thought was a stern face. But, beneath it, he was still basking in the beauty of his new place. 

They eventually came upon the army they were supposed to help. It was arrayed in a sprawl of tents with colorful flags flying. It was more familiar to England to see war so close, after the years he had spent seeing the civil war in his own home. 

They were met by a contingent of knights, dressed in gleaming armor. England’s commander halted their party and said, “We are here to assist in the siege.”

The knight across from them nodded curtly  and said, in French, “We are happy to accept King Stephen’s help.” 

England understood French, though he knew he spoke it with a heavy accent. All of his kings and their courts spoke it, so he had no choice but to learn. 

His attention wandered from the knight who was speaking to the young man next to him. He appeared to be the same age as England, or close enough.He had smiling eyes, and a strong olive undertone to his skin. His hair fell in brown waves to the nape of his neck; the glint of the sun off of it was enchanting. 

England supposed that this must be Portugal. The other country caught him staring and smiled. And he felt his cheeks warming, and he hoped that it was just the effect of the bright sun on his face.

 He was just a little bumpkin; France always said so. There was no reason for a boy with beautiful eyes should be smiling at him like that. Perhaps it was only because he had come as aid in an important moment. He decided that the reason could not be more complicated than gratitude

Once his knights had set up camp, England took off his armor. A siege did not require him to be on guard at every moment. So, he could take off his armor and strip down to his linen shirt. He had a woolen tunic, but it seemed foolish for him to have in a land this warm.

Instead, he pulled on another tunic of embroidered linen. It was not fine, but it was a forest green that he thought matched his eyes. He was still thinking of the way that his new ally had smiled at him, and it made him want to appear fashionable for once.

When he stepped out of his tent, he noticed that there was a messenger standing just outside. Not certain what to expect, England turned to the man. Before he could question anything, the man spoke, “Portugal would like to invite you to dinner.” 

England felt himself smiling before he remembered that it was neither polite nor fashionable to do so. He answered quickly, “I will gladly accept.” 

He could feel excitement rising at the idea that he could have a friend. The messenger beckoned him to follow, and he did. They wove through the encampment, until they reached a particularly large tent. 

The man stepped aside and England took it as a sign to proceed. He stepped inside of the tent. Portugal was standing there, waiting for him. It took England a moment to take in the fact that Portugal had changed his clothing as well. He was now wearing a red silk tunic that reached to his knees. He had a belt of green silk slung around his waist.

It was strange to England, because he had never seen anything like it. But, he thought, he was often behind on fashion.  And the other did look dashing, like a prince from some foreign storybook. 

Portugal strode towards him and said, “You accepted! I am glad.” 

England found himself suddenly struck dumb. He had not thought of what he would say when he got here, only that he wanted the company. Without anything in mind, he resorted to speaking what he thought. He said, “I was hoping that we could be friends. My name is Arthur.” 

He thought that he should not be so forward, but he could not help it. He did not want to call each other by their titles all night; it would be so tiring. He would prefer that Portugal would call him by his human name.

Portugal smiled as he took one step closer and said, “That is my hope too. My name is Filipe, though I think that you say Phillip in your language. ”

With that, he turned and walked to a table that England had failed to notice. It was odd to him as well, because it was far lower than he was used to and there were no chairs. Instead, there was a rug covered in plush stuffed pillows.

Portugal sat on the floor amongst them like it was the most natural thing to do. England tried to hide his confusion. Why would someone sit on the floor to eat? 

He dare not question it, because it might just be a European custom, and asking would expose him as a ignorant boy. Instead, he sat in the nest of pillows on the other side, still tentative about this whole setting. 

Portugal apparently caught sight of his confusion, because he asked, “You are not used to dining like this, are you?”

England felt an unseemly blush mounting his cheeks, though there was no judgment or scorn in the other’s tone. He looked down as he tried to answer, “I have never done it before. Is this how people dine in Europe?”

He thought that asking was the best option, since he could not pretend he understood. Portugal replied, “I do not know. I have not met many of them. I have only lived with my brother and Al-Andalus for so long.” 

England leaned forward, excited to grasp this thread of similarity between them. He said, the words spilling clumsily over each other in his haste, “Then you’re like me! I have had no one but my brothers.” 

He thought that he saw his own happy excitement mirrored in Portugal’s tanned face. The young man took a small fish from one of the many bowls in front of him and took a bite from it, pensively chewed and then said, “Then I suppose we both have a lot to learn.”

He chewed for another moment, while England eyed the food on the table carefully. He didn’t recognize most of it; it was so different from what grew in his home. But, it would be rude not to take anything. He took a piece of flat bread, and took an experimental bite. It was good, though very different than the white bread he was sometimes treated to.

Portugal continued, apparently unperturbed that his guest was eyeing the food with uncertainty, “I wish you could have met Antonio. He is my brother, and I think you would like him. He is very serious and ambitious, but he has a good heart. But, he is busy liberating his own lands.”

England swallowed his bread quickly and said, “I would like to meet him some day.” He already liked Portugal from the little time they had spent together, so he could only imagine that his brother would be a possible friend too. He said, “I’m not sure you would like mine. They are all headstrong and stubborn, and very independent. I still have no idea how our mother managed all of us.”

He laughed to himself at the idea of it. He thought of his oldest brother with his blazing red hair, who resembled their mother so much, and how he must have demanded so much attention. 

Portugal finished the fish and placed the remaining head and spine on a plate to his side. Then, he took a handful of olives and began to eat them one at a time. He said, “I imagine she was a strong woman. I know she gave my father a lot of trouble.” 

England froze. He had no idea that their families had ever met before, or that they had had a relationship. He searched his memories to attempt to figure out who Portugal’s father could be. 

He failed to come up with anything, so he asked, “Who was he?”

 He could have sworn he saw the other’s expression darken. But, Portugal continued to speak, his tone betrayed only a little of the emotion below the surface, “I thought you would have already guessed. I do have the misfortune of looking like him. He was Rome.” 

England took a moment to process this information. He knew little about Rome except what his mother had occasionally said about him. But from all the things she had said one came back to him clearly, and he foolishly let it slip, “My mother said that he was a cruel, lying man.”

England was able to stop himself before he added that his mother had told him to never trust Rome or any of his heirs. His mother had fought Rome tooth and nail; that much he knew. But it would be wrong to share it.

To his surprise, Portugal smiled and said, “Then she saw him for who he was. If I could have chosen any other father, I would have. I am illegitimate, you see, so I have none of his wealth or his power, but all of his shame. I only saw him a few times before he left for Byzantium with his legitimate heir.  People say he disappeared, but that is a lie. He chose to leave everything behind instead of facing the consequences of what he had done.”

Though his smile seemed to want to convey that this was a light subject, England could hear real pain beneath all of it. He scrambled to find another subject, one that was truly light. 

In panic, he said, “What do you like?” Internally, he kicked himself for such a clumsy question. But, Portugal let out a low breath, like he was relieved to leave the subject of his father.

He replied, “I like books, especially ones about heroes and adventures. Al-Andalus has a beautiful library of Roman texts.”

England felt a real smile lift up the corners of his mouth. He had spent so many days alone with books while two cousins fought for his throne. But, even before that, he had loved the stories the poets told of knights and their great adventures. 

In this answer, he saw a kindred spirt who might share his love of epic tales. He said, excited again, “I love stories!” 

In his excitement, he thought of all the ones he knew by heart. He sometimes had the traveling poets repeat them to him more than once so he could remember all of the details. He had never liked the idea that he could not hold onto the story once the poet had moved on. So, he had made a habit of remembering all that he could so that he could write it down later. He had a collection now, but he could certainly bring one to mind easily. 

Portugal smiled at him indulgently and said, as England had hoped, “Tell me one. I have read the Roman mythologies so many times, and I want to hear what your heroes are like.” 

Without any further prompting, England started to tell one of his favorites. It was about a knight who loved his lady from a distance. But, when she was kidnapped by a dishonorable knight, the good knight traveled for days to find her. Along the way, he was met with trials of his honors and his commitment. In a castle where he stopped during his quest, another lady offered him her hand, but he refused. 

When he reached that point in the story, Portugal interrupted him and said, “Did he refuse the offer because his heart belonged to another?” 

He had reclined on the pillows and listened patiently as England spoke, with a look of intrigue on his clever face. England hadn’t looked closely at him while he was telling the story, but the question made him glance over. The sight sent a pleasant warmth across his cheeks against. 

He was more than happy to explain what he found to be the most beautiful theme of the stories. He said, “Yes. That is what really shows love. Love that is constant and loyal is the truest.”

Portugal responded, “And do you think that is true for friendships too?” 

England didn’t need to think for even a moment. He knew that if something truly important, then it would be easy to be loyal to it. But, he was curious. He said, “Yes, why do you ask?” 

Portugal leaned forward across the table and extended his hand. England understood, implicitly, that he was supposed to clasp the other’s hand. He did so, though he did not entirely understand the purpose.

 Portugal answered the question, “Will you be my friend and be constant and loyal?” England met his new ally’s eyes, and it all suddenly felt very important and somber. He nodded slowly as he said, “I will be.”

It felt, in the moment, like a vow he could never break. And it meant more than just the next morning or the rest of the war against the Moors. Even if centuries passed, he should keep this one on his honor. And he intended to do exactly that.

Like Lancelot, he would be true.

[stringsofstarlight]

Rainbow family of living light national gathering.🌈

“Back in the shade of the fast-growing Kid Village area, longtime attendee Filipe Chavez, 83, said he hoped clashes with law enforcement would be minimal this year. Chavez, a retired trucker, drove to Colorado with his dog Benny from near Gainesville, Florida.”   —yahoo news “10,000 hippies in a Colorado forest”       Okay, a quick story about some of the gathering stuff.   Way back in the day I was on a bus from Gainesville to the Big Mountain Reservation with supplies for the winter.   I had been the last one left at the Ocala regional gathering, my first Rainbow gathering.   The folk I went with across the country in a VW microbus, an old one that had to have the engine adjusted every couple of hours for the timing.   We made it across the country by selling jewelry and rocks for gas and food, from Tucson to Florida.  All of folks who had accompanied me there needed to head out, so I stayed for a couple of weeks out in that forests of Florida.  LLS, I was taken back to Camp Ganja in Gainesville, where Felipe and others had been having fund raising events to get her the supplies and clothing for a few months.   At the time, I was more of what they called a ““Hard workiing High Holy”, which was kind of the best put down one could get, yet I was entitled as fuck, as I learned later.   Eventually, it was made known that if I asked I could probably go with them across the country.   I did ask and was allowed to go with the two other folk joining him, he had a semi converted school bus filled with food, medical supplies, and clothing that had been gathered.   At the time, I only had a wrap around skirt, no shoes, and a nap sack with a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a sheet to cover the ground, keep out mosquitoes(not very well),  and cover for warmth.   Well, we rode for a day and at a certain point on the second day, we were making pb & j sandwiches in the back of the bus, I totally neglected to make one for the driver, Felipe.   Well, the ganja hit the fan, cause he pulled over at the next rest stop and read me the riot act about how I was not going to be helping since I was would be taking the supplies we were bringing, plus I was a poor community member for not making him a sandwich.   Next thing I know, I was dropped off at that rest area in the middle of fucking nowhere Alabama or Mississippi.  Yeah, it was about 50 miles outside of Jackson.   Felipe did equip me with clothing and water, so I had acquired moccasins, pants, and a serape to go over the waffle long sleeve waffle shirt, but no food.   Off they went, damn I felt like I was completely fucked, I’d never been to the middle of Mississippi and I was a hippie type, where they don’t like hippie types.   It was also illegal to walk on the roadway, so if the police caught you, jail was your next place to go.  I ended up walking along the tree line of the interstate, until a man came to pick me up, then propositioned me for sex in his car, which I declined.  He then dropped me off in a worse spot that had the longest ass bridge to get across before you could get to an exit ramp.  Well, finally I slinked my way to the exit ramp, not one damn person even feigned to stop.   It said JACKSON, MISSISSIPPI, 27 miles.   Fuck it, this was the route and I proceeded to walk they 26+ miles that day all the way to the city in those damn moccasins with the most brutal blisters ever.   Now here is the thing, I had to hide a bunch of times because there were threats from the locals many times.  Halfway through the journey, a golden retriever ran out to join me, running across the street.  He proceeded to walk with me for many miles, without a leash, just keeping  right in line with my walking.   There was a point where I felt the most dark energy I had ever felt at the time, it was across the street, it was a dense intensity that made me feel ill.  There were a bunch of pit bulls barking from behind a hedgerow, they were reacting to the golden retriever.   The dog started to bark and run over towards them, when a car came flying outta nowhere, like double the speed limit.   Just as I turned to look over, the retriever, who I called Lazarus afterwards, came running back to my call of ““come back.”  The car didn’t pause or stop as it squarely hit the dog, making it fly in the air, flopping on the ground heaving from it all.   I lost it, this dog had been my companion for many hours and miles, at this point, protecting me from the locals.   Well, I cried out to all of creation and laid hands upon the retriever, praying for its life to pass without pain, then the it jumped up all of sudden like nothing had happened, licking me and doing those golden retriever things.  The name Lazarus seemed appropriate at the time, so that is what he became.   We walked the rest of the way for the day, then right before the it was beginning to be later dusk, an hour or two away, a truck stopped to let me climb in the back with the Lazarus.   He refused to go with me, licked me, and then ran off the other way from whence we had come.        I remember that day like it was yesterday, well, there is my connection to Felipe and my first Rainbow Gathering.  

    I love you always and evermore.❤️‍🔥

[sweetiepie08]

Long Road to Forgiveness (Chapter 5)

Another story originally posted on FF.net.

Ninety six years is a long time to hold a grudge. Imelda carried her anger into the after-life and never thought she’d let go. He left her. He made her raise her daughter on her own. And worst of all, he forced Coco to grow up without her beloved Papa. No matter how much he begged, no matter what his excuse was, she would never forgive him.

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7.

               Imelda didn’t want to think about it. There was too much to do and she didn’t need the distraction. She was the first one to cross over to the other side. She needed to get everything ready for when the rest of her family died. The Department of Reestablishment helped her find a place to set up shop again. She tried her best to make her home look exactly like the one she built in Santa Cecelia. A few things were off about it. For one thing, Santa Cecelia had a warm color pallet of soft yellows and oranges while the Land of the Dead was splashed with color everywhere. Another was the vertical build of everything. She’d grown used the little piece of the world she carved out for her family and wasn’t interested in having upstairs or downstairs neighbors. In the end, she settled for a couple bottom levels of a building. The ground floor was the workshop while the upper 2 levels was their living area. There were a few perks to being on the bottom floor. For one thing, it made it easy for customers to visit. For another, she didn’t have the uneasy feeling that her business might one day topple over. Her favorite part, however, was the courtyard.

               In life, she loved her courtyard. It was the place where her family gathered to relax after a hard day’s work in the shop. She had fond memories of family meals with her daughter and granddaughters. She and her brothers would sit out at night and have drink after the children went to bed. Sometimes, she’d just quietly pet her cat, Pepita, and watch the stars. She hoped that one day, after her family members lived their lives and crossed over, they could do it all again. Although, she doubted Pepita, now a massive jaguar alebrije, could still curl up in her lap.

               It took her a few weeks to set up her workshop again. It was thankfully a peaceful few weeks all things considered. Sure, she had to deal with gathering supplies, putting machines together, and getting the word out to her old customers that she was back, but she did so without anyone to bother her. She was worried a certain husband of hers might rear his stupid, grinning head again. She thought she scared him off in the Center for New Arrivals, but she couldn’t be sure. He never was one to be intimidated. She remembered how unafraid he was when he first approached her. He was nervous, he later told her, in the way a schoolboy was when talking to a pretty girl, but not intimidated. So many other men were threatened by her independence, but not him. He smiled and joked about the macho act his peers put on. He went so far as to perform an exaggerated impression of her other suitors, deepening his voice and flexing his barely-there muscles. To her surprise, he made her laugh.

               No, he certainly wasn’t afraid of her. He never was. But then, why did he leave? Was it simply because she asked?

               This thought didn’t have time to warm her, however. The day before she was to open her shop, he turned up again. She was in the middle of putting up the sign for her zapateria. Her ladder wobbled as she struggled to align the sign with the hooks in the wall. Just when she thought she might fall, she felt someone below hold the ladder steady. She breathed a sigh of relief, put up her sign, and began her climb down. “Gracias señor.”

               “No es problema. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

               She froze mid-descent. That voice. He was at the bottom of the ladder.

               She jumped the rest of the way down and turned to glare at him. He simply grinned and held a bouquet of five vivid purple morning glories. He remembered her favorite, that bastard.

               “I wanted to congratulate you on opening your shop,” Hector said, offering her the flowers.

               She pushed the bouquet back into his chest. “Don’t touch my ladder,” she huffed, shoving past him.

               “I can’t tell you how proud I was when I heard you opened your own shop,” he said, following her. “I was so worried what you’d do once I was no longer around to provide for you and Coco, but I always knew you were a power source unto yourself.”

               She cast a glare over her shoulder. I wouldn’t have needed to if I didn’t have such a worthless husband.

               “And for the time,” he continued unimpeded. “I hear women these days can vote and got to college and all sorts of things. It’s about damn time too, if you ask me. But when I was alive? I heard how successful you were and I thought, ‘Dios mio, my wife is a queen, a diosa, of course she can do anything she wants.’”

               She felt the fury burning in her stomach. The nerve of that man. So that’s why he returned after all these years. She was successful, so he came back to leech off of her. “Is that what this about?” she snapped.

“Excuse me?”

               “You heard your poor wife has money now, so you come crawling back. Is that it?”

               His mouth fell open. “I…no that’s not what this at all,” he stammered out. She rolled her eyes and stormed back into the house. He followed after her. “I’m simply happy for you. I married an amazing woman and I’m proud of you.”

               “Not amazing enough for you when we were alive, though, right?” she slammed the door before he could get in.

               “Please, just let me explain,” he begged, appearing at her window.

               “Ernesto explained.” She slammed the shutters in his face.

               “Ernesto lied,” he shouted from the other side. “I don’t know what he told you, but he lied.”

               Oh this was rich. She flung open the shutters again and looked his dead in the eyes. “If you don’t know what he told me, how do you know he lied?”

               “Because he lied to me,” he answered. “He lied about a great many things.” Imelda rolled her eyes and began closing the shutters, but he stuck his hand between them “Please just talk to me,” he begged, trying to hold one shutter open. “Did you even know I was dead?”

               Imelda paused and he froze. The true answer was no, and in that moment they both knew it. The realization washed over them and their expressions shifted simultaneously. Imelda hated it. She experienced this before, this temporary melding of minds. It reminded her of a time when she and Hector worked as a well-oiled machine, going through their day, parenting Coco, and then of course, the music… It brought her comfort, once. She took it as proof she and Hector were perfectly matched. Now, it served as a painful reminder of what they once had, of what could have been.

               Determined to shut out this feeling, she gathered the strength to pull the shutter from his grasp and slam it closed.

               “You didn’t know I was dead,” he muttered from the other side of the window. “That’s it, isn’t it?  That’s why you never put my photo up… Ernesto must have…” A frantic knock sounded on the shutters. “What did he tell you? I need to know!”

               “Why don’t you go back to your other girls, you cul-“

               “Other girls? What other girls?” he called back. “Imelda, there’s only you! You really thought…” Pleading mixed with anger in his voice. “Dios mio, don’t you know me at all?!”

               She had enough of this. Boot in hand, she opened the door. Before he could react, she launched the boot at his head. It collided with his face and knocked him on his back. “Go away! I mean it, Hector! I don’t want you here!”

               He lifted his head and she caught the wounded look in his eyes. She closed the door again before she let it soften her. It went quiet for a few minutes and she thought he left. But then, she heard a rattling sigh at the shutters. “Things must look bad to you, I know,” he said. “I never meant you any trouble. I’ll go.”

               She listened as his footsteps disappeared into the distance. Once she thought he was gone, she opened the shutters to make sure. She couldn’t see him anywhere, but she did find two things left on her window sill, the morning glories and her boot.

[-]

               The twins followed her a few years later, together on the same day. She marched into the Department of Family Reunions prepared to scold them about how she knew their experiments would get them killed one day. It turned out her lecture was unwarranted. They simply caught pneumonia at the same time and died only a few hours apart from each other. Her temper calmed by the still-boyish look of her little brothers, she gathered them in her arms, happy to have her family again.

               The Land of the Dead absolutely fascinated them. The technology was unlike anything they had in the Land of the Living. They spent their free time exploring every inch of their new home. One day, they come home from one of their excursions abuzz with news for Imelda.

               They talked over each other, both wanting to be the first one to tell her what they saw. She waved her hands and said, “Alright, alright, one at a time.”

               “Well, we were in the Plaza today…” Oscar began.

               “Trying to examine how the vertical trollies worked,” Filipe finished.

               “And we ran into someone.”

               “Someone you know.”

               “Someone you used to like.”

               “A lot.”

               “Who?” Imelda asked, wishing one of them would just spit it out.

               The twins glanced at each other, suddenly nervous.

               “Well, you see…”

               “It was…”

               “Hec…”

               “…tor.”

               “What?!” she shouted, causing them both to cower in their rib cages. “You dare bring his name into this house?! Tell me you didn’t speak to him.”

               Oscar was the first to poke his head back out. “Not, intentionally…”

               “We fully intended to completely ignore his existence,” Filipe added.

               “Si, but, then he ran up to us.”

               “He asked about you.”

               “Wanted to know if you were doing well.”

               “And what did you say?” Imelda growled.

               “Not much.” Filipe threw his hands up, defensively.

               “Said you were doing perfectly fine.”

               “Then we got away.”

               “As fast as we could.”

               “Without looking rude.”

               The twins glanced at each other nervously and Imelda could tell there was more to the story. “What else?” she said, rolling her wrist to signal them to go on.

               Oscar was the first to speak up. “It’s just, we were talking on our way back.”

               “And we agreed that he looked very young.”

               “So young.”

               “Too young.”

               “Like, too-young-to-have-slept-his-way-through-half-of-Mexico young.”

               “Wouldn’t have had the time.”

               “So we were thinking.”

               “And this is just a hypothesis.”

               “That maybe…”

               “…when he didn’t come back…”

               “It wasn’t…”

               “…entirely…”

               “…his…”

               “…fault?”

               The brothers reached for each other, awaiting the inevitable explosion.

               It turned out to be a slow burn. “You two think it’s wise to come into my house and try to make excuses for him?” she growled.

               “No, no, no, no, no!” the twins burst out in a panic.

               “It’s just, we fancy ourselves scientists,” Filipe explained.

               “We like to examine all the evidence,” Oscar added.

               “And when we were presented with this new piece of evidence…”

               “…it put a different spin on the situation.”

               “I’ll spin you across the floor if you bring him up again!” Imelda shouted, sending her brothers back cowering in their rib cages. “What is so difficult to understand? We do not speak of that man! We do not speak to that man! If I hear you talked to him ever again, you’ll find a new place for your experiments! Do I make myself clear?”

               “Of course, Imelda.”

               “Of course.”

               “We’ll never speak to him again.”

               “Never.”

               “And if he tries to talk to us again…”

               “…we’ll spit in his face.”

               “Or do something equally as rude…”

               “…depending on whether or not we can spit here.”

               The twins got distracted by arguing about what constitutes spitting for a skeleton. Imelda sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright, I forgive you. But do not mention that man in my house again. As far as we’re concerned, he does not exist.”

               “Of course, sister.”

               “Yes, sister.”

               With that, the brothers went off, discussing possible experiments to test the degree to which skeletons could spit. Imelda was left in the kitchen, clenching and unclenching her fists. The nerve of that man. How dare he speak to her family? If he weren’t more than dead to her, she’d hunt him down and make his skull spin. She spent decades building a life for her family which did not include him. If he thought he could waltz back in after all these years…

               Coco will cross over someday. The thought struck her like a boot to the face. Though she hoped it wouldn’t be for a very long time, she looked forward to the day she could see her daughter again. But, she never had the hold on Coco that she had on the rest of the family. Coco was rebellious and did as she liked…and though she tried to hide it, she never let go of her father. She’ll want to see him, and I can’t stop her.

               [-]

               Years passed with Hector cycling in and out of her life. Sometimes she’d go years without seeing anything of him except maybe a quick glimpse at the market or the trolley station. Some days, usually on her birthday or wedding anniversary, she’d find a purple morning glory left on a window sill. If he was feeling bold, he might leave a note. Once, early on in her afterlife, he tried going to the shop under the pretense of needing a shoe repair. Pepita chased him away before he got much of a word in.

               As the years went on, his attempts became less instant and more hopeless. He stopped leaving her flowers for their anniversary and only every few years on her birthday. If he left a note, it was short and simple, to the effect of “I’ll always love you, even if you no longer love me.” She might falter for a second, let herself doubt her anger, but she’d quickly steel herself against it. He made that choice all those years ago. She held onto her anger this long, it was her right. If he wanted her love, he wouldn’t have abandoned her.  

               But one day, he did something that made her heart melt for him, if only for a moment. It reminded her who she fell in love with all those years ago. If it was all an act for her, it might have made her angrier, but the truth was, he didn’t even know she’d seen.

               She was out running errands one day and had to cut through the plaza. It was particularly busy, she noted, as she picked her way through the crowd. She was lost in her own thoughts, thinking about orders that needed finishing or supplies that needed refilled, when she heard a painfully familiar voice. She tensed up, preparing to scare him off, when she realized the voice was not directed at her.

               She peered through the crowd and spotted Hector kneeling down and speaking softly to a crying little girl.

               “It’ll be alright, niña,” he said, offering her a handkerchief. “We’ll find your family. What is your name?”

               “Adelita,” the girl answered, rubbing her eyes.

               “Oh, such a lovely name,” he cooed. “Who are you here with?”

               The girl sobbed harder into the handkerchief. “I want my mamá.”

               “Okay, we’ll find her.”

               “We can’t,” the little girl shrieked, stomping her foot. “She’s still on the other side.”

               “Oh, oh I see…” A shadow passed over his face. He took a second to collect himself, then recovered. “Who did you come to the market with?”

               “Abuelo,” the girl answered through sniffs.

               “Is he a nice abuelo?”

               “Mmmhmm,” she murmured, peaking her face out from behind her hands. “He tells me funny stories.”

               He gave her a gentle smile. “Sounds like a fun person to hang out with while you wait for your mamá, sí?”

               “Sí.”

               “And you’ll get to see your mama again soon. Dia de los Muertos is only a few months away,” he added, his voice becoming more animated. “That wait feels like nothing here.” The girl looked up, intrigued. He smiled and went on. “You know, I have a daughter just like you, and I go to see her every year. You can go to see your mama too.”

That was a lie. Imelda knew it was a lie. Now that she was dead herself, she knew for a fact he couldn’t cross over. She tore his face out of their photo decades ago. He couldn’t cross without it. She crossed the bridge every year to visit her family and he was never there. How dare he tell a blatant lie to child?

But then, she saw the look of hope on the child’s face and wondered if it was such a bad lie. Surely the girl’s living parents would put her photo on the ofrenda. What harm could come from it?

“My daughter, do you know what I call her?” Hector went on to the now-smiling child. “I call her mi vida. That’s funny, right?”

               The girl beamed and said, “My papá called me princesa.”

               Hector let out an exaggerated gasp. “Oh I’m so sorry, Princesa Adelita. I had no idea I was speaking to royalty.” He bowed low and the girl dissolved into giggles. He grinned and popped up to his feet. “Come on, Princesa. What is your abuelo’s name?”

               “Arturo.”

               “Okay, you can sit up here and be the look out,” he said, picking her up and placing her on his shoulders. “Let me know when you spot him.” He ran off into the crowd, the little girl squealing with laughter and both of them calling for Abuelito Arturo.

               Imelda watched him disappear. Some jaded part of her mind wondered if he just put on a show for her, but she knew that wasn’t true. He had no idea she was watching. He never even glanced her way. Besides, this was nothing new for him. She couldn’t count the number of times they paused a date to help a lost child in the market or plaza find their family.

               She no longer had a heart in her chest, but that didn’t stop it from melting. She tried to steel herself against it. This changed nothing. He still abandoned his family. That fact was set in stone. But watching him with that little girl moved something in her. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the man she married.

[theysayitsonlyapapermoon-blog]

Las Mañanitas

aka: dinner with the dead Rivera clan

aka:  Héctor gets some love

aka: Some utterly plotless, post film fluff fic

(Spoilers, obvs.)

It struck him sometimes how much she had aged.

Not that he’d ever voice such things, Dios mío, he didn’t have a second death wish.  But it did strike another melancholy chord every time a fresh observation presented itself.  When her voice got particularly deep, slightly crackling.  Or when she absently stretched out the bones making up her hands. Arthritis, she’d explained.  

She didn’t seem to mind these things, at least not enough to complain.  She had aged, but it was a well and graceful sort of aging.  It was just a part of life.  For Héctor, it constantly nagged at how much life he’d missed out on while he was stuck on the other side.  He’d missed seeing her hair turn grey.  He’d missed the crows feet and the wrinkles.  He’d missed a lot of things.

It wasn’t until midway through retelling the infamous la cabra incident, an event half the family had never once heard of, that he realized maybe the rest of them had missed a few things as well.

“Wait, how many goats?” Victoria adjusted her glasses, subtly leaning forward with interest.  Rosita added another unprovoked helping of tamales to Héctor’s plate.  They all had their preferred roles and family chef was one of Rosita’s.

“Thirty, at least,” he told them.

“There were not thirty!” Imelda protested.

“At least thirty,” he insisted.

“You are lying through your teeth right now.”

“No, remember, Señor Martinez running through the plaza yelling his herd had been spirited away.  Gemelos, back me up—” He implored Imelda’s brothers from across the dinner table.  They had been very small when it happened, but if they remembered anything it was likely to be more exaggerated, not less.

“It was enough to fill the chapel,” Óscar nodded.

“I thought it was forty—” Filipe offered.

“There were only five. Maybe.” Imelda tried but the story had already gotten away from her.

“So, in about ten minutes the priests are going to walk into a chapel full of drunk goats,” Héctor continued enthusiastically, “I’m trying to get the back window open, cause there’s no way I’m sticking around for that, I turn around, and Imelda’s climbing the scaffolding after the stupid cat!”

Julio and Rosita started to chuckle.

Imelda had gone rigid. “Well, the whole thing could’ve been avoided if you hadn’t let her out in the first place.”

“Don’t mind her, Héctor,” Felipe said.

“She’s just cranky because you're spoiling her reputation,” Óscar finished.

“Oh, I could never—“ Héctor gazed at her. She leveled him with the dirtiest glare this side of death.

“So, what happened? How did she get caught?” Victoria was smiling, and from what he could tell of his granddaughter that was akin to uproarious laughter in anyone else.  They all seemed to like hearing about the family matriarch in a different light, but Victoria was the most focused and by far the most blunt.

“Oh, this is the best part.  The big goat, the one that hated Imelda, takes a running head butt into the scaffold, and the whole thing comes crashing down.”

Everyone laughed.  Rosita gave a sympathetic, “Oh, ceilo.”

“I had paint in my hair for two weeks,” Héctor laughed.

“You were pretty reckless, Mamá,” Julio said.

“I’ll have you know, I took that fall and didn’t have a scratch on me,” Imelda interjected.

“Must’ve been the cat,” Victoria grinned.

“What was that cat’s name?” Felipe rested his chin in his hand, trying to remember.  Héctor started absently snapping his fingers.

“La princesa-- something--” Óscar trailed off.  

“La Princesa Bella Francesca Adelita del Amanecer--” Héctor recited.  A bout of stunned silence followed.  He’d always been good with names, but even he couldn’t believe he still remembered that.  “--Rivera.” he added, can’t forget the surname.

Rosita lost it.  She laughed so hard she almost fell out of her chair.  It proved infectious, and soon the entire table was roaring.  Héctor actually felt a pull in his sides from laughing.

Imelda had her fingertips pressed to her forehead, “¡Dios mío! I was four years old, everybody--”  She pulled her hand away to stare at Héctor until he’d calmed down enough to look a little apologetic for embarrassing her.  “I can’t believe you remembered that,” she said, equal parts horrified and impressed.

“Oh, that cat hated me,” he smiled, “a man always remembers the first thing that tries to bite off his ear.”

She shoved him in the shoulder joint, but couldn’t contain a small grin.  Héctor’s breath caught at the sudden contact.  His bones rattled.

“You’re the worst.” She slid her chair back, gracefully collecting herself and gathering the finished plates amidst smatterings of dying laughter.  When he tried to get up to do the same she pushed him back down.  “No, you sit.  Tell them about Señor Martinez’s cheese disaster.”

“Poor Señor Martinez,” Héctor winced at the memory.  “Whatever happened to him, anyway?”

“Pneumonia, I think,” Imelda replied, stacking plates on one arm.  She nodded at Óscar and Felipe, and the twins got up to help her.

“Aw, we should visit sometime.”

“So, were you and Mamá-- novios de la escuela?” Victoria asked out of the blue.

Héctor froze at the question.  He and Imelda were-- not fine, exactly, but at least friendly. A month ago she wouldn’t even speak to him, let alone have him for dinner to joke about the past.  The romantic aspects of their relationship still felt a little too touchy.  A little too raw.

“Something like that,” Imelda said simply.

Héctor quickly rerouted the discussion to the previously mentioned great cheese disaster of 1912.  He’d nearly finished when Imelda reemerged from la cocina and, without any warning, delicately placed a wrapped box on the table directly in front of him.

He instantly forgot what he had been talking about.  The box was large, about the size of his forearm, and covered in lively gold paper.

“What’s this?” he asked.  

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Imelda return to her chair, pushed a little bit closer to his.  Everyone seemed to be leaning in.  A soft, quiet anticipation filled the room.

“It’s November 30th,” Imelda said by way of explanation.  That day hadn’t mattered in a very, very long time.  He must’ve looked confused because she cocked her head and said, “You didn’t forget? Did you?”

“I sort of did,” he shrugged, feeling a little silly.

“Just open it, Héctor,” she practically thrust the gift into his hands and leaned back, arms crossed over her chest.

He felt like savoring this, the one honest-to-death, wrapped and everything, gift he’d been given in ages.  Once he started ripping the paper that went out the window.  He lifted the lid of the box open.

His eyes started to water. “Are these--?”

“We all pitched in,” Rosita pointed at all the bits and pieces, proudly explaining who had made what.  Héctor just concentrated on swallowing the growing lump in his throat.

“I-- I don’t-- I don’t know what to s-say--” he stammered.

“See if they fit,” Julio pressed, encouraging.  Imelda just sat back in her chair with a light smile. Proud of herself.

Héctor swiped at his eyes.

The shoe fit perfectly.  He was mentally trying to figure out when and how she’d stolen his foot without his knowledge in order to size it, and then chastised himself when the simpler answer moved to the front of his mind.  She’d simply remembered it.

“I feel like there’s a fairytale in here somewhere,” he commented when he finally felt like he could talk without choking.  He slipped the second shoe over his heel.

Imelda rolled her eyes, but more with amusement than disdain.  “Do you like them?” she asked.

“I love them. All of you. Gracias, all of you--” he looked at each of them in turn.  Victoria, with her dry smirk that seemed to know everything just by looking at him.  Eternally sweet Rosita, tearing up a little herself.  Óscar and Felipe, far too grown up from how he’d remembered them in life.  Julio, the gentle, calming presence of the room.  And Imelda.  Somehow he knew she’d get him back for embarrassing her earlier.

Imelda reached for his hands.  “Well, happy,” she counted in her head, “118th birthday, Héctor.”

That made his heart spin, or at least something in his chest cavity felt like it was spinning.  “You make me feel so old.”

“You just choked up over a pair of shoes, mijo, you’re quite old.”

Héctor could have kissed her.  Instead he just sat back and let it all sink in, like any rite of passage, the overwhelming rush of freedom that came from finally feeling unstuck. No longer was he trapped in the eternal living nightmare that was his 22nd year, displaced and lonely and wandering. He was just as old as she was. He was a grandfather three generations over.  And he didn’t even have to deal with arthritis.

Imelda held out her arms, waiting patiently for him to take the initiative to hug her.  She didn’t have to wait long.  

“Rivera hug!” Rosita called.  

They all but dog-piled his chair.

A/N: -The date November 30th is also Gael García Bernal's birthday. On top of being a nod to the voice actor, I thought the timing worked, just a few weeks after Dia de Muertos, soon enough that Héctor is still kinda new to the family but long enough that they've gotten a chance to get to know each other a little.

-Las Mañanitas is typically used as a birthday song. The lyric translates to Morning Song.

-I very nearly made the cat's name Princess Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca III. If you know why, you are an awesome person.

-I cried like a baby with Héctor walking over the marigold bridge in his Rivera shoes.

[n3rdybird]

Like Fathers, Like Son

Like Fathers, Like Son

Sons of Anarchy

Reader x Chibs/Tig x Venus Family fluff.

Growing up SAMCRO, you knew the club was family, albeit sometimes dysfunctional family.

Even when a fling with Alexander “Tig” Trager ended up with you knocked up, your dysfunctional family stepped up in every way they could.

Tig was a great father. No one would have pegged him to be excited to be a dad again, and at first he didn’t know what he felt. But the day he found out he was going to have a son was one of the happiest days of his life. That moment was trumped only when Leonard Trager-(Y/L/N) came wailing into the world. He had the same wild dark hair as his dad, and your eyes.

Co-parenting with Tig had its ups and downs, but you made it work. Although you were now parents, you both decided staying friends and focusing on your son was the best plan of action. Besides, a copious amount of alcohol and one night stand doesn’t make a functioning relationship.

Gemma was an amazing help especially since your own mother had died when you were younger. Leo also had a multitude of uncles to help out and spoil the newest “member” of SAMCRO. Each one of the men kept a close eye on you and Leo.

Especially a certain sexy Scotsmen. Filip ‘Chibs’ Telford. He was always quick to help when Tig wasn’t available, running errands and generally just being there for you and your son. It was only a matter of time before the late night conversations led to feelings of the romantic kind.

When the two of you grew closer, Tig watched with a smile on his face. It was clear that Chibs was falling for you and vice versa. He was quick to give his blessing to his baby mama and long term friend.

*********

You were having coffee with Venus when your cellphone rang.

You answered with a smile, in the middle of laughing about something Venus was telling you.

Within seconds, your smile disappeared as you listened to the voice on the other end of the conversation. Venus picked up on your mood change, her face mirroring yours in concern.

You hung up the phone and rubbed the bridge of your nose with a sigh.

“What’s wrong hun?” Venus asked.

“That was the school. Leo was in an “altercation”,” you said mimicking the principal’s words.

Venus gasped, her hand covering her mouth.

“No way, not our Leo,” she said in disbelief.

You shook your head, also having a hard time believing it. Regardless of who he grew up with, Leo had never been in a fight before.

“Either way, I have to go to the school. Can you call Tig and Filip while I drive?”

Venus smiled and nodded.

“Of course hun, whatever you need.”

She gave you a hug, and the two of you tossed your coffee cups on the way to your car.

**********

Two voice mails later, the two of you entered Leo’s elementary school main office.

Leo was sitting on a bench alone, kicking his legs. He looked up to see you and his Auntie Venus. You gave your son a smile to show you weren’t angry, and Venus flitted to her nephew, fussing over him. She brushed his hair away from his face, checking for bruises or cuts.

Unlike the bruised and bloodied boy sitting across the hall, Leo was relatively unscathed. The only signs of him being in a fight was his red eyes and slightly red knuckles.

Venus sat next to Leo and you knelt in front of him, kissing his forehead.

“Hey baby, what happened?” you asked softly.

“What happened is your unruly monster attacked my poor Donnie,” a woman snarled as she stalked up to her son. She pulled out a handful of tissues, dabbing at her son’s broken nose.

“Monster-” you started, your rage starting to boil, but Venus put her hand on your arm to keep from snapping at the Stepford PTA mom. Brenda Decker was the same uptight hag from high school.

The door next to them opened, and Principal Carter waved the parents into his office. He looked to you and tilted his head in confusion.

“Will Mr. Trager be joining us?”

“I’ve called both Filip and Alex, but they are working. This is Venus Van Dam. She’s one of Leo’s emergency contacts.”

He nodded and sat down at his desk, gesturing for the rest of the group to follow suit. When they settled, Principal Carter steepled his fingers.

“Leonard and Donnie were involved in an altercation this afternoon. Both have refused to say what caused the fight.”

“There is no way my sweet Donnie would ever start a fight,” Brenda interrupted. She sniffed haughtily at you and your son, her nose high in the air.

“Clearly he was just defending himself,” she said.

You held back a snort. Donnie looked terrible compared to Leo.

“He did a shit job defending then,” you muttered. Venus heard you and had to hold back a laugh.

Principal Carter cleared his throat.

“I’d like to ask again what happened. Leonard?”

You ran your fingers through your son’s hair.

“What happened baby? I promise I won’t be mad.”

Leo glared at the other boy.

“Donnie said my family was bad. That daddy and pop are bad guys. And that Auntie Venus was a…” He paused.

“He called Auntie Venus a bad word. And I said he was wrong. And he pushed me. And I hit him.”

You sighed. Charming would always be small town with small minds.

“While I’m glad you stood up for your family baby; we don’t hit,” you said proudly but firmly.

Brenda tsked.

“Well there you have it. What are you going to do about this? He needs to be punished.”

“We have a no tolerance rule for fighting, and normally Leonard would be expelled. However, since it is his first offense, he will be suspended for a week.”

Brenda looked outraged and all you wanted to do was smack her. Which would not solve anything.

“Suspended? And have my Donnie back with his attacker?”

Principal Carter leveled his gaze at Mrs. Decker.

“This is not the first time I’ve heard that Donnie was bullying another student. We also have zero tolerance for bullying. So Donnie will be suspended for two days.”

Brenda tried to argue, but the unflappable principal held up his hand.

“My decision is final.”

**********

You and Venus walked out of the building, Leo swinging between your hands.

Brenda rushed past you, bumping your shoulder as she drug her kid behind her.

“You better keep an eye on your son. Pretty soon he’ll be in jail just like his father,” she sneered.

You stilled.

“I’d keep walking if I were you,” you said evenly. This woman was working your last nerve.

“Or what? You and that tranny-”

You snapped, letting go of your son and closed the distance to Brenda. Her nose exploded in a gush of blood.

“You shut your damn mouth. Venus is a classier lady than you’ll ever be. So you can take your busted fake nose and your close minded cunt rag of a son, and get the fuck out of here,” you growled out.

Brenda paled and all but shoved Donnie into their minivan.

You shook out your fist and turned to Venus who had covered Leo’s ears when you started your rant. You kneeled in front of your son, feeling like you failed him.

“That was wrong of me. To hit Donnie’s mom.”

“To hell with that, that was the sexiest thing I’ve seen,” Tig called out. He and Chibs were sitting on their bikes a few spaces away.

They duo sauntered over to you. Chibs slapped you on the ass.

“Nicely done lass,” he whispered against your neck, giving you a kiss.

You blushed.

“Brenda Decker is such a bitch,” you mumbled.

“I’m such a bad influence on you, I love it,” Tig said wrapping his arm around Venus, who popped him in the stomach.

“While I admit that woman was a nightmare, you didn’t have to do that honey. She wasn’t the first or the last to talk about me,” Venus said.

“No way was I gonna let her talk shit about our family.”

Venus smiled, tearing up a bit at your declaration. Tig took this moment to kneel next to his son.

“So it looked like you won bud,” he said proudly. He held up his fist and Leo bumped it proudly.

“That’s our boy,” Chibs said laughing. You and Venus shared an exasperated look.

That was your men, rough and sometimes crude. And you loved them all the same.

[mitchbeck]

CANTLON: BATTLE OF HUSKIES GOES NORTHEASTERN'S WAY

BY: Gerry Cantlon, Howlings HARTFORD, CT - The UCONN Huskies had their first major Hockey East test and it came against the 12th ranked Northeastern Huskies who blew past their hosts 5-2 at the XL Center on Saturday. Northeastern ups their record to 12-5-2 overall (7-4-1 HEA). UCONN's record slips to 7-8-4 overall (4-5-2 HEA). UCONN takes the ice again on Tuesday night against the Merrimack Warriors. “I haven’t been this disappointed like this since the BC weekend. We had stuck together and played a good stretch of hockey there for eleven games. It started right from the beginning. We came out late to the ice for the game. I think we weren’t into the game right from the get go, and spotted them three goals. We didn’t make a real push till it was 5-0. We played a strong third period, but it was too little, too late,” a dejected UCONN head coach, Mike Cavanaugh, said. To be into a Hockey East conference game, with a truncated college schedule the way it works out, turns points into gold so a team can make the playoffs. A game like this could comeback could come back to haunt the Huskies in March. But the question needs to be answered in how a team could be late in it's own building? Cavanaugh didn’t exclude himself or his coaching staff from criticism on this woeful night of hockey. “Our team just didn’t have it tonight. We have to coach better, play better, our special teams have to be better. It’s just a complete poor effort from the entire UCONN hockey program. It needed to be better tonight.” UCONN had a late game chance to sweep away their earlier poor play when they were granted a five-on-three power play for the final 4:23. They were unable to score a goal despite spending the entire man-advantage in the Northeastern end of the ice. On the UCONN side of the ice, a goalie interference call was made on Northeastern’s Aidan McDonough on the UConn side of the ice. Meanwhile, down at the other end, Michael Kesselring was assessed a major penalty for a blatant crosscheck to UConn's Ruslan Iskharov in front of his own net. Kesselring was also assessed a game misconduct which makes it reviewable for a potential suspension by Hockey East. The UCONN team got seven of their 14 shots for the period, but were too deliberate. At one point UCONN had three players at the blue line when they should have had them in front of the net. In the seven shots they took, none of them were serious threats to score. In the second period, Northeastern maintained the pressure they had in the first period aided by solid forechecking and bodychecking coupled with UCONN’s poor puck management. Northeastern scored a beautifully executed power play goal on the back-end of a five-on-three power play. McDonough was on the right-wing and fired a cross-ice pass through the box to Tyler Madden brilliantly put the puck in front to Zach Solow who beautifully redirected the puck into the net at 11:46. Northeastern made it 5-0 when Neil Shea was able to freely skate down the left-wing and get off a shot that was stopped by UCONN netminder, Tomas Vomacka, but he left a rebound that Matt Demelis put behind him with both d-men, Yan Kuznetsov and Adam Kraschik, out of the picture. It was Demelis' his fourth goal of the season. UCONN broke the shutout when Carter Turnbull grabbed  a loose puck and made a quick cross ice thought the crease pass to Vladimir Firstov. He pulled the puck back, off the tape-to-tape pass and flipped his sixth of the season into the net with 1:04 left in the period. After the goal, Northeastern pressed and had a two-on-one with defenseman Ryan Shea stopped twice on the right-wing by Vomacka. Then two more bids by Madden and Julian Kislin before the period ended. For the first three minutes of the game, UCONN dug themselves a hole. Northeastern scored on the game’s first shot when Matt Filipe motored past Karaschik (Ridgefield) and swept in on Vomacka slipping a backhander into the net for his fourth goal. Jachym Kondelik then took a penalty 57 seconds later that the Huskies would have to kill. The Huskies clipped Jayden Struble, a Montreal Canadiens draft pick, on the left wing side of the neutral zone, It looked like it could have been a minor for kneeing, but after a video review by the referees, no penalty was called. It would be the only break the Huskies would get. Northeastern had an effective forecheck the entire game. Filip crunched UCONN’s Harrison Rees in the right-wing corner. Then, at the blue line, Jake Flynn handed the puck right to Solow, who zipped lined down the left wing side on a solo dash and put his seventh of the season past Vomacka at 10:40. “I’m not sure it was their forwards so much as us," Cavanaugh said. "We turned over two pucks we had full possession of, and we weren’t under any pressure. The first goal, we turned it over a bit high (in the zone). The second goal we had full control of it and passed it right to their guy. I think it was more us, being lackadaisical, we weren’t ready to play a hockey game.” Northeastern’s  coach, Jim Madigan, was very happy with the start. “We did a real job on the forecheck and we pressured their defense and got the turnovers and scored early and that was a key to our play in the first two periods.” On Northeastern's third goal, Madden put on a puck control clinic fifteen feet from the net. Madden got the puck off a pass from Biagio Lerario. The right-handed center slipped the puck through the legs of Iskharov, then past Kuznetsoc and fought off Turnbull’s backcheck and put a forehand past Vomacka at 15:57. That was an NHL play. “He is one of those guys you say, 'Uh-oh,' wow. He’s that type of player. People don’t realize how well he handles the puck and he has more room to grow and get there (the NHL). We'll have him ready for the NHL in four years.” The shots at the end of the period were only 7-3 with Northeastern holding the edge, but it felt like far more since UCONN had so little offensive zone time. NOTES: Northeastern has played just two games since winning the Friendship Tourney in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Northeastern had a slew of sons of former players. Tyler Spott's father, Steve Spott, is the assistant coach for the San Jose Sharks. Tyler Madden is the son of former NHL’er John Madden. Kasselring is the son of former Merrimack star from the 1990’s Casey Kasselring, and Brendan Van Riemsdyk is the youngest of the Van Riemsdyk’s. Brother James is back in Philly and Trevor is in Carolina. Read the full article

[band--psycho]

Chibs Telford x Reader-A Declaration Of Love

For the amazing @abadamn , who requested this amazing drabble!

I hope you all enjoy this 💛

“Chibs?” Y/n mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

She didn’t know what the time was, but the darkness that encapsulated the outside world was enough to tell her that it was late.

“What are you doing here?” She asked, leaning against her front door, a little puzzled look coming across her face as she stared at the Scottish biker standing on her porch.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at her as he handed her a letter, only making the confusion in her eyes grow. That was until she started reading the letter.

“The house is yours, if ye want it lass,” Chibs spoke, his voice quickly summarising what the letter said.

Y/n never wanted to leave Charming. She had so many memories here, it’s where she grew up, where she saw herself spending the rest of her future.

But now she couldn’t.

She couldn’t afford to continue to live where she was since the landlord upped her rent and everything else on the market was either the same or completely out of her price range, being a waitress didn’t exactly pay well. She tried to get a better job but they all rejected her.

“How?” Was all Y/n could say, her mind trying to process what she’d just heard. Had it not been for the letter she held in her hands she wouldn’t have believed it.

“I used my powers of persuasion,” he answered, feeling breathless as her gorgeous eyes met his.

“Why?” She asked, searching his eyes for an answer, trying desperately to not let her heart get ahead of her.

“I couldn’t…I didn’t..” he began, a string of incoherent curse words left his lips as he began shaking his head, his annoyance with himself growing.

For months now, Chibs had been trying to tell Y/n how he truly felt about her. That he was completely and utterly in love with her. But whenever he saw her, he could never find the words that he wanted to say.

When he heard that she was leaving, he felt his heart break. He could see the sadness in her eyes when she talked about it, no matter how many times she said she was fine with a smile on her face. He knew she wanted to stay. And he knew it was selfish but he wanted her to stay. He wanted to be honest with her, to tell her the truth about how he felt. But once again, the words he wanted to say ran away from him.

A frustrated sigh left his lips before he closed the distance between them, his arms wrapping around her wait, pulling her closer. Barely even a second later, his lips were on hers. The months of pent up passion showing themselves clearly in a feverish kiss, saying all the words he’d wanted to say.

Much to his surprise, she didn’t push him away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him back, with just as much force.

“Fuck,” Chibs panted against her lips; as they both

took a minute to catch their breath, though their lips were still only inches apart.

“I did it because I love ye, Y/n and the..the thought of ye leaving broke my heart,” he muttered, staring at her with nothing but love in his eyes.

“I love you too, Filip,” Y/n whispered, feeling butterflies swarm in her stomach as she admitted the feelings she’d hidden for long; melting into the small kisses he was leaving on her lips.

Taglist:

@xacatalepsyx @i-just-read-stuff @05supernatural20 @heyitskat101 @coldlilheart @skyofficialxx @beeroses @dazzledamazon @snazzysterek @sassymox @rayslittlekitten @https-lorna @rebelwrites @hotdamnhunnam @poor-unfortunate-soul-85 @xbreezymeadowsx @flanagirl @theidiootti1 @screesflanagan @little-diable @beth-winchester21 @oskea93 @lexondeck @thexhostess @tempt-ress @doll0026 @bl3333h @it-was-all-a-beautiful-dream @invisible-ninja @meteora-fc @the-mayan-queen @redpoodlern @kishie8 @innerpaperexpertcloud @ariellostatci @rosieposie0624 @sia2raw @mayans-mc @mrsstevenbuchananstark

[billcoberly]

The Silliest Take of the Week: 1/29/17

Three weeks going! I’m already beating the odds I gave myself in my description of this project. 

Let’s get right to it! We’ve got some nice, spicy takes here this week.

Silliest Twitter Meltdown, Unless It’s Ironic Performance Art, In Which Case: Best Twitter Ironic Performance Art

Tim Marchman, A Short Series of Tweets, Twitter, 1/24/2017

This probably isn’t technically a Silly Take, but given that it exists at the intersection of Silly Internet Things; Political Nonsense; and Internet Tough Guy Posturing, I think it’s well within the #STOW ambit.

Apparently Senator Ted Cruz has organized a weekly-ish basketball game with some other Senators. Ex-Gawker sportsblog Deadspin thought this was funny, and asked for photographic proof of Ted Cruz playing basketball, which is a very Deadspin thing to do. Ted Cruz (or a social media manager working for Ted Cruz, but who cares) responded to a tweet about this with a picture of Duke University basketball player Grayson Allen, who looks sort of like Cruz. Deadspin’s social media person responded in typical Deadspin style:

Ted Cruz in turn responded with an Anchorman gif (”Boy, that escalated quickly!”) and that should probably have been it. 

But for Deadspin editor Tim Marchman, this was Too Much, Too Far, and Not Acceptable. (Please note that Marchman is not the one who drafted the initial call for pictures of Senator Cruz playing basketball). Instead, Tim Marchman gave us a series of nine tweets, the most important of which are below:

Now, a part of me hopes that this is Mr. Marchman being deliberately ridiculous in order to take the heat off of a woman (Ms. Feinberg, who drafted the original call for pictures) who was undoubtedly getting a disproportionate and awful amount of hate from Dudes on the Internet, who are, let there be no mistake, The Worst. If that’s the case, then good work, Mr. Marchman, and I apologize.

But I just want to revel for a moment in the gloriousness of “Unsurprising that not one Ted Cruz-supporting cuck/Twitter user is willing to face me in the UFC octagon.” I don’t know if I could find a better way to distill the silliness that is Internet Tough Guy Posturing into <140 characters. If Marchman is being ironic, then I admire his precision. My guess is that he’s not being ironic, given that 100% of the 11 tweets on his twitter feed consist of him whining about this dustup and two contextless RTs of weird things Curt Schilling once said.

Also, as always happens with Internet Tough Guy Posturing, and as several right-wing websites were happy to point out, some people who are apparently Actual Soldiers And/Or UFC Fighters and who like Ted Cruz have offered to take Marchman up on his challenge.

Don’t engage in Internet Tough Guy Posturing, folks. You look silly, and there’s always somebody out there who is bigger than you are and willing to call your bluff.

Most Predictably Tiresome Response to Angry Protests

David French, “This Is What Post-Christian Dissent Looks Like,” National Review, 1/27/2017.

People on the Left are very mad about Donald Trump. Previously, people on the Left were comically excited about Barack Obama. This, according to David French, has something to do with the fact that we’re not very Christian any more:

“This is post-Christian politics to its core. This is the politics one gets when this world is our only home, and no one is in charge but us. There is no sense of proportion.”

Finally:

“Eight years ago, all too many on the left thought that light had come into the darkness. Now they believe the darkness has overcome the light. In reality, the false dawn preceded the false dusk. Our Republic is still built to last, and the hysterical reaction threatens to be worse than the man who triggered it.”

I’ve tried to reread this a few times to figure out the connections French wants to make between protests and whatever the hell “post-Christian dissent” is, but all I can get out of this piece is a long, wet raspberry noise. So, in conclusion: shut up, David.

See also George Will, “Trump and academia actually have a lot in common,” The Washington Post, 1/27/2017.

Most Cringe-Inducing Set of Editorial Retractions

Moira Wegel, “How Ultrasound Became Political,” The Atlantic, 1/24/2017

I’m not willing to suggest that this whole article is really a Silly Take -- its thesis is that the development of ultrasound technology was a useful tool for pro-life advocates and lawmakers, particularly in the context of those condescending laws that require doctors to show women ultrasounds of their fetuses before they have an abortion. There may well be some value in this train of thought, and I certainly learned some things reading this article. 

That is, I thought I learned some things, until I saw the amazing and ever-growing list of corrections that had to be made to this article after it was published. Now I’m not sure I learned anything from this article, because I’m not sure the author of this article can be trusted to be sure what color the sky is:

“*This article originally stated that there is "no heart to speak of" in a 6-week-old fetus. In fact, the heart has already begun to form by that point in a pregnancy. The article also originally stated that an expectant mother participating in a study decided to carry her pregnancy to term even after learning that the fetus was suffering from a genetic disorder, when in fact the fetus was only at high risk for a genetic disorder. The article originally stated, as well, that Bernard Nathanson headed the National Right-to-Life Committee and became a born-again Christian. Nathanson was active in, but did not head the committee, and was never a born-again Christian, but rather a Roman Catholic. The article originally stated that many doctors in 1985 claimed fetuses had no reflexive responses to medical instruments at 12 weeks. Finally, the article originally stated that John Kasich vetoed a bill from Indiana's legislature, instead of Ohio's legislature, after which the article was incorrectly amended to state that Mike Pence had vetoed the bill. We regret the errors.“

It’s not every day that an article for The Atlantic manages to mix up “born-again” Christians with Roman Catholics, misstate facts about fetal development, and get royally confused about who the governor of Ohio is. A little bit of fact-checking goes a long way, folks.

Biggest Grudge Against an Anodyne Celebrity

Amy Zimmerman, “Taylor Swift’s Spineless Feminism,” The Daily Beast, 1/23/2017

Taylor Swift mostly doesn’t have public political opinions, and Amy Zimmerman has gotten weirdly mad about this before for The Daily Beast. I think about Taylor Swift about as often as I think about throw pillows -- they seem nice enough, and some people seem to have surprisingly strong opinions about them, but I can’t see a lot of need for them in my life. But for Amy Zimmerman, the fact that Taylor Swift hasn’t taken a public position on Donald Trump is a Big Problem that must be Written About At Length.

Look, I have read some legit critiques about Swift’s brand of feminism before, and I’m not really looking to come out swinging for T-Swift. But it’s weird to get this worked up about a pop star’s apparent lack of opinions:

“Courtesy of the Instagram, we learned that Swift endorses democracy and cold-shoulder blouses. But in terms of candidates, it was impossible to deduce if she’d voted for Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, or Jill freaking Stein.” 

who cares who taylor swift voted for, amy

After citing the fact that T-Swift has a small group of neo-Nazi fans who like her because she looks like their ideal woman, Zimmerman says:

“If you’re not overtly on board with the resistance, then you’re tacitly chill with being proclaimed an Aryan goddess.” 

Other good moments are when she gets confused about Swift ex-boyfriend Tom Hiddleston’s acting career:

“Tom Hiddleston has played many roles, from Thor to Taylor Swift’s boyfriend.”

And look, this doesn’t matter, but Tom Hiddleston didn’t play Thor. Snark about anodyne celebrities looks even more petty if you can’t be bothered to get basic facts right.

Finally:

“In hindsight, [Hiddleston’s speech] proves that HiddleSwift may have been more compatible than we ever thought. Can’t you just picture the face of watered-down feminism and 2017’s proudest white savior, taking a break from swapping spit to congratulate one another on staying so woke?” 

Blech.

The Silliest Take of the Week: 1/29/2017

Filip Bondy, “How Vital Are Women? This Town Found Out as They Left to March,” The New York Times, 1/22/2017.

Here’s the pitch: Filip Bondy wants to show that women are important. This is a good thing: women are important. 

Here’s the problem: Filip Bondy wants to show that women are important by highlighting the plights of their poor, abandoned husbands who had to take care of the kids by themselves for --

listen, if you need to take a moment to collect yourself, that’s fine, this is pretty shocking --

these husbands had to take care of their kids for twelve full hours while the women went away to march for some weird chick thing. Can you imagine? Really goes to show how important women are.

Do you think I’m overstating things? Here is the thesis paragraph:

“In their wake, they left behind a progressive bedroom community with suddenly skewed demographics. Routines were radically altered, and many fathers tried to meet weekend demands alone for a change. By participating in the marches and highlighting the importance of women’s rights, the women also demonstrated, in towns like Montclair, their importance just by their absence.”

those poor bastards, having to meet weekend demands alone

“Usually, these chores and deliveries were shared by both parents, in a thoroughly modern way. On this day, many dads were left to juggle schedules on their own.”

the humanity

“Steve Politi, a sports columnist for The Star-Ledger of Newark, missed the Rutgers men’s basketball game on Saturday to stay home with his two children. He did the soccer-game thing, set up play dates (arguably, cheating a bit) and warmed up some leftover pizza for lunch. He also cleaned the refrigerator.”

the refrigerator, Linda, the refrigerator -- I cleaned the goddamn refrigerator while you were marching for uteruses or whatever, I deserve more respect around here

“After his dutiful Saturday, Mr. Coyle went off to play tennis on Sunday morning. It was part of the deal he had struck with his wife.”

a fair and equitable bargain. Mr. Coyle is truly a just sovereign over his household.

“The buses returned late Saturday night from Washington to a quiet, heartfelt welcome. By Sunday morning, most of the women were back to their routines in Montclair. The JaiPure Yoga Studio reported full attendance, and many fathers exhaled in relief.”

“and in that instant, all returned to normal. the seas ceased to boil, the locusts retreated over the horizon, and the wailing of children could no longer be heard. the villagers mourned their dead, but exulted in the knowledge that the women were home, and finally, all would be well again.”

Maybe, just maybe, if you’re trying to write an article about how women are cool and neat and important and Trump is bad, don’t manage to make it sound like men having to stay with their kids for a Saturday is some kind of Great, Heroic Sacrifice.

--

Thanks for reading! And thanks to Braden, Amanda, Tim, and Joel for submitting Silly Takes. As always, don’t forget to send your favorite ridiculous takes to sillytakes@gmail.com, and have a great week!