#A farce is better when it's more elaborate and few things are more elaborate than a choreographed musical number

[taoofshigeru]

You know what probably won't happen but would be oodles of fun?

A Hamefura musical episode.

Wouldn't take much to set the thing up. Alan gets bonked on the noggin and, when he wakes up, everyone seems to him to be singing.

It starts with Geordo delivering Katarina a big bouquet of eggplant seeds, dropping innuendos that she completely fails to catch. Like one of those duets where two characters in two different locations are singing in parallel to each other, except in their case it's just a conversation.

Sophia's number has her narrating the plot of her new favorite F/F novel while Katarina reads through it, interjecting repeatedly with remarks about how it's neat how the two protagonists are such great friends. (Nicol is humming in the background to be supportive.)

Maria sings about the treats she baked and how wonderful they are, and Katarina agrees while repeatedly emphasizing how delicious they are (and how marriageable Maria is). The duet ends with them almost kissing before Katarina turns away to eat the last cookie.

And, when Alan heads to the Hunt family for afternoon tea, we cut to Mary Hunt curating her blackmail book and she bursts into a grade-A villain song.

[youwontlikethisblog]

A lil rant

After watching this episode a fourth time and certain scenes a lot and thinking about it a lot I wanted to explain further than I did in the last post.

I focused a lot on explaining the consensual aspect of their first time and explaining the motivation behind Armando's actions as well as Betty's, but didn't elaborate much more, for one like I said I'm an insomniac and was out of it lol, try writing a post for nearly twelve hours and tell me you wouldn't either. I do see that I should probably draft a lot of my "analysis" when I write them because I am not all there so I don't explain things as well so I'll start doing that so the post are a lot more consistent and clear as opposed to me starting with one point and never finishing it. Anyway now that this disclaimer is out of the way here are my thoughts on said episodes as a writer.

Many times when writing we have to revisit our work as we are writing it. This allows us to pick up on certain plot holes and mistakes as well as even figure out some plot twist in the future. Often times when you know your characters and the moral and ending of your story, the story ends up writing itself and forming it's own path. I've mentioned in past posts that the first draft is to write with tears and blood and the when that's over you clean up your crime scene.

Now, all writers are imperfect and we make mistakes, duh, so there's inconsistent things in this show, like the dog, Camila, Beatriz Valencia, etc.. etc.. however when it comes to the main character's personality there really isn't much of a flaw, in fact they are very realistic and consistent, the actors did a phenomenal job bringing said characters to life, one of my all time favorite details of the characters in this show is how they all have ticks. Guti Guti does that thing with his lips, Patricia flips her hair, Betty worries her lips a lot and when she is explaining certain things she often has this really adorable thing where she rocks on her feet and speaks very certain of what she's saying. Armando has so many ticks that it's hard to keep up with them. Point is they all have so many realistic behaviors that it's hard not to notice them and even harder to disregard them as not part of the story when they are. They are a huge part of being able to credit or discredit the motives and actions that move these characters.

For that exact reason Betty's character in the past few episodes was so heavily important to understand where she was coming from. It wasn't just that she was drinking that got her all riled up and excited that night. It wasn't just that she missed him days without him made her longing and desire increase ten fold. There is always a cause and effect.

What caused Betty to behave this way? How did that effect her relationship? What caused Armando to react that way? How did that effect their relationship? Most importantly, how did this affect them both?

There's a clear understanding of who Armando is and what his secret desire and motive is to make Betty fall in love with him. Though his pride and ego are so huge he can't see past it to dissect and understand his feelings aside from the prejudice he has against women who are not the status quota, in the mildest of all of that there lays one true objective: Betty's heart. We mustn't forget that Armando IS worried about Eco Moda and most certainly that he never wants to admit that he was wrong.

However much like a future dream demonstrates it, Eco Moda is just a farce for his feelings towards Betty. Though outwardly he is motivated by the desperate desire to be validated and loved by his parents, to be better than Daniel, and not admit that he was wrong, inwardly what really pushes him and makes him go after Betty is his desire for her.

How does this start off? He blurs the line at work, where things no longer are just professional coming from him. He makes certain achievements of Betty's in her profession and even morale his own, as if they were a team facing the challenges together. He inserts himself into Betty's life and he inserts Betty into his personal life a lot. With his affairs, his feelings regarding the company and his worries. He trust her as his confidant, as his best friend. He trust her with his feelings more than he does with his actual best friend and his fiancé and this all starts days before the plan is even a plan to him.

The cause of this? Betty's faithfulness and unconditionality.

The effect? He feels like he is special to Betty, as he said himself he had been so special with her(If you haven't yet I suggest that you read the posts Nicolas Mora, Un Amigo, Betty, My Betty! Parts 1-3).

As their relationship progressed his feelings continued to grow to the point that this night, not after he slept with her but before he did, he fell in love. It was when Betty was being vulnerable and apologizing to him for having been overbearing that he fell in love.

However Betty had already been in love with him, way before. She knew him in and out. She knew the good and the bad. She accepted him as is and all she wanted to do was give him her affection and love and that's what she's done, it's all she's done and this feeds a cycle of desire and motivation for Armando where her love motivates him to change, it inspires him to be a better version of himself to make Betty happy because seeing her happy makes him happy, it challenges him to change his own prejudice of society and people. She is a safe haven and she achieves that, how wasn't he supposed to fall in love with her this night when she does exactly that?

Betty's cause to behave like this was her conversation with Aura Maria days before where she questioned if Armando felt more for her than just admiration. She questioned if he too desired her. The effect of that conversation was her testing to see if Armando did in fact feel the same way, that he was on the same page.

It is also so satisfying to see the parallels! Oh how wonderful they are!

The extreme contrast between Betty and Marcela are so visible, so vivid, so in your face that you cannot say that Marcela is a victim of Betty's.

I won't defend Betty's actions for involving herself with a man that was in a contract with another woman(I say contract because it was not an engagement. What Marcela and Armando had was a contract, he did her the favor of marrying her and she owned him.) I understand that she is insecure but she was always shown to have morals and ethics above all, where did those go? Out the window that's where. However I still love her so imma be a supportive mother to Betty and call her out but lend her my two shoulders to cry on, okay?

Moving on.

Betty did not and I will repeat this BETTY DID NOT MANIPULATE OR FORCE ARMANDO TO SLEEP WITH HER.

We get two contrast of the exact same scenario for that exact reason people.

Betty and Marcela literally ask the exact same questions to Armando: Am I making you uncomfortable? Am I bothering you? Do you not want to be with me?(Marcela asked Do you want me to leave?)

However they ask it with different intentions and motivation.

Marcela never pays attention to Armando's body language. Instead she focuses solely on herself, her feelings, and what she wants, this is not a person who is insecure, this is not a person who has no self-worth. This is a person who has a huge ego. MARCELA IS SELF-CENTERED AND SELFISH TO THE CORE. For this exact reason she refuses to let go of Armando because she believes that she deserves him not as a human being but as a trophy to satisfy herself that she tamed a man who sluts it out left and right.

This night we get to see that.

While Betty asked him these questions to make sure he was on the same page as her, that he too desired her just as she desired him; Marcela asked these questions to trap him. She wanted to be like "Aha! You do have a lover! Now I'm going to make your life a living hell because I was right!"

No sis, calm your tits, you need a therapist.

While Betty was legit asking for it, for Armando to consent, Marcela was asking for him to satisfy her. There is a huge, and I mean huge difference between asking for consent and wanting to be satisfied.

Ironically my current WIP pushed me down a rabbit hole on information that explains the dynamics of a survivor and a romantic relationship and how to be a supportive S.O and a lot of the articles I read mentioned the importance of intimacy.

What is intimacy? It is forming a friendship with your S.O and establishing honesty and respect. It comes above the physical aspect of the relationship because it makes you feel safe when things are leading to something physical.

Marcela and Armando don't have that. Armando has even told Marcela that he doesn't want her to have his intimacy. When I first saw that scene I was like "Take a look at this an*s! Why is she with him?" and then I saw why... Marcela be blabbering his business to everyone. She tells everyone that Armando is unfaithful(I mean in that aspect he do be deserving that) but it goes so much deeper than that. The reason he cheats on her is because he is trying to escape, have control, and feel validated and then that feeds her possessiveness over him, which then feeds his desire to cheat(@el-moscorrofio-y-el-mercachifle already made a meme about that lol). She never does anything to gain his trust, instead she demands it and when she doesn't get it she has this "Aha! It's because you're a cheating whore and I'll destroy the woman but stay with you because you belong to me you puny little man! But I will also ruin you if you leave me!" Their relationship sucks. It's honestly just a moral enemies to sex trope. That's it. Like there's nothing there.

Which is not the case for Betty and Armando.

They in fact do have intimacy. They talk about their feelings, they face trials together, as a team, they push one another and inspire one another. They were friends(a lil more than friends doe) long before. In the scene where they are talking in the hotel room Betty tells him she understand him, that she understands that he doesn't feel that sort of attraction towards her and just because she loves him he isn't obligated to sleep with her.

I want to repeat this in cause people are still confused or saying Betty forced Armando to sleep with her: She said :YOU ARE NOT UNDER THE OBLIGATION TO HAVE RELATIONS WITH ME JUST BECAUSE I WANT TO.

What does that sound like to you?

Imma wait for crickets.

When Armando then tries to engage into relations she pulls away and tells him that he doesn't have to.

She is literally placing his needs, his feelings, before her own, however Armando has just barely fallen in love and he wants to. He wants to sleep with her. He wants to engage in fornication and sinful actions with Betty.

He gets frustrated when Betty tells him that he doesn't have to and we know it's because he hates it when people, especially Betty, invalidate his feelings or efforts. The fact that Betty now was telling him no upset him because he did want to sleep with her, however he did not pressure her either. He explained why he did want to sleep with her and when she consented and he too consented they sinned.

However later that night we get almost the exact same scenario but with a different tone.

Marcela, after they argued, sits by his bed where he is laying down and goes to take off his tie and tells him that she desires him. Armando was laying still he told her he was tired, wanted to wash up and go to sleep before she did this. He did not look nor welcome her actions, which is different from when Betty told him that she wanted to make him feel better. In that scene Armando asked her how she was going to do that and when she said with her kisses, they both leaned in to kiss. This time Armando just lays there, like all the other times before but he looks at her with a cold stare.

When he jumped back from Betty when they were making out, Betty asked him what was wrong and he expressed himself.

However this time when Marcela asks him her tone is different. This time she's angry at him as she yells at him to deny that he has a lover now.

Marcela wasn't looking to be with her man, she was looking for her man to be with her. She wanted him to prove to her that he hadn't been sluting it out(like how was he supposed to prove that when she been knew that he still went and slept with her after he slept with whomever? Like she knew he did that and she still consented? WHAT? which y'know feeds the notion that she just wanted her socks rocked) but it contradicts what she says the next day to Patsy Pats at the office. Marcela just wanted him to satisfy her. She wasn't looking for it to be team work, she was looking for it to be about her.

This is why that night was so important. These little scenes, movements, play on words and parrales are there to show us two different relationships; a healthy one and a toxic one.

Marcela didn't respect Armando's no, she just had no other option because this time he wasn't just laying there letting her do what she wanted, this time her emotional manipulation didn't work, this time her seggsual manipulation doesn't work so unless she was gonna r-word him than she had no other choice but to be pissed about it.

Betty did respect Armando's no. She tried to explain herself and apologize to him. She even double checked with him when he told her he did want to. Betty was willing to not have relations with Armando if he didn't want to, for the sake of their relationship and what they have, she would not jeopardize their relationship just to get her socks rocked nor would she make him feel guilty for it.

It wasn't a happy little accident that we get these parrales in one episode.

Understanding the cause and effect helps us determine this.

Understanding the character's inner desires and dilemas helps us understand this.

So no, once again, Betty did not force Armando to sleep with her. Everything before, during, and after that scene shows us and tells us this.

We get both a cause and effect with the added bonus of show, not tell.

This novela reads like a book, so there isn't much of a speculation when we are being shown to compare both of these relationships when they are saying the same things, in the same scenario but with different tone and reaction from the character of interest in both scenarios.

The purpose of this novela was to break social norms of how certain women and men are presented in the media and to question why that is. It isn't simply a love story, if it was I wouldn't be able to watch it as stuff like that makes me want to puke, again this is all a funny ironic joke that someone is playing on me.

[EDIT:

Another key things to take into account(I mentioned it in the Forgive Me post) is that even Mario's tactic to manipulate Armando had nothing to do with Eco Moda or his ego. It had everything to do with Betty's feelings and Armando's desire to make her happy. That same day Mario took notice of Armando's behavior towards Betty at the office and the guilt he felt over forgetting her B-day. Mario played with Armando's feelings and he pushed his buttons to see just how much it mattered to Armando.

When Armando said at the bar that he couldn't go through with it, Mario told him he was convinced, a sincere reaction of his, and he didn't have to do it anymore. However when Armando said he couldn't do that to Betty because she was really looking forward to it, Armando was smiling when he was talking about her enthusiasm to spend time with him, and Mario took notice of that.

So again, Armando did want to sleep with Betty, he just didn't want to do it under deceit or manipulation. He didn't want to be Betty's "First" under those conditions and Betty didn't force him.

My rant is over.

[EDIT: On the Forgive Me post I went back and did two corrections, they are in bold so if y'all want to read them, that would be awesome :)]

[atlantis-scribe]

AU-gust 2021 ( Day 4 )

Dancing

(in which Rodney is a Very Serious Technical Dancer & John Sheppard is the green-eyed jock who is quite frankly wasting his time)

.

"Okay, that is it!"

Rodney drops the long and heavy lumps he's been holding up for the better part of an hour and takes a step back. Ms. Katherine ‘Call Me Kate, Dear” Heightmeyer from the guidance office told him once that it's best to put a distance between you and the thing you want to hit before you've properly assessed the situation. Or at least weighed the pros and cons before giving in to the urge.

It's actually a rather functional advice, Rodney’s been coming to realize these past few minutes. "Do your arms not have bones? Because if so, they're the densest bags of jello I have ever seen attached to a human body before." He sweeps a hand to point at his dancing partner's limbs. "Or maybe they're filled with non-Newtonian fluid. I won't mind hitting you repeatedly to find out, but I'm afraid I have a recital this Friday, and I need my wrists intact. I told you to keep your elbows up, not weigh my shoulders down."

John-Patrick-Sheppard-from-Homeroom-and-Trig, which is the actual name Rodney has mentally given the guy before this whole farce, just blinks at him. "Umm. . ."

"Oh for goodness' sake!"

Rodney bares his teeth and grabs Sheppard's useless hands, placing them roughly on his own shoulders again.

"I understand that this particular set is relatively advanced, especially for people like yourself who probably have never once displayed any sense of rhythm whatsoever their entire lives, but my little sister, who is a freshman student and a card-carrying member of your adoring groupies, took me to one of your games last month, and I could've sworn I saw some hand-eye-coordination somewhere in here." This time, he waves both hands to indicate Sheppard’s entire person.

"Wait. When did you—”

"I chose this set because while I think it's important to learn all kinds of dance regardless of what's between your legs, the overall mechanics matter nonetheless.” Rodney sniffs. “I still suspect this is Principal O'Neill's most elaborate punishment for me thus far, but I will not give him the satisfaction of making us look like utter buffoons come spring. We will make it good, and you will cooperate."

"Rodney. . . "

"What did you do to upset O'Neill for him to give you this instead of suspension, anyway? And why the hell did you accept? I know he's not very fond of me; he thinks I'm a smartass, and he's upset I'm far more intelligent than his pet student Carter, but you? You're in the football team. O'Neill likes you and your kind."

It's the awkward cough that breaks Rodney's tirade. He looks up from their feet to find that Sheppard's face has turned the oddest shade of pink.

"What?" Rodney demands, replaying the last half of their slightly one-sided conversation. “And did you just— huh. I’m surprised you know my first name.”

Sheppard takes one of his hands off Rodney to rub the back of his neck. For some strange reason, he can’t seem to meet Rodney’s eyes.

“Jack doesn’t— I mean, Principal O’Neill, he, uh. Well he doesn’t hate me. Not really.” Sheppard shakes his head, jostling his head full of dark, unruly, probably-gets-all-over-your-eyes-during-spins hair. “He’s, um, he’s actually my— godfather.”

Rodney’s hands on Sheppard hips still. “He’s what?”

“And I know who— I know your name.”

When Sheppard finally lifts his head to look at him, Rodney begins to realize that he may have just missed a very important step somewhere along the line.

[doshmanziari]

Architectural Criticism in 2021/2022 || Part 1.5

Before writing a fuller continuation of my previous essay on architectural criticism, I’m inserting a mini-essay that focuses on a particular piece of criticism. Let me be clear: I don’t see Kate Wagner, the person behind @mcmansionhell, as an enemy; I’m just using one of her articles as an example because I had, in my essay, already linked two articles of hers (more accurately, one article and an image from another), and I’d rather elaborate on what I mean when I write “...a vapid buildup to a politically convenient takeaway” than bring in an entirely different item. Wagner, in my view, represents a sort of destabilizing criticism that takes pleasure in tackling “dry” subject matter with breathless, Meme-heavy sarcasm. I find the tone off-putting, but I appreciate it as one attempt to invigorate and broaden the audiences of architectural appraisal. My issue is that by now the joke has overestimated its capacity for judgmental clarity. Really anything can be made fun of if you’re determined enough, and the more of an unquestioning audience you have the easier it is to believe everything you say is true or coherent.

The image was from this 2018 Vox article: “Betsy DeVos’ summer home deserves a special place in McMansion Hell” (a title likely devised by the editor; given the other residences Wagner has lambasted, I would be surprised if she truly believes this is among the worst). My observations won’t make sense unless anyone who is reading this reads her article as well, so please do that if you’d like to follow along. It should take only a couple of minutes.

What I’d first draw readers’ attention to is that Wagner spends the first four paragraphs on the United States’ beyond-vast inequality of wealth. Two of these paragraphs are the article’s largest, and the article is twelve-paragraphs-long, meaning that 1/3 of it is devoted to establishing a socio-economic context -- at least, that is the pretense. Once Wagner writes “...getting paid to make fun of DeVos’s tacky seaside decor is one of few ways to both feed myself and make myself feel better”, it is clear that her personal intent is a kind of vengeful mocking, and that her intent for readers is to prime them to associatively, knee-jerkingly despise anything which could come next with flat-affect “lmao”s. It’s hardly irrelevant to mention economic realities when examining luxury items (and what else is a mansion?), but Wagner’s subsequent analysis is not really architectural or even artistic: it is rather about looking at several photographs of a building, knowing who lives there and hating that person (and also imagining that they were responsible for all design decisions), and then mocking this-and-that in whatever ways one can devise. These grievances are understandable, but understandable grievances do not automatically lead to perceptive criticism.

Please look (perhaps again) at the first image. Note that only four, maybe, of the fourteen details Wagner chooses to focus on -- “no wry comment needed”, “these look like playdoh stamps”, “when you love consistency”, and “oh my god is this a shutter” -- approach anything vaguely resembling coherent criticism; and the other four images fare even worse (with the exception of the highlighting of an apparently absurd interior balcony). The rest are inane attempts at saying anything at all. Writing “hell portal” by an upper porch area may be funny for a moment, but what does it actually express? Well, nothing, except the author’s own irritation which will find whatever it can to announce its contemptuous sarcasm. Wagner’s captions will land only to the degree that the reader is humorously sympathetic.

The aforementioned remarks, excepting the one about the embedded chubby Tuscan columns’ Play-Doh-likeness, suggest that the worst thing a building can do is be formally heterogeneous. The implicative corollary here is that good architecture is eminently justifiable in all of its parts -- consistent, unified, rational. This is as fine a personal belief as anything else, but when it is wielded as dogma against architecture which has no interest in being a Petit Trianon it can only reveal its intellectual self-limitations. Wagner writes that “there is a difference between architectural complexity and a mess”, yet what that difference may be is hand-waved away. We just have to believe that thirteen different windows styles is too much. What’s the threshold? Does it depend on the size of the building? The types of styles used? Who knows.

Now of course bad architecture exists, and sometimes the failure indeed points to deficient editorial acumen; for architecture, like any other art, is as much about what’s included as what’s excluded. But in saying so little about the shingle style itself, Wagner seems to have given no thought to readers concluding that all shingle style houses are freakish -- more specifically, concluding that this freakishness is a damning transgression, and that no self-respecting, punching-up class-warrior would ever be caught dead sincerely enjoying their geometric, “exquisite corpse” escapades. In fact, the freakish tendencies of shingle style houses are just what make them such great fun to see, visit, or reside in. Wagner’s article, as far as I can tell, omits this possibility. When she writes, “Betsy likely went with this style because it is very popular in New England and in coastal enclaves of the rich and famous in general”, one is being pushed to presume that the only probable reason the shingle style exists or could be preferred over another style is to signal élite solidarity.

The photograph right above is of Kragsyde, a Massachusetts shingle style mansion, designed by the US-Northeast-oriented firm of Peabody & Stearns, completed in the 1880s. It was demolished almost a century ago, but the few exterior images of it which remain are, I think, fascinating -- maybe most of all for its enormous archway, possibly a porte-cochère, which has a thin, overextending keystone bizarrely driven into the top like a nail puncturing a petrified rainbow. I bring the building up because Wagner gives us no reason to consider why Kragsyde may have been a genuine architectonic accomplishment and not merely an oversized farce of contiguous pretensions. To the layperson hot off of the Vox piece, there may be no artistic difference between it and DeVos’ place, except that perhaps Kragsyde has a more consistent fenestrative application (would that make it better? if so, why?).

I appreciate that only so much can be said when you’re limited to less than a thousand words, especially when the issue is “complicated” (as the byline for Vox’s First-person series advertises). But the problem I keep coming back to is how DeVos’ mansion is treated as a stand-in for DeVos herself. This makes any architectural critique, no matter how pressed it is for size, flimsily presentist: its durability starts and ends with how alive the architecture’s resident(s) and political presence are. On some emotional level, this is pretty sensible: if we despise monarchical institution, we can find a sort of loophole to enjoying Versailles palace on the basis of it no longer being the residence of royalty. Our awe over its decadence and scope is intersectionally “admissible” on the basis of its having become a UNESCO World Heritage site. Similarly, one can imagine DeVos’ mansion being appreciated in a hundred years (should it still exist then) because the passage of time will have rendered DeVos’ person a historical fact, and perhaps more separable, and then tolerable, in that regard -- even if the building remains private.

But if architecture is, as a craft, critically whittled down to nothing more or less than inorganic expressions of social disparities, with every aesthetic decision a reflection of politically explicable taste, then we must assume that a great deal of the world’s most remarkable architecture is equally ridiculous and despicable, since so much of it was born out of great privilege and required specialized resources. I doubt Wagner actually believes this, because it would betray the entire premise of her McMansion Hell project, which is to demonstrate how so many modern day mansions are deeply unpleasant mounds of visual illiteracy, and cannot hold even a stump of a candle to the luminously learned and eclectic talents of prior great architects such as Mackintosh, Norman Shaw, Lutyens, or Ledoux. So what’s the takeaway here? As far as I can tell, it’s simply that if you hate Betsy DeVos, and if you care about class, you should hate her house too. And I do not think that that is architectural criticism.

[tanadrin]

Notes on some Rare Economic Systems (That Do Not Work)

1.

A little more than two hundred years ago, the state of Kezaria was rapidly changing, but straining against a patchwork of antiquated laws supported by a corrupt government. The Kezarian parliament was filled with representatives of rotten boroughs, its aristocracy refused to endorse any kind of political reform, and its population was moving from the countryside to the cities as enclosures on the one hand and the growth of the urban economy on the other conspired to convert the country from an agrarian economy to an industrial one. Eventually, protests broke out which threatened to become a real revolution. Terrified of the consequences of such a revolution, the State Council of Kezaria forced through a series of reforms that included, among its provisions, a regular cash disbursement for the relief of the poor. As all this happened before Speenhamland, a prejudice against such a program had not yet been established in Kezaria, and the State Council was desperate for anything that would keep the government from being overthrown.

Incidentally, it worked, and though initially considered a minor provision, direct poverty relief became a cornerstone of Kezarian government. As the country moved further in a socialist direction–now through gradual reform aided by democracy, rather than revolution or the threat of revolution–this provision was expanded, and eventually enshrined in the Kezarian constitution. But some thinkers still considered the economic system fundamentally unjust; redistribution, they said, was not enough. It was still possible that wealth should be unequally amassed, that the resources of each citizen should be too different in magnitude, and therefore some would have unelected power over their fellows; and a state that was a democracy worthy of the name should make all its citizens equal in matters of money as well as law. And so in due course, all income *outside of* the Kezarian basic income was banned.

This is the Kezarian system as it stands today: each month, an account in every citizen’s name is reset to 2,000 Kezarian lions–although the lion no longer functions as a true currency, the name is retained for the sake of historical continuity. The lion may be spent, but not accumulated: an excess of lions, as well as a dearth, is wiped out at the end of each calendar month. As accounts may be held only by natural persons, no business has a single swan (the Kezarian cent) to its name, except what its managers and executives might pool of their common monthly resources. Transaction taxes are very high–as much as 20 or 30 percent of any purchase–in order to keep the lion in circulation, but nobody much minds, as they are not really losing any money in the long run.

The inconvertibility of the lion means that, naturally, tourism is nearly nonexistent in Kezaria, and all imports must be purchased by the state and imported using its foreign currency reserves. But the Kezarians seem content with their system, for they can look around at their neighbors and friends and politicians–all the people who *really* matter, after all–and be confident that no one is doing much better, or much worse, than them.

2.

Miskando is perhaps unique in the world for being a modern, industrialized, and prosperous gift economy.

Miskando has few laws, not because its people are of an especially libertarian bent, but because informal rules in Miskandese culture to an unusual degree. Whereas the British have no need of a written constitution, because convention governs their parliament so strictly, the Miskandese have little need of written laws, because contravening the rules of polite society is unthinkable. Such behavior puts one in the same category as a child, imbecile, or foreigner; and if you truly do not know how to behave in a given situation, well, Miskandese bookshops do a brisk trade in manuals of etiquette, and the most popular section of the newspapers is invariably the one given over entirely to advice columns.

The commercial storefront in Miskando is in fact an evolution of the private home; as such, there isn’t a strict distinction between “house” and “shop,” and one observes the niceties of calling on a friend or acquaintance when one enters a shop, even if the proprietor is totally unknown to them. If you need something–a new hat, perhaps, or a week’s worth of groceries–the custom is that you wander into a shop and look about for a little while. The shopkeeper or the clerk will ask you if they can help; you must refuse at least once. When they insist (as they invariably will), you will begrudingly admit that there are one or two things you might want, and after a little back-and-forth and some polite chit-chat about the weather, you will gather the items on your list, enquire after your interlocutor’s health and the health of their children, and then depart.

The provision of services, even complex ongoing services, is furnished in much the same way. A bilateral relationship must be carefully cultivated between members of two different firms; as a rule, favors are exchanged, rather than contracts being made, and are never quite repaid fully: to do so would be to formally disobligate someone, and thus to end your relationship with them. This is seen as a terrible snub when it occurs between individuals, and when it occurs between businesses is usually due to one party incurring the other’s greatest displeasure

.Outsiders attempting to do business in Miskando have generally found the process bewildering, even those from politeness-heavy societies. The Miskandese, for their part, have adapted fairly well to commerce with other nations; after all, if they have need of hard currency, they usually have a friend who owes them a favor that they can ask.

3.

In Gharat, all money is in the form of immense bronze pillars.

Long ago, it is said, the people of Gharat exchanged certain standardized, useful goods, like knives or wool cloth, whose value was widely agreed upon. These eventually gave way to the ancient Gharat knife-currency, a chunk of bronze of a fixed weight whose resemblance to the older medium of exchange was only passing. The real value was in the metal itself; and because of its weight, large amounts of these heavy pieces were often bound together to prevent theft.

One day, a thoughtful merchant had the bright idea of simply melting all his bronze into one enormous mass, which he could simply leave outside his house–after all, it was impossible to steal. Many others began to follow suit, and some began to craft the displays of their wealth into more elaborate shapes, and eventually, the tradition of the bronze pillar currency was enshrined. It didn’t matter that it couldn’t be transported; after all, the metal wasn’t *used* for anything anymore–the Gharati had by this time moved on to iron tools. And (so the Gharati held) assiduous recordkeeping meant that it was always widely known who owned what pillar, even if the pillar in question happened to be three provinces over.

The centralization of the Gharati nation in the 18th and 19th century and the codification of Gharati customary law necessitated the establishment of a centralized record of ownership of the pillars; and it was eventually discovered, to the horror of the nation’s leaders, that the records of ownership were, in fact, a contradictory mess. They *could*, perhaps, be sorted out, and the spurious claims distinguished from the genuine ones, but to do so would be to devastate the wealth of the nation: multiple ownership of the same pillars more than quintupled the country’s GDP, with some particularly contested pillars being owned by as many as fifty people. Perhaps they could keep the situation a secret; but if word ever got out, they feared, there would be chaos and riots as a result.

The solution came from Gharati religious law, which had always been rather more concerned with metaphysical matters over practical ones. One object, the scriptures said, might really be two, depending on how you look at it; so the Gharati lawmakers simply proclaimed all claims of ownership that had existed on a certain date, a few years previous, to be valid; and any *appearance* that one pillar might be owned by more than one person was, in fact, an illusion of the material world. Really, these were multiple pillars that happened to be superimposed on one another. They might *literally* be made of the same particles of metal, but they were *conceptually* distinct. There was some grumbling when this was announced–but no one wanted to risk losing the lion’s share of their net worth overnight, so it was quickly accepted.

Yet despite proposals, the Gharati have never made the shift entirely to a pillar-backed paper currency, or to a fiat currency entirely. After all, they say, money ought to be something *real.* A bronze pillar has mass and heft; and thus, it is possible to imagine, it had real value. To abolish the system entirely would simply turn the idea of money into a farce.

4.

Clasimarion is, its inhabitants say, the most perfect place of liberty to have ever existed–even if they are all slaves.

The island of Usvasaari was settled by Tiravec peoples from the south, who founded the city; Clasimarion was a prosperous trade republic in its middle years, but declined as the mercantile empires around it grew, and its once-vaunted navy was unable to secure its trading rights by force. When the Third Bull Government was overthrown, a new order was proclaimed. The constitution consisted of a single line: “The forceful interference with an individual or their property may be met with force.” The state was abolished; henceforth the Clasmain common law of property was supreme.

Despite the cynicism of foreign observes, Clasimarion did *not* immediately collapse into anarchy. No warlord rose to power, no neighboring state invaded, and, for a little while, life continued much as it had before, without the burden of taxes or unnecessary bureaucracy. The former merchant-lords of the city managed their holdings without outside interference now, and any petty squabbles that might result in violence between their private mercenary corps did not interfere with life in the rest of the city.

This state lasted about thirty years. One day, a certain Orsil San, the last of an old Clasmain family now living abroad, discovered that according to ancient Clasmain law, his quintuple-great-grandmother had at one time owned all of the northern peninsula of Usvasaari, the very land on which Clasimarion was built. What had been thought freehold title, converted to allodial title at the time of the revolution, was in fact only on an indefinite lease to the government; and, the deed said, should the institutions of that government be dissolved, “all land, chattels, movable and immovable goods, and any other right of property within that domain, not held by persons outside it, shall revert to the San family."

This meant that all Clasimarion was the property of one man. And worse: because Clasmain common law had never abolished the condition of slavery (though it had been centuries since it had been practiced), and that slaves could not own property, all of the *inhabitants* of Clasimarion were his property as well, to dispose of, with absolute rights, as he wished.

And Orsil San did wish. He sold the deed to an overseas company, a fortune-cookie company called Voystaykan & Son, and retired to a dissolute life that ended when he fell off his yacht and drowned. Voystaykan sent a delegation to Clasimarion, contracts in hand, and all of the most eminent jurists of the city agreed with doleful solemnity: Orsil San had the right, and the contracts were valid. To rebel, to attempt to rescind the contract, to appoint a parliament or king to change the law, would be an intolerable violation of the constitution, an affront to the most deeply held principles of liberty. The entire city submitted without a fight, and became the property of the newly-rebranded Voystaykan Company.

The Company is not cruel. It knows that morale is important to get the most out of its property. The people labor by day, singing their work-songs and shanties, and they retire in the evening to adequate meals within their barracks. They have their games and celebrations. Life in Clasimarion is well-ordered, and peaceful. But the will of the city’s managers is an iron law. The CEO of the Company, like a distant god. The company’s property may supplicate before it; they may beg and plead and weep, but the law of that country is clear: they are objects of another’s rights, not agents of their own. They may hope, and they may dream; but their labor does not cease, and their fate is not their own to determine. And they may gaze out over the cold waters that surround Usvasaari, but they cannot leave. For what would they be then, but thieves stealing themselves away? To do so would mean that they despise that most important right of all, the right to property. It would mean that they hate justice and law and liberty above all. And whatever else it may be, Clasimarion is free.

[starrynite7114]

things you never knew: five

A/N: I’ve had this ready for a few days, no idea why I waited, but it’s here now! Enjoy this update! Hope you all are enjoying this story as much as I am!

TYNK: Characters one : two : three : four

Word count: 5856

Masterlist

Request list

tagged list: @justahopelessssromantic : @ifoundmyhappythought : @carlaangel86 : @marvelmaree : @woahitslucyylu : @encounterthepast : @enamoured-x : @whyisgmora : @briana-mishell24 : @bribri-82 : @briannab1234 : @chibsytelford : @agirllovespasta : @twistnet : @everyhowlmarksthedead : @trulysuccubus : @jadert15 : @sammskellington : @cind-in-real-life : @mheart27 : @claytoncardenasbabymama : @sadeyesgf : @thickemadame : @summertimesadnesswithadashofsass : @gemini0410 : @robbosugdens : @elcococruz : @samcrobae : @sesamepancakes : @iambabyharry : @blackmissfrizzle : @nich0lasmatthews : @angelreyesgirl​ : @soamayansimaginez​ : @vicmackeybullshxt​ : @sheeshgivemeabreak​ : @1-800-imagines​

Thank you again @carlaangel86​ for making this for me! <3

Ailee groaned as Arthur tended to her wounds, laying on her side as he applied cream on the scars that she sustained with the whip that Theo used on her. It was a torture tactic in case she was captured by the enemy. He whipped her twenty five times every other week to build her tolerance. They didn’t hurt less, she just reacted less. The tears have stopped as crying upset Theo greatly. 

And she was exhausted.

Tears weren’t doing anything for her.

The only time she cried was when she would dream of Angel, praying and hoping for this hell to end.

“You’re progressing well.” She heard Arthur compliment her as he applied the cream on her back. “I don’t know how to help you Ailee.”

Arthur was a Maquina agent that Jin installed in Theo’s company. He made his way up after saving Theo’s life in a failed assassination attempt. He made his way up the ladder rather quickly and was now his right hand man. At times, Ailee was skeptical to trust him as he’s been undercover for nearly three years. Theo was charismatic and took care of the people he cared for, but he was also harsh. Though from their interactions, Theo always seemed to listen to Arthur’s advice. 

“You can’t.” Ailee felt the tear fall, running over the bridge of her nose. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

“Don’t do this for Angel, he’s not worth it.” Arthur knew what Theo held over his sister’s head and it was despicable. He reported to Jin that Theo was threatening Angel’s life, but it seemed that he didn’t care much for Ailee’s boyfriend. 

‘The loss of his life would propel her to come work for Maquina.’

The way Jin and Theo played with Ailee’s life, not caring how much they hurt her, it was despicable. Family was an excuse both used to explain their actions, that they cared for Ailee, they loved her. But this wasn’t what family was about. At least by his definition. Manipulating Ailee to fight for their cause, it was despicable. 

“To me he is, Angel has been the only constant in my life that has never required anything from me besides being myself.” She gripped the sheet as Arthur stitched up her new laceration she sustained. 

“Angel wouldn’t want you to suffer like this.”

“No, but if I lose him, I would lose my grip with reality. He’s the only person holding me down.” 

“At least let me tell your brothers where you are so they can come see you.”

“No,” she choked out. “That would upset Theo and it might blow your cover.” She never felt so helpless before. The only way she could escape was to become what Theo wanted her to be. Theo wanted her to be perfect. To kill with no qualms, to be able to surpass John.

She knew that eventually he would ask her to kill John for what occurred with his father.

‘They would never be able to kill you. You’re the one thing that John and Vince will never kill. You have to become better than them.’

Maquina provides the base model for Theo. She knew how to hold a gun, to fight, to escape tricky situations and to adapt to her surroundings.

Now, Theo was perfecting the skills she learned at Maquina. To be able to kill with whatever surrounded her or her bare hands. To be able to roam in the dark with no guidance. To not fear death or anything she used to fear.

The one fear he couldn’t get rid of was losing Angel and he used that to his advantage. 

So many times Ailee thought that ending her life would make this nightmare end, but all she could think of was Angel, what would happen to him if she did end her life? Felipe and EZ couldn’t lose another person. That would be too much life lost for a lifetime. 

She had to hold on.

She had to withstand it.

For Angel she would.

===============

Ailee sat on her bed, Melody sitting in front of her. She was brushing her daughter’s hair, Alexander sitting at the head of the bed. 

“She has Angel’s eyes.” Ailee loved looking at Melody’s eyes, because it reminded her of Angel’s. Whenever she missed him most all those years ago, she would hold Melody in her arms, look into her eyes and feel at home again.

“Has he reached out to you?” Alexander questioned, watching how Ailee softly brushed Melody’s hair, making sure that she didn’t get the brush caught on her implant.

Melody has a cochlear implant that she had placed at four years old. She was born with congenital deafness due to a chemical that was induced during the pregnancy, Ailee’s pregnancy. Melody was a twin, but due to a drug that induced abortion, her twin died. Melody survived. 

Ailee was pregnant when she was arrested. She had found out that day and was going to tell Angel, she was four months along. Theo found out she was pregnant and due to his disapproval of Angel, gave her water that was laced with the drug. It was successfully worked on one of the babies, but Melody hung on and due to this, she developed the condition.

Thankfully, Melody was able to get the cochlear implant so she can hear. Her speech needed help, but Ailee had the best working on her.

A secret she kept from Angel all these years knowing that if her brother found out that Ailee had given birth to Angel’s child, it would place a target on her back. So she decided to pretend that it was a child she adopted in Europe, letting her stay with a family friend while Ailee racked up the bodies all around Europe. If she made herself look invincible, into the monster Theo wanted her to be, he wouldn’t fuck with her or Melody.

So she made the elaborate lie that she was adopted, when in reality, Melody was her and Angel’s child. Her brothers helped her cover her secret along with Jin. She didn’t mean to withhold Melody from Angel and she didn’t. Melody knew who her father was, she never hid that. 

“No, he won’t. Why should he?” Ailee hoped Angel didn’t reach out to her, there was no reason to do so.

“You know why you agreed to this, you wanted Angel to meet Melody. You didn’t agree to this at the farce of your half-brother possibly being here.” Alexander knew the truth. This was Ailee’s way to go home, so she fed the intel that Theo may be at the border communicating through the rebel group. It was a farce, a dangerous one at that, but once Melody met Angel, her conscience would be cleared and they could leave again.

This was the best way for Melody to be protected, by having Maquina around. As much as she despised the organization, she saw the benefits that it provided. By saying that Theo could possibly be around, Maquina would provide their agents and resources to assure that Theo doesn’t make any headway in America. It was a terrible farce but this was the way Melody could meet Angel. 

“I know, I just, he’s going to hate me.” And maybe she was frightened she would be rejected. From her understanding he had something going on with the rebel leader. The last thing she wanted was to disrupt Angel’s life. He was better without her, without her troubles and fallacies. 

“Angel could never hate you. He’ll be angry, but he won't hate you. He knows you did this for your daughter and not to spite him.” Alexander reasoned. “Or at least I would hope he didn’t.”

“This was a bad idea. I should have never come back.” Ailee places the brush down, Melody turning her implant back on. 

“Mommy, when do I get to see daddy?” Melody signed to Ailee.

“Soon baby,” she tucked her daughters hair back. “Mommy just needs a little more time.”

“Okay.” Melody said, nodding her head and getting off the bed. “Uncle Alexander, can we play?”

“Anything for you princess.” He stood up, almost following Melody out of the room before turning back. “You can’t keep him waiting Lee, Santo Padre is a small town. It’s not like you can deny her resemblance to him when he sees her.”

Ailee knew that, but she needed time. 

She wasn’t ready.

Well, when would she ever?

===============

“This is insane Ailee, there are no leads connecting Theo to anyone here.” Janine rolled her eyes. “Well, we all know why that is.” She smirked at Ailee who flicked her off.

“The customer is awaiting their latte.” Ailee reminded her.

“I don’t do scut work.” Janine scoffed, a playful smirk gracing her lips as well. “Carl, latte,” she ordered, snapping her fingers at her protege. 

Carl quickly came and made the latte for the customer, busying himself with other tasks while waiting for the next customers.

“Wow, it’s like you have him on a leash.” Oscar chuckled, shaking his head. He was glad this was implemented after his time.

“He just knows better than to argue with me.” Janine grinned. “So have you reunited with your boy toy?” 

Ailee rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“Of course not.” Andrew sat across from Janine, placing a coffee in front of her. “For you Bonita.”

“Bite me.”

“Where?” Andrew wiggled his eyebrows.

“It’s too early for you two to behave this way.” Oscar rolled his eyes, shaking his head. 

“You’re just jealous because I’m taking your boyfriend.” Janine flipped him off.

“I’m good, I got Olivia.” Oscar blew her a kiss.

Janine chuckled. “You going to fight her jailbird?”

Ailee laughed, shaking her head at her team. Oscar was the first to join her group of misfits, meeting during training. Janine was the second to join, being assigned to the team by John. Olivia joined next, Ailee wanted her best friend to take care of all of her IT needs. Andrew was the last to join. Ailee met him during one of her visits in a Maquina training facility in Germany. He caught her eye and she immediately made him a part of her team. 

Young. Hungry. Talented.

That's what she looked for.

“I can take on baby Reyes.” Oscar scoffed. “Prison can’t teach you my skills.”

“They don’t teach dick sucking in prison?” Janine caused a roar of laughter to break out between the team members. 

Ailee was thankful that she had Oscar, Olivia, Janine and Andrew. They made this life so much more bearable. 

The bell above the door rang, indicating a customer came in. They heard Carl and Iya greet the customer, but they didn’t hear a reply. Ailee looked over and cussed under her breath. 

“We need to talk.” Angel’s eyes were trained on her, it was like he had tunnel vision.

Ailee saw Andrew and Oscar made a move to get up, but she stopped them.

“It’s fine, sit.” She looked at Angel. “Can it wait?”

“No, you don’t look busy to me. Besides, I think you owe me an explanation.”

“About what?

Angel cackled. He threw the folder that John and Vince gave him last night to the floor.

“Where’s my daughter?”

Janine, Oscar and Andrew all saw how Ailee’s face changed and immediately dispersed. Angel waited for Ailee to make a move. He could stand here all day. She was lucky he didn’t wake her up in the middle of the night.

“Follow me.” Ailee made her way towards her office, Angel following suit. As soon as they were both inside, Ailee closed the door. “Who told you?”

“You’re not even going to try and deny it?”

“For? You already know.” Ailee walked behind her desk, sitting down on the chair. “Who. Told. You.”

“Does it fucking matter? Cause you should have fucking told me.” Angel spat out. “You weren’t even in fucking jail Ailee, you were free, raising our fucking child without me!” 

Ailee knew it was awful of her to keep Melody away, but she couldn’t bring her to Santo Padre. She feared for Melody and Angel’s life. Maybe her decision was questionable but she did what she had to do as a mother. 

“I don’t expect you to understand my decision, but just know I made the best decision for her.”

“Why? Cause I’m that much of a fuck up? You didn’t even give me a fucking chance to fuck up!”

“No, Angel,” she immediately felt her heart clenched. She always believed Angel would be an amazing father. It was never about him. “You would be an amazing father, I just,” Ailee sighed. For once, Angel saw his Ailee, not this cold person that he’s been seeing around town. “Theo already killed one of them, I couldn’t risk bringing Melody here. He would know she was your kid and kill her.”

Hearing the confirmation from Ailee hit differently. Sure she wasn’t in jail. Sure she didn’t suffer as he thought she did, but she suffered in a different way that he still couldn’t fathom. He thought his family was a work of art but Ailee’s family took the cake. His girl lost one of their kids and she had to suffer through it alone. She raised their kid on her own. But she could have come to him, he would have protected her and their daughter.

“You should have come home to me Ailee. I could have protected you and our daughter. I would do anything for you Lee.” Angel felt the tears building in his eyes. Years of shame, disappointment, regret, frustration, sadness and anger were resurfacing for both himself and Ailee. They looked at one another, studying one another. Ailee was the light of Angel’s life, the person who made him feel that he was worthy. That no matter the life she could have elsewhere, she always chose him. And he would never fault her for that. If she wanted to stay with him, he would selfishly accept her. 

Angel was the light of Ailee’s life. 

During her time of darkness, as cliche as it sounded, he was her angel, the reason she kept fighting. When she was a child, he would sneak out with her, teach her how to play baseball or any other sport she wanted to learn. He would take her to watch the shining stars in the dark desert with no lights taking away their shine. When she suffered under Theo, he pushed her to live, to not kill herself because once she was able to escape, she would be back in his warm embrace. It kept her breathing. She felt like an idiot relying so much of her sanity on Angel, but she was the one person who didn’t like her due to her ability or what she could bring to the table, he loved her because she was Ailee. 

He was the love of her life. 

She was the love of his life.

Yet obstacles always came in between them.

But Ailee was content.

As long as Angel was alive she could live without having him, without being around him. She could live knowing that he was safe, at least from her demons.

Olivia opened the car door, letting Melody jump down the car. She smiled, holding out her hand towards Melody, which she gladly took. She had taken Melody out for some brunch while Alex was in Los Angeles handling business with Sierra. Parking in front of Carniceria Reyes was risky, but it was eleven in the morning, the shop was usually busy and she saw no bikes in sight. 

She was in the clear. 

“You think mommy will like her waffles?” Olivia asked Melody as they walked across the street.

EZ had caught sight of Olivia’s car, he gave her back a questioning look as he saw the child with her. He’s never seen the young girl before. She turned around and EZ felt his stomach churn. He recognized that smile, it was the same smile Angel had, the one he shared with their mother. He muttered some excuse to his father as he followed Olivia and the young girl. 

They entered Ailee’s cafe, which was called ‘MR cafe’. He didn’t know what the initials stood for but it was a catchy name. Following them inside, he saw how the employees warmly greeted the young girl along with Olivia. His eyes narrowed at the man hugging Olivia.

“Livy, Janine was being mean to me earlier, she said I had to fight the jailbird for you.” Oscar pouted.

Olivia laughed. “No, but you know you’re not my type.”

“What? Tall, dark and handsome? How is that not your type?” Oscar shook his head. “Now you’re just hurting my feelings.”

“More like obnoxious, arrogant and a clown.”

“Ooh! Burn!” Andrew let out a booming laugh.

Melody walked over to Olivia after retrieving a cookie from Carl.

“Mommy?” She looked at Janine.

“In her office sweetie, but,” before Janine could advise the young girl to wait, she bolted towards the office with the waffles in hand.

“Don’t worry, I got her.” Olivia walked away following after her with EZ following after Olivia. He passed by Andrew, Janine and Oscar since they thought he was heading to the restroom. EZ looked harmless to them, despite the kute. 

Olivia could hear the raised voices then, but before she could stop Melody from opening the door, she opened it. Her eyes immediately landed on Angel, her lie coming out before she could think.

"Oh, that's so odd, mommy isn't he-"

Melody ran straight to Ailee, hugging her leg. Angel looked at them, dumbfounded by the scene. The beautiful little girl looked up at him and when she studied his face, her eyes widened, hiding behind Ailee.

"I'm just gonna," Olivia nodded her head and made her way outside. EZ, who had seen them from across the street, was right behind her.

"Who was that?"

"Fuck me."

“She, please don’t tell me.” EZ knew that Olivia or Ailee would never keep something this enormous from them. They wouldn’t hide the existence of Angel’s child.

“EZ, it wasn’t my secret to tell.” Olivia grimaced, hugging him immediately. “This was on Ailee, I would never have crossed that line.”

EZ wrapped his arms around her. As much as he wanted to go inside for moral support, this was between Angel and well, his girls.

Angel looked down at Melody who was gripping her mother’s leg along with the plastic bag in her hand. She didn’t seem frightened of him, she just looked shy. Ailee had her hand on Melody’s head, placing a hand on her mouth to keep her sob from coming out. This was something she always dreamed of, Melody finally meeting Angel. She wiped her tears, squatting down to Melody’s level.

“Baby, I thought you and Auntie Ollie were having brunch?” Ailee questioned.

Melody looked at Angel then back at Ailee. “We did, I brought you waffles.” She signed back to her mother, marveling Angel. Lifting up the bag, Ailee took it, placing it on the desk behind her.

“She,” Angel paused remembering John and Vince’s words from last night. “Your brothers told me she could talk.”

Ailee stored that into memory. It was her brothers who told Angel. 

“She’s very shy, she just learned how to talk last year and she’s still getting used to it. She was born deaf and had an implant placed last year.” Ailee explained. “Baby, it’s okay, you can talk in front of daddy.”

Angel gave Ailee an incredulous look. How could Melody possibly know he was her father? 

Ailee saw the look on his face and sighed. “I never hid your existence from her. She always knew you were her father and she recognizes you from the pictures.” She looked at Melody who was looking up at Angel, marveled at the fact her father was finally in front of her. “Say hi to daddy Melly.”

Angel crouched down beside Ailee, wanting to give Melody the space she needed. He felt the tears escape his eyes, but he didn’t fucking care, his daughter was right in front of him and he felt like he saw his mother. Melody tilted her head, unsure why her father was crying. Her small hand reached up to him, wiping the tears escaping his eyes. Angel let out a sob, slightly startling Melody, but she kept her hand on his face.

“Hi daddy.” Melody closed the distance between them, wrapping her little arms around Angel’s neck. The tears wouldn’t stop falling for Angel, Ailee crying as well when she saw father and daughter together. Angel wrapped his arms around Melody, he never believed in love at first sight, but he did now. He fell in love with his daughter at first sight. 

“Hello Melody, you’re so beautiful mama.” Angel relished holding her. Looking at Ailee, he saw how she was trying her best to stop crying, but Ailee was awful at that. Picking up Melody, she was so light, it didn’t even feel like anything. Ailee stayed crouched down, trying her best to calm herself. He pulled her up, pulling her into his other arm, kissing the top of her head. “I got you baby, I got both of you.”

Their moment was broken when John and Vince burst into the room. Ailee glared at her brothers, obviously knowing of their betrayal.

“Oh man, is that my phone ringing? Might be my son, you know, your nephew, who needs me in his life.” John made a uturn and left the room. 

“That’s not fair, I don’t have a son to use as a scapegoat.” Vince gave his sister an apologetic smile. “I’m your favorite brother?”

“Leave.”

“Te quiero mucho mi hermana.” Vince left leaving the family again.

Angel looked out and saw EZ with Olivia. Looking at Melody, he gestured for his little brother to come in. Ailee looked at Olivia who gave her an encouraging smile.

“Melody, this is Tio EZ, he’s daddy’s brother.” Angel informed his daughter.

“She knows about EZ.” Ailee confirmed. “She knows about your whole family.”

Melody turned to face EZ. “You’re on Auntie Ollie’s phone.” She looked at Olivia who gestured for her to be quiet. 

EZ chuckled, tears streaming down his eyes. Much like Angel, he saw his mother as he looked at her. He couldn’t believe Angel had a little girl. He knew Ailee’s return was going to bring so many answers, yet, he felt like it was going to bring more questions as well. Angel told him about Ailee’s past, how she was a government agent. He didn’t fucking believe it though. Ailee could barely kill a fucking spider before much less a human being. He thinks it’s completely fabricated and there was something else.

But the lie was so elaborate.

“Can you take Melody? Ailee and I have much to talk about.” Angel handed Melody to Olivia. “And we need to talk as well Liv.” 

Olivia eyed Angel curiously before nodding her head. 

“Sure, we’ll be right outside.” 

Ailee stepped away from Angel, sitting back down behind her desk. Angel waited till the door was closed before he turned to Ailee. He didn’t want Melody out of his sight, but he didn’t want her to be in here for this conversation.

“I just want to make it very clear that I’m not letting Melody out of my sight. I don’t care what you do, what you think, but she’s my daughter and I intend to be with her whenever I can.” Angel started off. “And you’re coming as well.”

“What?” Ailee was confused by his words. 

Angel chuckled. “We have a daughter together, Lee. I’ve always told you you were it for me and nothing has changed that. Though, it appears we have much to talk about.” 

“You have a child, that’s that.” 

“Oh no mi dulce, I know that, but you’re staying with me or I’m staying with you, I don’t give a fuck how it works, you’re not leaving my sight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Angel, that’s impossible. You have to work and so do I.” Ailee hated how simple things always seemed to Angel. There was always a simple solution for him, but he never thought of the consequences or what had to be done to get to his simple outcome. 

Nothing in life was simple. 

“And? That’s not my concern. When you’re home, we’re all home together.” Again, so simple for Angel.

“No.”

“That wasn’t a choice.”

“I’m not discussing this, you’re out of your mind. I was gone for five years Angel, I’ve heard you’ve moved on. Let’s just keep it this way. You are more than welcome to see Melody but otherwise there is nothing between us.” Ailee put her foot down. It was better this way. Her and Angel were just a thing of the past and the only thing bringing them together was Melody.

Ailee hates herself too much to give herself to anyone. Angel would never love her if he found out what she did while she was away. He wanted an innocent girl, untainted. Not a jaded government agent who had more scars and baggage that she would like to admit.

“I’ve moved on? You’re the one parading your dildo around here. I’ve never moved on, and I never will, not from you.” Angel was livid. He moved on? Was that an excuse for her boyfriend?

“Alexander isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Look, I don’t want to argue, I got shit to do today and the last thing I want is for Melody to hear us arguing.” She lowered her voice. “We should take her to meet your father.”

“Not right now, I just, I want her to myself.” Angel sighed. He should introduce Melody to his father, but he wanted some time with Melody first, to get to know his daughter.

“Okay, whatever you want.”

“We’re staying together.”

“Okay Ignacio, whatever you say.”

===============

Olivia walked in her apartment, the smell of smoke was immediately apparent to her. She rolled her eyes, knowing Angel broke in her damn apartment again. It’s not like she didn’t have any security cameras, of course she did, the place was rigged. But Angel also had a key to her place.

“Ignacio, what did I say about breaking in?” Olivia closed her door, locking her door. 

“How could you not tell me Liv?” Angel questioned, crushing his cigarette butt on the ashtray that Olivia conveniently left out for him. 

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.” Olivia sighed, sitting beside Angel on the couch. “I, I wanted to tell you, I really did, but Ailee didn’t want to. She said you made a life of your own and you didn’t need her.”

“She’s a pain in the ass.” 

“She’s your pain in the ass.”

Angel chuckled. “Yeah, yeah she is.” He slid the folder over to her, Olivia giving him a confused look. “Guess you also kept that you worked for a government agency.”

“Yeah, you know this, I do apps for various government agencies.” Olivia shook her head. “Why are you here?”

“So, when are you going to tell EZ that you’re a part of Maquina?” 

Olivia looked at Angel then, making her sigh. She let out a string of cuss words under her breath. She stood up and began pacing in front of Angel. “Who told you?”

“Just like Lee, didn’t even try to deny it.” Angel let out a small laugh, hardly amused by this whole ordeal. “You knew the entire time where she was, yet you never told me.”

“Angel, I wanted to tell you, I truly did, I just,” Olivia couldn’t even find a good excuse. There was no good explanation of what she did to Angel or EZ, but she had her reasons. “I had to respect Ailee’s choice, my loyalties will always lie with her. “I can’t tell EZ, not yet. I will eventually, especially with Maquina being so close to home.”

“Close to home? Maquina is in our home.” Angel lit another cigarette, the stress getting to him. “I don’t want to break my little brother’s heart since you kept such a big secret from him. I wanted to tell you that I know and I think you should be the one to tell EZ.”

“And I will.”

“When Liv? When are you going to tell EZ?”

“Soon, just not right now.”

“No better time than the present. This week seems to be the week of letting the cat out of the bag.” Angel sighed. “I’m not here to force your hand, you want to tell him, that’s on you. But tread carefully. Can’t promise you that the other members won’t mention it in front of EZ.”

“I’m sorry Angel, for whatever it's worth, I’m sorry that you found out like this.” Olivia didn’t want Angel to find out in this way. She was obviously never on board with keeping Angel in the dark, but she had to understand Ailee’s reasoning. Ailee was her best friend and she wanted to support her in any way she could. 

“Would Ailee have ever told me about Melody?” Angel knew she wouldn’t. 

“She wanted to, but she was afraid.”

“Of what? She knew how devoted I was to her.”

“It’s not about you.”

“Then what is it? Theo? Fuck her brother, he can kiss my ass. Her whole fucking family is a nightmare.” 

“Theo is a different beast Angel, I get that you don’t think before you do shit, but with him, you have to. You can’t be impulsive since he’ll count on that. I’m sure he knows Ailee is back in town, it won't be long before he makes his play.” Olivia knew that Theo always knew Ailee’s moves. He’s kept on track of her all these years. Maybe he didn’t know all of her moves, but he knew enough to make it dangerous. 

“I don’t give a fuck, let him come. I’m ending this shit, he’s not going to hurt my family, never again.”

===============

“Are you going with your uncle?” 

“To the brothel? Yes. Don’t wait up.”

“I try not to.” 

Alexander walked out just as Ailee stood up. She looked at her and saw a message from her uncle. Sighing, Ailee changed her clothes and made her way down the stairs. She saw Alexander and Melody in the living room. Quickly, she said goodbye to her daughter, late nights were not odd to Melody. 

Making her way to the coffee shop, she found her uncle waiting at the back of the shop, inside of his Mercedes Benz.

“Are we using my car?” Ailee questioned.

“We can use mine, Dave will drive us.” Dave has been her uncle’s bodyguard, driver, best friend and confidant for twenty-eight years. He didn’t trust anyone more than Dave. Even Ailee trusted him. His tough exterior was such a farce, because once it was the two of them, he would have tea parties with her, sneak her some cookies at night and even read her a book. She figured Dave was what a father should be, something she only saw on movies and television shows.

It was pathetic.

“Uncle Dave,” Ailee greeted him warmly.

“Fuck you both for coming to this god forsaken town. It’s unbearably hot.” He opened the door. “Hello to you too sweetheart.”

Jin and Ailee laughed, sliding inside the car. Dave closed the door, sliding in the driver seat. As they made their way to the brothel, Jin discussed the plan with Ailee.

“From my understanding, the Reid family is through and through racist yahoo’s who want to serve and protect the country by patrolling the border, illegally.” Jin provided background information. “Cole has been working with them, but he doesn’t seem very impressed with their lack of discipline.”

Ailee laughed. “None of them have ever served in the military. What made him think that they were going to be good foot soldiers? Their racist cause is their main agenda, having to shoot people of color is their whole purpose in this whole ordeal.”

“Gracie, have you spoken to Angel?” Jin knew it was only a matter of time before the two spoke again. They always gravitated around one another. He was surprised she was able to hold back this long when it came to talking to him. He knew that she made a few trips to Santo Padre, but she always left, wanting to assure his protection over anything. 

“No.” A lie, but she wasn’t required to be truthful to her uncle. She had to dig into this deceit that was placed ever since her supposed incarceration. Jin hardly told her the truth, why should she?

Great family dynamic.

“Why did you have Alexander bring Melody here?” Jin questioned. He didn’t feel comfortable having his granddaughter so close to the border with Theo around. They never understood Theo’s obsession with Ailee. Maybe due to the fact that he was an only child. Or maybe it was due to Ailee’s ability. Regardless, they were not big fans of Theo’s idiocracy.

“Why is this a question? Melody wanted to see me. Is that a crime?”

“Easy Gracie, I was just wondering. I thought you wanted to keep her away from Santo Padre.” Jin didn't want to upset her, but he was also looking out for his granddaughter. Though he figured Melody was safe since they had more than fifteen Maquina agents around as of right now.

“Yes, but, I can’t live in fear. If Theo wants to harm her then I will have his head on a silver platter before he can do so.” Ailee sighed. “Why is he such a concern? Theo has not made noise in years. Backing lowly European groups is hardly any of our concern.”

“It’s Theo, you never count out a Kane. He’ll want his revenge and make people pay for what occurred with his father. We need to be ten steps ahead to assure he cannot pull a fast one on us.” Jin never counted out Theo. He did not like to be an underdog, did not like to be the second best. He had to be the best. He remembered when Theo expressed interest in joining Maquina and it was an immediate no. The way Theo was, Jin knew that training him and giving him permission to eliminate people would be too powerful of a task for him. “Grace, what did he do to you?”

“Besides killing one of my children? The details are not necessary, just know that you perfected whatever he wanted to do.”

“And what’s that?” Jin hated it when Ailee compared him to Ailee. He did everything for her own protection. She thrived under Maquina and without it, Melody wouldn’t be able to hear. There was a tiny amount of guilt that ate at him, that if he didn’t set her up, Theo wouldn’t have been able to take her child from her. 

“A killer with no moral code.”

[mwolf0epsilon]

Maybe a story about Norman being a good parent?

Summary: Mindless beast or not, the Projectionist was a Polk, and the Polks did not hurt their young, or whatever they perceived as such.

You all knew it was coming inevitably...

---

[[MORE]]

     Norman's and Margarite's marriage had come as a surprise to the entire Polk family. A simple signature on a piece of paper, and a pair of battered rings that had belonged to Nanna and Poppop Polk (gifted to him by the former who always knew he'd be a better fit for them). No fanciful ceremony with pretty dresses or suits, expensive cakes and extensive guest list.

A disappointing waste, his mama had proclaimed over the letter she'd sent as a reply to his own that detailed his status as a married man in a far off city. She'd wanted to witness the event, shed her motherly tears as one of her little ducklings became a real man ready to start a family.

But, to Norman and Maggie, the marriage wasn't a motive of celebration like his mama thought. It was insurance against further discrimination towards them. They were, after all, the black couple that lived in a quaint apartment in New York city.

Already that was a challenge of its own, as said apartment was populated primarily by white hot-blooded tenants, with only one more laying vacant for a (hopefully) friendlier family.

Their downstairs neighbor clearly hated them from sight alone, and the others were unsure how the new additions fit into their "perfect" lives in the Big Apple. If any of them were to discover that they both enjoyed the full spectrum of the gender binary, well... Accidents happened in the big city. Accidents that targeted specific minorities for some "unfathomable" reason.

So yes, as shameful as it may be, their wedding was strictly business. Rings for show, public displays of affection to dispell the gossip, and overall just the usual married life arguments in the grocery store to sell the deal (neither of them could care less about which type of sugar made the best apple pie crust, or what brand of soap was better, but it sure made the couples they passed by smile knowingly at the common domestic disputes). There was just one thing left to do to really make a statement on their relationship status.

  "Three of my coworkers are getting maternity leave. It's been a few months, I think it's time."

Children were a sensitive topic. Both Norman and Maggie wanted kids, had a vague idea of how many they planned to raise, and were quite certain they'd make beautiful and healthy younglings with one another. The question was: Was it fair to bring in chidren into a farce of a matrimony? What if one day they found their actual ideal partner?

  "Yous better be sure it's the right time darlin'..." He'd urged her to think more on the subject. "Don't want to rush things like that now, do we?"

  "I'm ready." She'd stared him in the eye with a certainty and confidence he couldn't begin to imagine. He knew she was, but was he? Was he truly ready to bare such a responsibility?

That night he relented to her wishes and they had finally consummated their marriage. Nine months later, little Nancy was born a small but relatively healthy baby. Upon seeing his firstborn for the first time ever, and then holding her gently in hands that dwarfed her little head greatly, Norman immediately understood he was ready to be a parent. And a loving one at that.

-

     In total, Norman and Maggie had five children. Three boys and two girls. Nancy was their eldest child and the more levelheaded of the bunch. The apple of her mother's eye, and her father's baby girl, she was the perfect balance of their greatest qualities and teachings. A clever and determined young girl with big aspirations for her future. She wanted to be a doctor.

Aaron was the second eldest child and the one most like his father. Clever and with an eye for detail, enough so that he had taken up an interest that fits his perceptive nature: Photography. The walls of the Polk household were filled with his works, at first done with Norman's own old and battered camera, until he'd bought the young lad his very own fancy new model.

Louise was the middle child, and the troublemaker of the bunch. She was a bit of a tomboy, and liked to scrap with the boys in her class, to the point where it wasn't uncommon to see her with several bruises and band-aids, and haphazardly taped wireframed glasses. She kept both Norman and Maggie on their toes.

Albert was the second youngest and the quietest. A little bookworm that appreciated the art of literature over anything else. He wanted to be a novelist, even at a very young age, and often shared ideas for stories at the dinner table. There was no doubt in Norman's heart that his little boy would write a best-seller one day. Maggie fretted for his social life, however, as he was the least sociable of their children. Far too shy.

Finally the youngest child was Willard. An outspoken young toddler that was definitely as confident as his mama. A little tot with a very big personality indeed, that Norman couldn't wait to see grow up into yet another fine young boy. If any of their children was to ever get what he wanted in life, it'd definitely be Will.

Truly there was nothing in this world that Norman loved more than his offsprings, and indulging in their interests was always an adventure. One to be shared with three other members of the family.

The vacant apartment had been occupied by Norman's younger brother, Alfred, and his own two children. By then almost all their neighbors (minus the one that hated them from day one) had warmed up to them. So another set of friendly faces was a good addition to their home life.

Norman absolutely loved watching over his nephew and niece, especially because his children were delighted to have other kids around their age to play with.

It reminded him of being back home in Louisiana, his own brothers and sisters sparring with him and playing whatever games they could come up with on the spot. Watching Louise and Nelson tumbling about fighting as equally dirty as the other, really stirred up some good memories he had of his older sisters.

"Bite her Nelson! Bite her!" Lydia cheered as her older brother pinned their cousin to the ground.

"Louise tug on his ears! Pummel him!" Aaron called out to his little sister, encouraging her to fend off her opponent.

"Lydia and Aaron! What I tell y'all 'bout encouragin' yous's siblings t'fight all nasty?!"

"Not to...?"

"Exactly."

Granted some play-fighting needed to be monitored when most of the audience were enablers, and neither his middle child nor his nephew had any qualms sending each other to the hospital. They were still learning about consequences after all.

Still, there wasn't anything else in the world that built better character than teaching the children that they were equals to one another in all their shared activities. Respect was an important lesson to be learned. One Norman wished every parent taught their child.

The world would be a better place otherwise...

-

Sometimes the Projectionist would inevitably be unable to fend off sleep. The exhaustion would wear it down and give way to the nightmares of a life it could barely remember. Then it would wake up and scream, trying to rid itself of heinous visions of itself ripping its offsprings apart.

Norman Polk would reawaken inside its brutish body and lash out, hoping to either physically fight away his own broken psyche or perhaps cripple the Projectionist so that it could never fulfil these dreamt up acts of violence.

A Polk was all about family, and the thought of becoming the sort to bring harm upon his own children... Well, Norman had heard the stories. Knew why Poppop was such a taboo topic. He did not want to be the man besides his Nanna in the portrait above the fireplace... One he'd resembled if his eye wasn't wrong and he'd grown out his beard...

The Projectionist didn't have the mental faculties to understand this distress however, but it seemed to recognize that what it saw in dreams was bad. That what it did to the vermin, it should never do to those innocent little youngsters that looked at it with love instead of fear and hatred. So... Why did it do it in dreams? Why did it kill when it wanted to be docile? The children were not a threat, so why...?

It made no sense... But it didn't much care for elaborate existential crisis like that. Norman's consciousness would freak it out, but ultimately loosened its grip and go back to being dormant. The lumbering beast resuming its tiring trek through the endless maze. A cycle that would repeat itself the next time it fell asleep.

It was in the aftermath of yet another nightmare that the Projectionist came across something completely new to it. Something small and living, and very much intruding on its space. Something that very vaguely looked like it...

A living being with a body similar to the ones the horrible botched critters that ran around in packs had, yet with no visible imperfections to it. Its head though... It was kind of like a projector, but not. Square in shape, with a lens, a tube, dial and something very round that kind of looked like a big ear. A camera, like the one Aaron had gotten for his birthday.

It seemed to have gloves, shoes and a belt that sort of looked like the speaker lodged in the Projectionist's torso, but it was hard to tell since the strange being was on the ground flailing about like a dying fish.

The towering amalgam stared at the tiny new thing in dumbfounded silence, unsure how to react to such a strange discovery, until it realized why the thing was flailing about to begin with.

One of its legs was pinned under a crate that appeared to have fallen from a nearby stack, and the Projectionist could tell the limb was broken. Nearby lay a series of Ink Hearts that had been resting on the fallen crate.

On any other occasion it would have simply walked over, raised one heavy foot, and crushed the intruder's skull for daring to try to steal from it. This time however, was completely different... Something primal was urging the Projectionist to do something completely alien to its usually aggressive nature. Something instinctive.

The poor creature grew agitated upon finally noticing the Projectionist's presence as it approached, but its broken limb ensured it stayed put even after the crate was picked up and tossed aside. It shook fearfully once the Projectionist knelt down to pick it up by the torso. It stopped shaking once it was brought to rest against the much larger beast's chest, cradled gently like an infant. The Projectionist rumbling softly so as to reassure it that no harm would befall it.

The little creature, with a head that was not a projector but a distant relative of a sort, stared up with its own dark lens before reaching out to gently pat the Projectionist's "face". It seemed to understand its intention to help it, rather than exterminate it.

The lumbering beast carried on in its path, now carrying a most precious cargo. It would find something to help treat the injury and then it would begin teaching this newly adopted offspring to survive in the studio.

Mindless beast or not, the Projectionist was still a Polk, and the Polks cared for their younglings. This tiny sentient camera was its child now, and the beast would protect it from the horrors of this horrid studio.

[senlinyu]

If you're still taking prompts: Dramione, "Tabula rasa"

Warning: sad.

Tabula rasa. Those are the terms.

Get out of Azkaban, work at her insipid house-elf charity for a year, and pretend they’ve never met before.

It’s weird but anything is better than sitting in Azkaban for a second year.

It’s like a fresh start.

The concept is tantalising.

He refrains from rolling his eyes as he agrees to the terms. “I’d love to act like I’ve never seen her before.”

“The terms will be magically binding. Violate them and you will return to fill the additional year of your sentence,” the weevil-faced lawyer says.

Draco glances at his mother who sits eagerly beside him and is nodding encouragingly.

“Fine. I’m legally bound act like I don’t know her. Sounds ideal. Where do I sign?”

He doesn’t know why the clause even exists in the agreement. Three weeks on the job and he hasn’t even laid eyes on her.

The day he arrived, he’s shuffled off into a cramped office in the basement and, after they try giving him a variety of different tasks, he ends up being assigned to write thank you letters.

It’s his entire job.

Excellent penmanship is apparently the only usable skill that he possesses.

He assumes at first that it will be easy. He’ll come in late, leave early, and spend a matter of minutes charming a couple dozen notes tops.

“Dear Bootlicker, Thank you terribly much for your generous donation if 500 galleons. I’m thrilled there was literally nothing else you could conceive of to do with your money. It will assuredly be used by yours truly to improve the lives of the sentient abominations called house-elves. Sincerely, love and kisses, the Wizarding world’s favourite buck-toothed harridan, Hermione Granger.”

No. It’s not easy. Granger has elaborate requirements for all the thank you letters that she doesn’t even bother to personally write.

He has to go through the society papers and Granger’s detailed personal calendar to make references to the donor’s last meeting with her. He’s expected to ask about children and grandchildren by name, and discuss the inner-workings of the charity as well as to relate anecdotes about all the sad little elves the donor’s money saves.

Within a few weeks he’s maintaining a full-fledged correspondence between the most bizarre assortment of Wizarding folk, a centaur, two vampires, and an alleged forest troll. A correspondence that he is maintaining as Granger, whom he hasn’t laid eyes on in years.

Supposedly she looks over all his letters before signing them and sending them off, but Draco doubts it. After weeks there, he still hasn’t so much as caught sight of her bushy head.

He torn between a sense of outrage and admiration over what a slick ship she runs. He doesn’t think she even shows up in her office most days. If she does, she never slips so much as a toe past the fourth floor, certainly not to any floors Draco’s allowed on.

Granger has a matronly personal assistant the size of a mountain named Charlotte. The woman is like the female version of Crabbe and Goyle simultaneously. Draco is convinced she must be at least a quarter troll. She glares at Draco whenever “passing on messages” and makes clear to Draco that she’d gladly snap his spine if Granger ever gave her the go-ahead.

Draco accepts his “job” with his head down. He just has to endure it a year and then he’s free. Maybe once he’s not at risk of returning to Azkaban, he can expose what a fraud Granger is.

He finally sees her after two months.

She’s walking by with her assistant when he’s standing in the hallway, taking a break from his cramped office’s inadequate air flow.

Granger catches sight of him all the way down the hallway and without hesitating, bolts up to him.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. You’ve been here for over a month and I haven’t said hi.” She’s beaming at him as she takes hold of his hand and shakes enthusiastically. Her assistant comes thundering down the hall after her. “I’ve been admiring your penmanship for weeks. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stared at her blankly while she pumps his hand up and down.

Tabula rasa.

Everyone at the charity knows who he is, even though they make a show of not. There are loud comments about the kinds of people who would become Death Eaters. The receptionist pretends to be unable to recall his name or that he has a job there. Draco is obliged to go through the full sign-in process every morning as though he’s a visitor.

However, Granger has no idea who he is. It’s not an act. There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she grins up at him.

He’s imagined their fake “meeting” a dozen different ways but this iteration isn’t one that occurred to him.

“Granger,” he says as she continues wringing his hand. Charlotte is ten feet away, her footsteps shaking the hall, and her eyes are threatening a slow and painful death. “It’s been a—pleasure.”

“Miss Granger, you have a meeting with Gibbling to review charity finances in five minutes,” Charlotte says as she reaches Granger, trying to tear her away from Draco.

“I do?” Granger’s hand slips out of Draco’s and she looks chastened, as though she’s been slapped. “I didn’t remember—“

“I apologise, ma’am,” the assistant says smoothly, inserting herself between Granger and Draco. “It slipped my mind, I only just remembered he sent a note this morning. I’m sure it will only take a few minutes.”

Granger is craning her neck to look back at Draco as she’s being herded away. She side-steps her assistant and cuts back.

“It was nice meeting you, Draco. I’m having a little party at my flat this Saturday with some of my friends. Would you want to come by? It’s the least I can do after being so rude.”

“I…” Draco glances back and forth between Granger’s hopeful face and the venomous expression of Charlotte behind her, who is shaking her head warningly. “—don’t think I can make it.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

Draco watches Granger trot off with her assistant in tow feeling incredibly confused about what’s going on.

He feels like if anyone were going to tell him, they would have already done so. He’s legally bound to play along with whatever this ridiculous farce is.

His mother has to know, but her lips are apparently sealed on the matter.

“You’re out of Azkaban, darling. Focus on that and never mind anyone else.”

He wants to, but he can’t help but try to figure it out. Why doesn’t Granger remember him? It feels like he’s been personally and exclusively excised from her life and he hasn’t the foggiest idea why he was the only one singled out.

Granger clearly knows his mother. She’s an active participant post-war rebuilding and gives speeches from time to time about things like the Battle of Hogwarts.

Granger isn’t the type to fuck with her memory based on anything and everything Draco knows about her. If she were, he doesn’t know why she’d choose to forget him. And if she did choose to forget him, he doesn’t know why her weird melange of employees and friends would let her hire him.

It feels personal and he can’t bring himself to leave it alone. Is there anything else she doesn’t remember?

When he isn’t ghost-writing her correspondence, he starts going through the newspapers and her old calendars trying to pinpoint exactly when Granger may have forgotten his existence.

He thinks it happened about six months after he was imprisoned in Azkaban following the war. Granger’s exhaustively detailed calendars start immediately after that and her public appearances were sporadic and odd up until then.

He starts hanging around in hallways when he thinks he might run into her. Her assistant is always a few steps behind her, glaring at Draco as though she knows why he’s there and inventing meetings and events in order to get Granger away from him.

He’s been there four months and has barely spoken to her for more than ten minutes in the entire time.

He’s in the middle of writing a sarcastically cordial letter to Romanian vampire when his office door cracks open and Granger sneaks into his office.

He looks at her as she drops into the chair across from his desk and lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

Draco eyes the door, waiting for Charlotte to burst in like a raging erumpant.

Granger notices where his gaze is directed. “Don’t worry. I sent Lotte on an errand. We have at least fifteen minutes before she comes looking for me.”

Draco looks back to Granger. He doesn’t know what to make of her.

This version of Granger is weirdly cheerful, like all her prickly defensiveness has been smoothed away. She still looks frightful, as though she suffers a phobia of hair potion, she’s still bizarre and obsessed with things like saving house-elves and everything else in the world. But he feels like she’s an entirely different person around him.

Maybe he’d just never known her without her claws out.

Granger shifts and looks slightly uncomfortable. “She’s very protective of me. I—I lose track of things sometimes.”

Draco just nods, not really sure how anyone who keeps records of their daily activities as exhaustively as Granger does could possibly be accused to losing track of things.

She glances around his office. “Why on earth did they put you in here? This room looks like a storage closet.”

Draco refrains from telling her that it literally is a storage closet and the absolute farthest room from her office. He measured one day, just to confirm it to himself.

“I’m not picky,” he lies. “It’s more comfortable than Azkaban.”

Her mouth purses. “That’s hardly a commendation. I’ll have you moved upstairs. I’m sure we still have a few extra offices. Somewhere with a window and plants! My friend, Neville, is a genius with plants, once we’ve moved you, I can get a few.”

She pokes around in his office for a few more minutes, interrogating him about how he likes his job and how his “co-workers” are treating him. Draco lies his way through her questioning until she stands up looking at him thoughtfully.

The next day, Charlotte appears looking enraged while he’s at the front desk filling out the visitor sheet for the hundredth time.

“Miss Granger wants your office moved to the fourth floor,” she says, looking as though someone has force-fed her a lemon.

Draco’s new office is two doors down from Granger’s. He has an entire wall of windows.

Granger pops in relentlessly, bringing him plants and a knitted tea-cosy, and “Lotte” looks more and more as though she wants to throttle him.

Granger takes to sneaking into his office whenever Lotte is out running errands. Which seems to occur suspiciously often.

Draco is certain that Granger’s aware that there is something odd going on. Her eyes are sly and calculating. She knows she’s being “handled” and that it involves endless attempts by all her employees to keep her as far away from Draco as possible, which makes her obstinately seek him out all the more.

At first Draco tries to ignore her, but she is his boss. He feels obligated to talk to her whenever she shows up.

Eventually they talk about all the letters he’s writing on her behalf. She looks down at her lap and spends several seconds straightening her skirt.

“You must think it’s odd that I don’t keep up with the donors personally,” she says looking up at him.

“Not at all,” he lies. “I’m sure it’s common for charities of this size. I’m happy my handwriting can be of some use.”

“I used to—“ she says, her voice somewhat halting. “But—“ her head jerks slightly, “my—my memory can be rather—that’s why I keep so many notes in my calendars, to keep track.”

Her expression is visibly strained, her beaming effusiveness gone.

“You’re a very busy person,” he says, eyeing her carefully.

She gives a stiff little nod and her eyebrows furrow. “I think—I used to remember things better. Now, if I don’t have someone to remind me about things”—her head jerks—“I forget details.”

“It’s probably just stress.”

“Maybe,” she sounds unconvinced.

She has all the traditional symptoms of someone who’s been extensively and powerfully obliviated. Absent-mindedness. She’s chronically forgetful, Draco realises over time.

Charlotte does invent excuses to get Granger away from Draco, but many reminders are for real events that Hermione forgets she’s headed to. On several occasions Draco finds her standing alone in the hallway, trying to remember which door is her office.

She’s still smart. Still blisteringly smart, but it’s like watching a bird with its pinions clipped. It’s clear she’s intended to be airborne, but someone has hobbled her.

It’s painful to witness, and it’s made worse by the fact that she’s clearly aware of it.

The memory loss somehow seems to centre around Draco, which he cannot understand. If someone malicious were to go and wipe something from her memory, her best friend’s school rival is not the person Draco would pick.

Obliviation is self-protective. The mind will not consider the idea of tampering or let her realise her memories are incomplete. Whenever a conversation strays anywhere near their shared past, her attention abruptly, almost violently pivots to a different topic.

However, despite how obstinately her memory keeps her from suspecting any past acquaintance with Draco, she can’t seem to stay away from him. As though she can instinctively tell he’s a missing piece.

One day she tells him about a potion idea she has, and it’s almost brilliant except she’s clearly forgotten a brewing idiosyncrasy of a key ingredient. She realises she’s missed something and just comes to a rambling halt in the middle of her explanation, a drawn, embarrassed expression sweeping across her face.

“Never mind. I think—I should...maybe it will work out if I write it down—“ she looks down and her cheeks are stained scarlet.

“Sting slime needs to simmer for six hours uncovered,” he says. “Unless you want the potion to result in weightlessness.”

She stares at him for a moment and then her face breaks into a beaming smile. “Yes! Six hours of simmering. That’s when you leave it under the full moon and gather fresh asphodel.” She sighs with relief and presses a hand against her head. “That’s what I was missing. I thought—thank you, Draco. I thought—I thought maybe I’d gotten it all wrong again.”

Her exuberance causes Draco’s entire body to grow warm and a weird bubbling sensation in his stomach.

He avoids her eyes. “I haven’t brewed much since leaving prison, but everything else sounded correct. If you want to send it on to a potions journal, I can look it over if you ever write it all out.”

Her eyes are shining and she grins at him. “That would be so helpful. My friends didn’t really care much for potions class. I’m so glad I found you.”

She skips slightly as she leaves his office, which causes his entire face to twitch repeatedly as he witnesses it.

Granger spends increasing amounts of time in his office and Draco doesn’t—well, he doesn’t exactly mind.

She’s infinitely better company than dementors, he tells himself.

She incredibly interested in him, in a way that he has no idea how to handle. She wants to know what he’ll do once his contract with the charity is over, and he finds himself trying to come up with ideas to share with her that don’t don’t merely involve him indolently frittering away his time on his family’s properties.

It isn’t as though he’s not allowed to be friends with her. The terms of his contract simply require him to give no indication of any prior acquaintance with her.

They can be friends, he tells himself when she invites herself into his office to have lunch with him.

Good friends even, he reasons, when she invites him to her flat for dinner one evening.

Or more than friends...

Hermione is perched on the arm of his desk chair.

Their faces are getting slowly closer and closer until he can feel her nervous breathing. She has the most beautiful eyes. Her hair falls forward as his nose brushes against hers.

His hand ventures up until his fingertips trace along her cheek.

She smiles. Her smiles always start in her eyes and the corner of her mouth curves faintly up as she dips her head lower.

Their lips are almost touching when the door bursts open and Charlotte storms across the room.

“Miss Granger is supposed to be at a board meeting,” she says as she rushes Hermione away.

Draco has barely gotten his heart rate back down to a steady pace when Charlotte returns in a state of seething rage. She grips him by the robes and physically drags him from the building.

“You’re contagiously ill. Bed-ridden. I don’t want to see you set foot in this building for a month,” she says, glowering at him. “Stay away from her, you Death Eater bastard.”

Draco goes home sulkily. His mother is in France visiting a cousin and he has nothing to do but lie about indolently drinking.

The attempted separation goes as well as Draco expects. Charlotte may be obsessively loyal to Hermione, but she clearly didn’t think through what sending Draco home sick would result in.

Hermione shows up at Malfoy Manor through the floo after three days. Draco has to bolt through the manor and dives into bed mere seconds before she comes trotting into his bedroom, carrying a basket packed with soup and potions.

She fusses over him for several minutes while he lies and pretends to be languishing. Finally she sits down, looking endearingly awkward and starts updating him on the various going ons at the charity.

As the minutes tick by, Draco can’t help but develop a sense of unease. There’s something off about her.

Her eyes begin darting around. She speaks faster and faster. Her hand rises up and touches her throat before twitching up to her temple. Her head jerks.

It finally dawns on Draco why she doesn’t remember him.

She breaks off mid-sentence, her eyes darting around wildly.

“Draco—have I—have I—been here before?”

Draco sits up instantly and reaches for her, trying to keep his voice steady. “Hermione. Hermione, look at me. Focus on me. You were telling me about the elves that came to you yesterday. Don’t look around. Focus on the elves. Let's get you back to the office. I’m feeling better. Let’s get out of here.”

She doesn’t seem to hear him.

She glances up and catches sight of the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A whimpering gasp escapes her and she falls backwards off her chair.

Draco lunges but she stumbles to her feet and skitters away from him.

Her head starts jerking violently.

“We didn’t! We didn’t—“

Her voice breaks off with a sob.

Her face is turning white and her eyes lock on his. Her voice drops into a ragged, pleading whisper that pulls up memories that Draco has tried to bury in depths of his mind. “Please… Malfoy... Malfoy…please—”

Her head jerks. “We didn’t! We found it—”

She starts screaming at the top of her lungs.

It’s one endless scream that vibrates and tears the air apart. Draco doesn’t know what to do. Hermione keeps screaming until her whole body starts shaking violently.

Her voice abruptly cuts off and she drops to the ground.

Draco has to leap to catch her.

He’s shaking with panic and seething with rage as he carries her downstairs and through the floo to St Mungo’s.

He nearly decks Potter when he and Weasley come bolting down the hallway into the Janus Thickey Ward.

Draco wants to murder them both. “You couldn’t have bothered to explain that the reason she doesn’t remember me is because you obliviated her entire memory of Malfoy Manor?”

They just shove him out of the way as they rush into her room and leave him waiting outside.

Potter is the first one to re-emerge, more than an hour later. He stands staring at Draco for a minute. “She’ll—she should be fine,” he says in a dull voice. “The mind-healers will just have to reseal the memories.”

Draco glares at him. He’s still shaking. He doesn’t think he’s stopped shaking the entire time. “Why didn’t anyone just tell me why she didn’t remember me? And why the fuck did you obliviate her at all? Do know what you’ve done to her mind?”

Potter’s expression turns deadly. “Do I know what I’ve done to her? Why do you think it happened, Malfoy? Did it never cross your mind that there might be long term consequences for telling your insane aunt that Hermione was Muggle-Born.”

Potter’s face starts turning white with rage. “If you want to know whose fault this is—try looking in a fucking mirror.”

Draco stares at Potter in blank horror.

“Did you think people just get over torture? Since the war, St Mungo’s has discovered there’s an entire spectrum of brain damage that the cruciatus can cause, prior to reaching the point of insanity. Your aunt didn’t torture Hermione to insanity, but just—barely. We thought she was fine. The first couple months afterward—she seemed fine. She started having neurological issues a few months after the war. When she got them checked here at St Mungo’s, they found out the cruciatus had fried parts of her brain. That’s—apparently that’s how it works.”

Potter pulls off his glasses and wipes them. He refuses to look at Draco. “The only way they could contain it was by walling off the damage with magic, by using targeted obliviation. So—that’s what we did. It was just coincidental that she forgot entirely about you. I guess, for her, you were just as much a part of it as your Aunt.”

Draco stares at Potter and doesn’t know what emotions he’s experiencing. A lot. An entire maelstrom. More emotions than he knew he had. More than he ever wanted to feel.

“Why—Why did you let her hire me?” he finally forces himself to ask.

Potter’s face hardens. “That—was your mom’s meddling. Your release was conditional on your ability to secure a job. To the surprise of no one, nobody wanted to hire you.” He scoffs and looks down, his voice becomes mocking. “She’ll do anything to protect her son. She’d heard Hermione didn’t remember you, so she went to her with a whole sob story about her poor son who’d been forced to take the Dark Mark before he was an adult and now he was rotting in Azkaban because no one would give him a chance.”

Potter stares bitterly at him. “Hermione can never say no to a lost cause.” He gives an empty laugh. “We couldn’t explain to her why she shouldn’t without endangering her. We thought if you and your mother were both magically gagged, and Hermione was kept away from you, that it would be doable. But of course she noticed how lonely you were, and decided to take you under her wing.”

Potter exhales slowly and swallows. “Stay away from her, Malfoy.” His voice wobbles slightly. “The healers say you and your house are her main triggers. If you hang around her, she will inevitably relapse again. Every time they have to re-obliviate her it’s going to carve away a little more of her mind and memories. If there’s even a shred of anything decent about you, stay away from her.”

Draco manages to nod once before turning and walking unsteadily away.

When he’s home, he floo-calls his mother and yells at her until his throat gives out.

He packs a bag and gets a cheap room in Diagon Alley. It smells and there’s noise from the bar below, but it’s not screaming. There are no chandeliers.

He returns to “work” after a month and is informed that his office has been moved back into the basement. He doesn’t even blink at the news.

He resumes corresponding with Hermione’s growing donor list.

He doesn’t see her again.

Charlotte no longer bothers with passing on messages personally in order to communicate her utter loathing of him. She doesn’t ever leave Hermione’s side.

Draco only has to work at the charity for two more months. He puts up a calendar and X’s off each day.

He’s walking back from his lunch break two weeks later when he catches sight of Hermione’s bushy hair all the way down the hall. He ducks quickly into a nearby closet and waits until he’s certain she’s gone.

He nearly crashes into her as he steps back out.

Her eyes are bright and she’s slightly breathless from running. Charlotte is thundering down the hall after her.

Hermione beams up at him as she sticks out her hand. “Hi! Hi, I’m so so sorry. You’ve been here for months and I haven’t even said hello. I’m Hermione Granger, and you must be Draco Malfoy. I’m so pleased we could have you on the team here.”

Draco stares down at her.

There is not even a flicker of recognition in her eyes as she smiles up at him.

His throat’s so tight it’s as though he’s being strangled to death as he stands looking down at her.

A second year in Azkaban would have been infinitely less painful than this.

He sneers down at the proffered hand. “If you don’t mind, I just washed my hands. I don’t want filth like you sliming them up.”

[betweengenesisfrogs]

Homestuck is My Favorite Sprite Comic

Yes, you read that right.

Homestuck is my favorite sprite comic.

Those of you who remember the earlier days of the internet are probably looking at this post in disbelief right about now. Others of you might be scratching your heads, not knowing what I’m talking about.

But here’s my pitch: Homestuck is the culmination of an entire genre of internet art, and the tools that make it so powerful are the very tools that made that genre once so reviled.

Homestuck is the greatest and most successful sprite comic of all time.

And honestly, I’ve wanted to talk about that for ages, so let’s do it.

WHAT SPRITE COMICS WERE

Many of my readers are probably too young to remember the era of sprite comics. So: what were sprite comics?

Sprite comics were a genre of webcomics made entirely by taking pixel art from video games – especially character art, called “sprites,” but also backgrounds and other images—and placing them into panels to tell a story. They were near-ubiquitous on the internet in the early 2000s, emerging right as webcomics in general were seeking to establish themselves as an art form.

They were not, shall we say, known for their quality. The low bar to access meant that art skill was not an obstacle to starting one. The folks behind the huge swell of them tended to be young people, kids and early teenagers recreating the plots of their favorite video games with new OCs—not the most advanced writers or artists. They were the early 2000s’ quintessential example of ephemeral, childish art. Unfortunately, they look even worse today—blown-up pixels don’t hold up well when displayed on higher-resolution monitors.

Today, they’re mostly forgotten, remembered only as a weird, strange moment in the youth of the internet. Someone who evoked them today, such as a blogger who compared them to one of the most successful webcomics of all time, would be inviting good-natured teasing at the very least.

It would be unfair to dismiss them entirely, though. In this low-stakes environment, comics where the author could bring more skill—engaging writing, legitimately funny jokes, or especially, a real ability to work with pixel art—really stood out. (Unsurprisingly, these authors tended to skew a bit older.)

The obvious one to mention is Bob and George. Bob and George wasn’t the first sprite comic, but it was the most influential. Conceived initially as Mega Man-themed filler for a hand-drawn comic about superheroes, it quickly became a merging of the two concepts, with the original characters made into Mega Man-style sprites, full of running gags, humorous retellings of the Mega Man games, elaborate storylines about time travel, and robots eating ice cream. It was generally agreed, even among sprite comic haters, that Bob and George was a pretty good comic. Worth mentioning also are 8-Bit Theater, which turned the plot of the first Final Fantasy into a spectacular and hilarious farce, and of course Kid Radd, my second favorite sprite comic. (More on that later.)

But even if you weren’t looking for greatness—there was something just damn fun about them. The passion of sprite comic authors was clear, even if their ideas didn’t always cohere. To this day, I think the sprite comic scene has the same appeal pulp art does—it’s crude and rough, full of garbage to sift through, but every so often, something deeply sincere and bizarre shines through, and the culture of its authors is a fascinating object of study in itself.

Okay, full disclosure: I was one of the people who made a sprite comic. I’ve written about my experiences with that in more depth elsewhere, but yeah, I was on the inside of this scene, rather than a disinterested observer, and from the inside, maybe it’s a lot easier to see the appeal.

Still, let me make this claim: even with all their flaws, sprite comics were doing some incredibly interesting things, and Homestuck is heir to their legacy.

TAKE ME DOWN TO RECOLOR CITY

One of the problems people always had with sprite comics was the sprites themselves. They’re the most repetitive thing in the world. You just keep copying and pasting the same images over and over again, maybe with a few tweaks. That’s not really being an artist, is it? It’s so lazy. Re-drawing things from different angles keeps things dynamic, develops your skill, and makes your work better in general. Right?

I’m mostly in agreement. Certainly I think it’s fair to rag on the Control-Alt-Delete guy, along with other early bad webcomics, for copy-pasting their characters while dropping in new expressions and mass-producing tepid strips. And to be fair, digging through bad sprite comics often felt like an exercise in seeing the same slightly-edited recolors of Mega Man characters over and over again. You got really tired of that same body with its blobby feet and hands.

(It should be noted, though, that there were folks in the sprite comic scene who could pixel art the quills off a porcupine. I salute you, brave pixel art masters of 2006. I hope you all got into your chosen art school.)

All this said, I think the repetitive and simplistic nature of sprite comics was often their biggest strength.

THE POWER OF ABSTRACTION

In his classic work Understanding Comics, Scott McCloud makes an observation about cartooning that has stayed with me to this day.

McCloud notes that simple, abstract drawings, like faces that are only few lines and dots on a page, resonate with us more strongly than more detailed drawings. This is because our minds fill in what’s missing on the page. We ascribe human depth to simple gestures and expressions based on our own emotions and experiences – and this makes us feel closer to these characters as readers. Secretly, simple cartoons can be one of the most powerful forms of storytelling. If you want your readers to fall in love with your characters, draw them simply, and let them fill them in.

Video game sprites work very well in this regard. They have that same simplicity that cartoons do. In fact, I’d be willing to bet a huge part of the success of SNES-era RPGs was simple, almost childlike character sprites drawing people in. I think sprites did the same for sprite comics.

Here’s the weird thing: Bob and George worked. Despite four different characters being variations on the same friggin’ Mega Man sprite in different colors, they immediately began to seem like different people with distinct personalities. For me, George’s befuddled, helpless dismay immediately comes to mind whenever I picture his face, while with Mega Man himself it’s usually a wide-eyed, childlike glee. I would never confuse them. This, despite the fact that the only actual difference between their faces is that George is blonde. It’s pretty clear what happened. The personalities the author established for them through dialogue and storytelling shone through, and my brain did the rest.

Sprites, in short, were a canvas upon which the mind could project any story the author wanted to tell. Even the most minute differences in pixel art came to stand, in the best sprite comics, for wide divergences in personality and ideals, once the reader spent enough time with them to adapt to their style of representation.

Wait a minute, haven’t we seen this somewhere before? Character designs that focus on variations on a theme, with subtle differences that nonetheless render them instantly recognizable?

Oh, right.

Look at what greets us on the very first page of Homestuck. An absurdly simple cartoon boy, abstracted to a ridiculous degree—he doesn’t even have arms!—followed a whole bunch of characters that follow suit. Though many other representations of the characters emerge, these little figures never quite go away, do they? Why is that?

Simple: they’re very easy to manipulate. They’re modular—you can give John arms or not, depending on whether it’s useful. You can put him in a whole variety of poses and save them to a template. You can change out his facial expressions with copy and paste. You can give him a new haircut and call him Jake. It’s all very quick and easy.

Sprite comics proliferated because they were very easy to mass-produce. Andrew Hussie’s original conception of Homestuck was very similar: something he could put out very quickly and easily, where even the most elaborate ideas could rely on existing assets to be sped smoothly along. We all know the result: an incredible production machine, churning out unfathomable amounts of content from 2009-2012. I’d say it was a good call.

But it goes way deeper than that. The modular nature of sprites always suggested a kind of modularity to the sprite comic premise. George and Mega Man were different people, true, but also two variations on a theme. Was there something underlying them that they had in common? Perhaps their similarity says something like: We exist in a world which has a certain set of rules? One of my favorite conceits from Bob and George was that when characters visited the past, they were represented by NES-era Mega Man sprites, while in the present, they were SNES sprites, and in the future, the author used elaborate splicing to render them as 32-bit Mega Man 8 sprites or similar.

Suppose there was a skilled cartoonist thinking about his next big project, who wanted to tell a story centered around this kind of modularity, a narrative that was built out of iterative, swappable pieces by its very design. He might very well create a sprite comic named Homestuck.

Homestuck is a story about a game that creates a hyperflexible mythology for its players, where the villains, challenges, and setting change depending upon what players bring to the experience, yet which all share underlying goals and assumptions. What more perfect opportunity to create a modular story as well? Different groups of kids and trolls have motifs that get swapped around to produce new characters, whether that’s through ectobiology, the Scratch, or the eerie parallels between the kids and trolls’ sessions. And yet each character can be analyzed as an individual.

This is an incredible way to build a huge emotional investment from your readers. Not only does this kind of characterization invite analysis, the abstractions draw readers in to generate their own headcanons and interpretations. A deep commitment to pluralism is at the heart of Hussie’s character design. Then, too, it encourages readers to build their own new designs from these models. Kidswaps, bloodswaps, fantrolls—these have long been the heart of Homestuck’s fandom. And what are bloodswaps if not sprite recolors for a new generation? With the added bonus that now a change in color carries narrative weight, evoking new moods and identities for these characters in ways that early sprite comics could only dream of.

In Hussie’s hands, even the dreaded copy-and-paste takes on heroic depth of meaning. Even when Hussie moves away from sprites to his own loose art style, he continues to remix what we’ve previously see. Indeed, Hussie talks about how he would go out of his way to edit his own art into new images even when it would take more time than drawing something new. Why? Because he wanted to evoke that very feeling of having seen this before—the visual callback to go along with the many conceptual and verbal callbacks that echo throughout Homestuck. This is at the heart of what Doc Scratch (speaking for Hussie) called “circumstantial simultaneity:” we are invited to compare two moments or two characters, to see what they have in common, or how they contrast. Everything in Paradox Space is deeply linked with everything else. And Hussie establishes this in our minds using nothing less than the tool sprite comics were so deeply reviled for: the “lazy” repetition of an image.

(It’s fitting that some of the most jaw-droppingly gorgeous images in Homestuck—dream bubble scenery and the like—are the result of Hussie taking things he’s made before and combining them into fantastic dreamscapes.)

But it all started with the hyperflexible, adaptable character images Hussie created at the very beginning of Homestuck.

And if you need more proof that Homestuck is a sprite comic, I think we need look no further than what Hussie, and the rest of the Homestuck community call these images.

We call them sprites.

THE FIRST GENRE-BENDERS

Was Andrew Hussie influenced by sprite comics in the development of Homestuck? It’s hard to say, but as a webcomic artist in the first decade of the 2000s, he was surely aware of them. It’s likely that he quickly realized that his quick, adaptable images served the same purposes as a sprite in a video game or a sprite comic, and chose to call them that.

One purpose I haven’t mentioned up until now: sprites lend themselves very well to animations. In fact, in their original context of video games, that’s exactly what they’re for: frames of art that can be used to show a character running, jumping, posing, moving across a screen. It’s not surprising, then, that sprite comic makers quickly saw the utility in that.

Homestuck was, in fact, not the first webcomic to make Flash animations part of its story. There were experiments with various gifs and such in other comics, but I think sprite comics were among the most successful at becoming the multi-media creations that would come to be known as hypercomics..

Take a look at this animation from Bob and George. It represents a climactic final confrontation against a long-standing villain, using special effects to make everything dramatic, but ultimately, like many a Homestuck animation, leads to kind of a pyscheout. The drama and the humor of the moment are clear, though. This relies in large part on the music—which is taken directly from the game Chrono Trigger. This makes total sense. Interestingly, it also contains voice acting, which is something Homestuck never tried—probably because it would run contrary to its ideals of pluralism. What I find fascinating is that in sprite comics, animations like these served a very similar purpose to Homestuck’s big flashes: elevating a big moment into something larger-than-life. Another good example is this sequence from Crash and Bass. Seriously, it seems like every sprite comic maker wanted to try their hand at Flash animation.

(By the way, it’s a lot harder than it looks!! I envy Hussie his vectorized sprites. Pixel art is a PAIN to work with in the already buggy program that is Flash.)

The result: because of the sprites themselves, sprite comics were among the first works to play around with the border between comics and other media in the way that would come to be thought of as quintessentially Homestuck.

What it also meant was that another genre emerged in parallel with sprite comics: the sprite animation. Frequently these would retell the story of a particular game, offer a spectacular animated battle sequence, parody the source material, or all three. Great examples include this animation for Mega Man Zero, and this frankly preposterous crossover battle sequence. Chris Niosi’s TOME also found its earliest roots as an animation series of this kind. You also found plenty of sprite-based flash games, in which players could manipulate game characters in a way that was totally outside the context of the original works.

The website the vast majority of these games and animations were hosted on?

Newgrounds, best known to Homestuck fans as the website Hussie crashed in 2011 while trying to upload Cascade.

What’s less talked about is that Hussie was friends, or at least on conversational terms with, the owner of the site, hence the idea to host his huge animation there in the first place, and other flashes, like the first Alterniabound, were initially hosted there as well.

It’s hard to believe that Hussie wasn’t at least a little familiar with the Newgrounds scene. I suspect that he largely conceived of Homestuck as part of the world of “Flash animation—” which in 2009 meant the wide variety of things that were hosted on Newgrounds, including sprite animations.

The freedom and fluidity sprite comics had to change into games and animations and back into comics again was one of their most fascinating traits. Homestuck’s commitment to media-bending needs, at this point, no introduction. But what’s less known is that sprite comics were exploring that territory first—that Homestuck, in short, is the kind of thing they wanted to grow up to be.

PUT ME IN THE GAME

I would be a fool not to mention another big thing Homestuck and sprite comics have in common: a character who is literally the author in cartoon form, running around doing goofy things and messing with the story. This was an incredibly common cliché in sprite comics, no doubt because of Bob and George, who did it early on and never looked back. You might have noticed that the animation I linked above concerns a showdown between Bob and George’s author, David Anez—depicted, delightfully, as another Mega Man recolor—and a mysterious alternate author named Helmut—who is like Mega Man plus Sepiroth I think? It’s all very strange. I could ramble for hours about the relationship between Hussie and the alt-author villains of Homestuck and what it all means, but I’m not sure I can nail anything down with certainty for these two. Maybe Bob and George was never quite that metaphysical.

But yes, bringing the author into the story in some form was already a cliché by the time Homestuck started up. Indeed, I think that’s why Hussie’s character refers to it as “a bad idea” to break the fourth wall—he’s recognizing that people will have seen this before, and are already tired of this sort of shit. And then he goes and does it anyway and makes it somehow brilliant, because he’s Andrew Hussie.

Homestuck breathes life into the cliché by taking it in a metaphysical/metafictional direction. I don’t think that was really the motivation for most sprite comic authors, though. Let’s see if we can dig a little deeper.

I think the cliché kept happening because sprite comic authors were writing about a subject that very closely concerned themselves: video games. I’m only kind of joking. The thing about video games is that even though they’re made for everyone, playing through one yourself feels like an intensely personal experience. You develop an emotional relationship to a world, to its characters, that feels distinctly your own. Now, suddenly, thanks to the magic of sprites, you have an opportunity to tell stories about that world for others to read. Of course you’re going to want to put yourself in the story in some form.

When it wasn’t author characters in sprite comics, it was OCs. You know Dr. Wily? Well here’s my own original villain, Dr. Vindictus. You know Mega Man? Here’s my new character, Super Cool Man. He hangs out with Mega Man and they beat the bad guys together. Stuff like that. Most sprite comics retold the story of a game, or multiple games in a big crossover format, with original elements added in. There was quite a lot of “Link and Sonic and Mega Man are all friends with my OC and they hang out at his house.”

What’s interesting, though, is that because these sprite comics were very aware that they were about video games, this was where they sometimes got very meta. It started with humorous observation—hey, isn’t it funny that Link goes around breaking into people’s houses and smashing their pots? But sometimes, it grew into more serious commentary. Is Mega Man trapped in a never-ending cycle, doomed to fight the same fight against the same mad scientist until the end of time? Is it worth it, being a video game hero?

Enter Homestuck. What I’ve been dancing around this whole time is:

Homestuck is a sprite comic…because Homestuck is a video game.

Or more specifically, Homestuck’s a comic about a video game called SBURB, where the lines between the game and the comic about the game blur as characters wrestle with the narratives around them, both those encoded into the game and those encoded into our expectations.

Homestuck presents the fantasy of many a sprite comic maker: I get to go on heroic quests, I get to change the world and become a god. I get to be part of the video game. And then it asks the same question certain sprite comics were beginning to ask:

Is it worth it, to be that hero?

I want to tell you about my second favorite sprite comic, a comic called Kid Radd.

Kid Radd distinguished itself from other sprite comics of the time by being a completely original production. Its sprites looked like they could be from a variety of NES and SNES-era video games, but they were all done from scratch, and the games they purported to represent were all fictional. Kid Radd used animations with original music, and sometimes interactive, clickable games, to tell its story. It also used all sorts of neat programming tricks to make it load faster on the internet of the early 2000s, which was great—unfortunately, these same techniques made it break as web technology evolved, something Homestuck fans in 2019 can definitely relate to. The good news is, fans have maintained a dedicated and reformatted archive where the comics can still be seen and downloaded.

Kid Radd’s premise is that video game characters themselves are conscious and alive—more specifically, their sprites. Sprites developed consciousness as human beings projected personality and identity onto them, remaining aware of their status as video game constructs while also seeking to be something more. The story follows the titular Kid Radd, at first in the context of his own game, commenting on the choices the player controlling him. He must endure every death, every strange decision along the way to save his girlfriend Sheena. Then the story expands into a larger context as Radd, Sheena, and many other video game characters are released onto the internet as data. They try to find their own identities and build a society for themselves, but struggle with the tendency toward violence that games have programmed into them. The story culminates in an honestly moving moment where Radd confronts the all-powerful creators of their reality—human beings.

It’s a very good comic.

The first sprite comic authors wanted to fuse real life with video games. Later sprite comic authors decided to ask: what would that really mean? Would it be painful? Would you suffer? Would you find a way to make your life meaningful all the same? Despite the limitations of sprite comics, these ideas had incredible potential, and in works like Kid Radd, they flourished.

Homestuck is heir to that legacy.

It takes the questions Kid Radd was asking, and asks them in new ways. It tries to understand, on an even deeper level, how the rules of video games shape our own minds and give us ways to understand ourselves.

At its heart, Homestuck is a sprite comic, and it might just be the greatest of them all.

EPILOGUE

I’ve seen a lot of good discussion recently on how Homestuck preserves a certain era of the internet like a time capsule: its culture, its technology, its assumptions, its memes.

I think sprite comics, too, are part of the culture that created Homestuck. Do I think Hussie spent the early 2000s recoloring Mega Man sprites? No, probably not. But what I do know is that sprite comics were part of his world. The first webcomic cartoonists came of age alongside an odd companion, the weird, overly sincere, dorky little sibling that was sprite comics. Like them or hate them, you couldn’t escape them. They were there.

And maybe a certain cartoonist saw a kind of potential in them, in the same way he summoned Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff from the depths of bad gamer culture.

Or maybe he just knew, as some sprite comic authors did, that the time was right for their kind of story.

On a personal level—Homestuck came along right when I needed it.

Around 2009, the bubble that was sprite comics finally burst. People were getting tired of them, or growing out of them, and blown-up sprites no longer looked so good on modern monitors.

I was more than a little heartbroken. I’d enjoyed Bob and George, read my fill of Mega Man generica, and fallen utterly in love with Kid Radd. I’d been working on my own sprite comic for a long time out of a sense that there was huge potential in them that we were only scratching the surface of. I’d dreamed of maybe someday doing something as amazing as the best of them did. But I was watching that world disappear. I had to admit to myself that my work wasn’t going to continue to find an audience. That I could live with. But it was painful to think that the potential I sensed, the feats of storytelling I wanted to see in the world, would never be realized.

And then, in the fall of 2010, a friend linked me to a comic that broke all the rules, that mixed animation, games, music, images and chatlogs. A comic that crafted its own sprites, just as Kid Radd did, and remixed its images into an ever-expanding web of associations and meanings. A comic that took on the idea of living inside a video game with relish and turned it into a gorgeous meditation on escaping the ideas and systems that control us.

That this comic would exist, let alone that it would succeed. That it would become one of the most popular creations of all time, that it would surpass other webcomics and break out into anime conventions and the real world, that it would become such a cultural juggernaut, to the point where it’s impossible to imagine an internet without Homestuck—

I can’t even put into words how happy that makes me. It’s the reason I’m still writing essays about Homestuck nearly eight years after I found it.

And it’s why Homestuck will always be my favorite sprite comic.

-Ari

[Notes: The image of the kids came from the ever-useful MSPA Wiki—please support and aid in their efforts to provide a good source of info about Homestuck! They need more support these days than ever.

For more on Homestuck’s place as a continuation of the zeitgeist of early 2000s experimental webcomics, this article by Sam Keeper at Storming the Ivory Tower is excellent and insightful.

Thanks for reading, y’all.]

[truebluemalibu]

random (unpopular?) opinion

Love Wedding Repeat sucked SO much. Like it’s incredible to me how bad it was. anyways here’s the rant i tried to publish on IMDB but they wouldn’t do it. so if you like movie rants like i do here you go.

Let me start by saying that I love watching rom coms, both the "serious" kind and the hokey kind (to a certain extent), and I thought this movie would be like an updated version of the Clue movie from the 80s but in wedding form. I thought it would be at least middlingly funny and maybe even go beyond the wedding party hooking up/getting drunk jokes that you find everywhere. The setting looked stunning at least. Well, it was the most unfunny thing I've watched in a long time. I saw the jokes coming but they never landed and they got stale really quick. The endless cavalcade of bad sex/dick jokes and weird "no homo though" cracks felt like something out of a bad sexist movie from 2011. The scenes would just drag on with the poor actors having to repeat the same gross joke over and over again--honestly hard to watch them have to beat this dead horse. I write comedy stuff exclusively, and isn’t like the number one rule not to explain the joke? This screenwriter not only explained the joke, he explained the explanation of the joke :) honestly though, SAYING IT OVER AND OVER AGAIN DOESN’T MAGICALLY MAKE IT FUNNY!!! wish more screenwriters would learn this because you see this more often than you realize.

Both me--a Gen Z young’n--and my 55 year old mother were cringing nonstop. I think I smiled twice while watching this, when the slapstick/comedic timing had a rare success, but it was few and far between. The characters were just as flat as the jokes, but props to the cast for giving it their all. Too bad the women were reduced to one-note "chick flick" stereotypes (neurotic, man-crazy, serious yet supermodel-looking career girl, etc.---aren't we better than this yet???) and most of the men acted like horny 14 year-old boys or just plain creeps (even when they weren't getting drugged!) I honestly don't see how this is a satire or a farce. It literally brings nothing new to the table, even though it thinks it does. The "existential" plot about alternate realities and fate and human existence just comes out of left field after a mindless first half, presenting itself--and basically trying to trick the audience into thinking it’s deeper than it is--but not elaborating or developing the characters (all of whom act like a bunch of crazy high school freshmen). I see what the intention was but the execution was so bad. As an aspiring screenwriter, watching this thing just made me mad. The script just completely throws proper story structure out the window, which can be effective but in this case the "resetting timeline" thing just felt like copping out. Stunted plot lines and bad dialogue...ugh! Awful to see, when the potential is there but the writer just hams it up. Seriously, though, turn off this mess and go watch the movie Serendipity. It's adorable, actually funny, and gives its "What is our destiny/fate/Who are we if we do xyz" plot the respect it deserves!

[kestrellavellan]

Time Past - Chapter 53

Rating: Explicit

Warning: NSFW, suicidal attempt

Weekly updates going forward until the story is finished.  Find this fic in its entirety on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423880/chapters/52082938

Despite the blindfold, Kestrel knew when he was back in Tevinter.  The heat rushed him in one aggressive burst of air, tosling his hair and distracting him enough to stumble over a stone.  His guide took his arm and continued to lead him through the darkness.  

Branches and leaves caressed his face and body, forced apart by their path.  As they continued walking, the din of crickets rose from a soft chirp in the distance to a crescendoing welcome.  His guide finally paused and removed his blindfold, gesturing forward into a field of waist-high grass, yellowing with the strain of a hot spring.

Still, Kestrel couldn’t help but glance at the young forest behind them.  An eluvian would be a useful tool for the Inquisition remnants, but chances were slim he’d find it.  Solas made sure of that.  Besides, his path was forward, towards Dorian.

A loud snort drew his attention to a pale mare chomping on the grass, rein lashed to a low branch on the outskirts.  When he looked to his guide for permission to use the horse, she’d disappeared without a sound.

****

It took a day of careful travel, dipping off the main road when the occasional traveler neared, hiding under his hood despite the late spring warmth, to reach the outskirts of the Pavus countryside manor.  The flow of people gave away its proximity first.  Carriages of finely dressed nobles formed a line down the road, filled in by those of lesser birth on horses with clothing just as rich.  Whispers of the Pavus heir finally settling down flitted through the traffic, encouraged by laughter and smiles.  It was a joyous occasion for all involved and an excuse for the top tier of Tevinter to gather and celebrate.

Kestrel pushed his horse in and out of the crowd.  Fortunately, most seemed too lost in their gossip to notice a plain garbed man on a horse, dismissing him as someone’s errand slave.  

Despite being surrounded, Kestrel felt alone.  He was the only one here that truly knew Dorian.  He was the only one here to see if this was truly what Dorian wanted for himself.  At least, he’d made it in time, in time to stop the ceremony is necessary.  

Weaving deeper through the crowd, Kestrel feared his noisy heart thudding in his chest would turn heads.  The desire to see Dorian again threatened to overwhelm him, to force him to shout from his horseback that this was wrong.  He knew in his heart that Dorian was marrying the wrong person.  He and Dorian deserved to be together, and now he had another chance -- No, that’s not why he was here.  Maybe Dorian had already forgotten him.  Maybe this marriage was a chance at a normal life for Dorian, one he never thought possible.

That thought summoned tears to Kestrel’s eyes.  It would kill him to see Dorian with someone else, but Dorian’s happiness was worth more than his life.

Blinking away the tears, Kestrel pushed his horse out of the line and off the road and urged it into a gallop, not caring what glares or glances it earned him.  He overshot the house, running past the backlog of people waiting for entry, and slipped to the woods behind the manor, the same woods he and Dalish had fled through the night of his faked death.

Kestrel slid from the horse’s back, offering her an absentminded pat, before he stealthed.  A single-mindedness overtook him, propelling him towards Dorian like a hound on a scent trail.  So desperate was he to see Dorian again, he nearly crashed into a guard on the edge of the forest.  Fortunately, the man was too busy drinking from a flask to notice the swaying bushes as Kestrel stumbled into the clearing.

In the open field, two large tents were set-up on one side of the field while chairs and an elaborate arbor stood near the pond, on the other side.  Guests were being seated or mingling around the raised platform, paying their respects to the proud mother.  He watched the people parade around, but didn’t spot the familiar swagger of the man he loved.  If Dorian had been with the other people, Kestrel would’ve noticed him.  That meant he had to be tucked away in one of the tents.  Or in the manor.  Hopefully, one of the tents.  He never wanted to enter that house of torture ever again.

He hurried over to the far side, praying no one noticed the movement of the grass in his rush.  Reaching the closest tent, he circled around, listening for whoever might be inside.  A pleased giggle rang through the air, followed by several agreeing laughs, none of which belonged to Dorian.  This must be the bride’s tent, the woman that was supposed to take his place beside Dorian.  Kestrel knew none of this was her fault, and yet, he couldn’t help the feeling of jealousy that welled up within.  Even if Kestrel was able to stop Dorian from going through with the wedding, even if Dorian was stupid enough to accept him back into his life, even if Dorian still wanted to marry him after everything, they would never have it easy.  Never as easy as a man marrying a woman.

A bit more subdued by the thought of the odds lining up against him, he headed towards the other tent.  Within a few feet of the enclosed canopy, voices forced their way through the heavy fabric walls.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this, Dorian.  He’s gone, there’s no need to continue with this farce of a wedding.”

“You think I’ve forgotten that, Mae?  You think I’ve forgotten what it was like to hold his still-warm body in my arms?  You think --”  Dorian’s voice cracked and Maevaris was quick to soothe him.

“I’m sorry.  This just...it doesn’t make sense to me.  I think you’re punishing yourself for a problem you could never solve.  You won’t be happy married to her.”

“How do you know that?  Maybe finally being on my mother’s good side will change things between us.  And who knows?  Having a child, someone that loves you unconditionally, might make my life worthwhile again.  Atria is a lovely woman.  She’s intelligent, kind, which mind you, in Tevinter is a rare occurrence, and open-minded.  She understands my past and is willing to work through it with me.  She also has the added bonus of being approved by my mother, despite being a member of our Lucerni group.”

Dorian actually thought his life might be better with this woman?  

“She’s a powerful mage, sure, but she’s not…”

“A man?” Dorian retorted, words bitter.

“The Inquisitor.  She’s not Kestrel.”

“He’s dead, Mae!  There is no Kes anymore.  I’m just so tired of fighting everyone and for what?”

Kestrel could hear the raw agony in his last words, and it drew him closer, pulling him around the corner of the tent.  Dorian sounded like he’d given up.

“I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret,” Maevaris finally said, voice soft with understanding.

“It’s too late for that.  This is...this is what I want, Mae.  It’s a chance at happiness.  Now, if you don’t mind, I need to be appropriately sloshed before this affair, and I’m not quite there yet.”

A chance at happiness?  Kestrel clutched his chest.  He’d forced Dorian here.  For all the blame he’d dumped on Atronis, he was the one who’d backed Dorian into this corner.  If this was what Dorian wanted, wasn’t it best to let him be?  Still, he couldn’t come all this way without catching a glimpse of him.  Fighting through his heartbreak, Kestrel crept closer, noticing one side of the enclosed canopy was lifted, allowing air to flow through the space.  The tent was too dark to see anything within.

“I’ll love you no matter what, okay?”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Maevaris exited through the raised side, pausing once to glance back the tent with a pensive frown before making her way to the guests.

“Finally…” muttered Dorian.

Now was his chance.  One glimpse of Dorian, and he’d leave him to the life he desired.  Like he said, it was a real chance at happiness.

Slipping into the tent was simple, and Dorian was too preoccupied with the drink tray to notice any subtle shifting of the air.  A black cloak hid his form, high collar obscuring his face from Kestrel’s current angle.  His hair was pulled back into a simple tail, gold sparkling among the free length.

Dorian’s back was to him, hunched over a table with a glass decanter of some dark liquid.  Most likely his favored brandy.  Except he wasn’t focused on pouring anything, which was odd.

Kestrel snuck around to the side to find out what Dorian was doing.  He was momentarily distracted by the bare expanse of skin that greeted his inquisitive gaze.  The cloak squared off his shoulders in a hard line, edges meeting right below Dorian’s throat.  Underneath, he wore nothing save a pair of loose, black pants held up by a golden scarf.  The length of unclothed, muscular skin left Kestrel’s mouth dry and cheeks flushed.  So flustered was he, he tripped over his own feet.  He stumbled a few steps before catching himself,  thankful for the rugs underfoot to muffle what would’ve been a noisy stumble through grass.

Focus, Kestrel told himself.  I mean, who goes half-naked to their own wedding?  Kestrel’s thoughts strayed, aroused and irritated at Dorian’s blatant exposure.

Unaware of Kestrel’s struggles, Dorian opened a small, wooden box, retrieving a handful of dried mushrooms.  Using a knife within reach, he chopped them up into leathery scraps before gathering them anew in cupped hands and dumped them into an open kettle, still steaming.  His golden bangles chimed merrily throughout his movements.  Dorian placed the lid back on the kettle and settled into a plush reading chair at the table, toying with a tea cup while his tea seeped.

Except no one made tea from mushrooms.

Creeping closer still, Kestrel peered into the unattended box of leftover mushrooms on the table.  They were flat-capped and a dull and lifeless gray.  Kestrel recognized them as Blightcap mushrooms, extremely toxic if consumed.  One of the kids of Clan Lavellan  had found some in a nearby cave and thinking them one of the edible deep mushrooms had eaten his fill and died shortly after.  What was Dorian doing making a tea of them?  It’d kill whoever drank it.

Dorian poured a muddy brown mixture into his cup before holding it between both hands, staring into it as steam clouded his vision.

Kestrel’s stomach twisted in realization.  Oh no...he wouldn’t, would he?  But he’d said he wanted to try for a chance at happiness!  Unless that was a lie to get Maevaris to leave him alone for this very reason.

“I’m sorry I failed you,” Dorian whispered into the cup before bringing it to his lips.

Desperate to stop him, Kestrel leapt over the table, swatting the cup from Dorian’s hands before his momentum landed him on top of Dorian, sending the chair tipping backward and them both tumbling on to the ground.  Kestrel continued to roll a few feet out while Dorian still sat in the tipped chair.

“What…?  Who?” Dorian sputtered, quickly rising to his feet, hand ablaze with magic.  

Kestrel pulled himself onto his hand and knees, rear to Dorian, hood fallen over his head in the tumble.

“State your name or, so help me, I’ll set your ass on fire!”

“What in the Void were you thinking, Dorian?” Kestrel reprimanded.  Terribly pissed, he flopped onto the ground, rear first, so he could glare at the dumb man.

“...Kes?  No.  Impossible.  You’re dead.”

Kestrel shook his head, hood knocked back to his shoulders.  “I think the bigger issue here is you were trying to kill yourself!”

“Did I succeed…?” Dorian asked, touching his arms and then his face.  “Definitely didn’t imagine I’d be getting yelled at by my dead partner first thing after crossing the Veil.”

With an irritated huff, Kestrel said, “You’re not dead, but you would’ve been if I hadn’t knocked that poisonous tea from your hands!  Again, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Dorian frowned, muttering, “It was supposed to have a more immediate effect, but the vendor did warn of hallucinations.  Oh well, proof it’s only a matter of time, I suppose.”  He righted the oversized chair and settled into it.  As he leaned his head against the high backing, he said, “I thought it only fair, you know.  Why, afterall, I left you back at the Winter Palace.  It’s only fair you’d leave me.  I don’t blame you for,” he paused, grimacing as he searched for the right word, “leaving the way you did.  After all the tortures you were put through.”  He shook his head.  “Perhaps you thought about following me to Tevinter all those years ago.  Know that I’ve thought about following you into death these past few months.  They’ve been torture, Kes.”  His voice broke and he hid his face behind a hand, yet tears slipped past, making fast trails down his cheeks.

Dorian still thought he was dead, some apparition sent to haunt him or some ill effect of the poison.  “But I--”

He continued, despite the flow of tears that persisted.  “When I first saw you lying there, I thought surely it was some jest at my expense.  A horrible one, mind you, but still, just a prank.  As I left, I convinced myself your death wasn’t real.  Even after I returned to the city, I waited for you.  I waited by the door for days, sure you’d arrive at any moment or send word of your daring escape.  But those days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months.  Eventually, I had to admit defeat, because if you were truly alive, you would’ve let me know you were okay as soon as possible.  No, insist all you want, Kes, but I know you’re just some figment of my mind.  At least, we’ll be together soon, once this tea take effect.”

“But my death was supposed to free you.  You were supposed to drop this marriage plan and move on with your life, Dorian.”

“At first I believed I deserved this life after failing you.  But I can’t keep going.  I can’t keep fighting for this life.  There’s no point in fighting without you, Kes.  Don’t you understand?”

Kestrel rose to his feet, upset.  “No, I don’t understand!  You’ve lived without me before, Dorian.  You could do so again.”

“One can only have their heart ripped out so many times before they perish, amatus.”

Had he truly left Dorian in such a state?  But why?  He was nothing; worth none of this drama.  He’d thought he could just fade away with his faked death.  Sure, he’d never forget Dorian, but Dorian would eventually move on.  He never thought he’d drive Dorian to take his own life.  How could he have crushed Dorian so thoroughly?

His heart broke with the sight of Dorian weeping, hiding his emotions poorly behind a bejeweled hand.  He needed to stop this.  Words weren’t convincing enough.  Without another thought, Kestrel approached Dorian in his velvet-lined chair and crawled onto his lap, like those many nights in Skyhold after exhaustive days.  He nudged Dorian’s collar out of the way and buried his head against Dorian’s neck.  He smeared tears along the way, but those would stop soon enough.  He’d see to it.  “I’m not dead,” he whispered, like words were needed after pressing himself as close to Dorian as possible.

Dorian remained unreceptive to him for a long moment, rigid and still.  Finally, he inhaled and groaned out “Amatus” coming to life and curled his arms around Kestrel.  “How could you?” he asked, still holding Kestrel close.  “How could you leave me thinking you died?  Your death was the end of my life.”

“I’m sorry, ma vhenan.  I thought for sure you’d cancel your wedding plans and move on.”

“Why would you ever think that?”

Kestrel groaned before whispering, “I’m nothing.”

“You’re everything to me,” Dorian whispered fervently, tightening his hug.  “Don’t you realize how perfect you are?”

Perfect?  Hardly.  “Oh yeah, a one-armed, powerless, has-been,” Kestrel scoffed.

“You’re a hero.  You saved the people of Ferelden and Orlais.  Even Tevinter whispers about the deeds the Inquisitor accomplished, omitting the fact that you’re an elf, but that’s something we can work on.  And while your arm loss is unfortunate, the people view it as a selfless sacrifice, even still, years later.”

“That’s the Inquisitor, Dorian.  He had a whole army and spies and loyal companions to help accomplish everything.  That’s not me.”

“No?  But you, Kes, not the Inquisitor title is what attracted everyone to your side and kept them there.  Me included.  Do you know what we see in you?”

Kestrel shook his head against Dorian’s shoulder.

“You’re kind, caring, intelligent.  You’re a selfless protector of the small and helpless.  And so strong.  When backed into a corner, you never back down, you never give up.  You inspire others around you to be better, to try harder.  And you give everyone hope.  When I lost you, that’s what I missed the most, the hope that everything will get better, that everything will be okay.  You radiate it.”  

Kestrel realized his own tears dampened Dorian’s neck.

Dorian snuggled closer to whisper, “Not to mention, you make a wonderful companion in bed.”

Kestrel snorted, unable to hold back a smile against Dorian’s skin.

Dorian released a soggy chuckle.  “We’re a fine pair, don’t you think?  We’re so wonderful at this relationship thing that we’ve left each other hopeless and alone.”

“Better together,” Kestrel repeated their motto, mumbling into Dorian’s throat.

Shifting enough to put some space between them, Dorian stared him down with a sad grin.  “I can’t continue to do this, Kes.”

“Oh…” was all he could respond with, pulling even further away. Then why did Dorian bother to build him up just to cast him aside?

Dorian prodded Kestrel’s forehead.  “Stop those thoughts running through that mind of yours.  I meant, I’ll go wherever you want.  Back to Orlais,” although puckered lips showed what he thought of that idea, “back to Skyhold.  I’d even stay with your Clan again, if you prefer.”

Kestrel was stunned, slowly blinking with surprise.  That wasn’t what he expected to hear.  “You’d sleep in the woods, traveling around in an aravel, for an indeterminate length of time just to be with me?”

“I waded through the cursed waters of Cresthold and trudged the rainy beaches of Storm Coast, and you doubt I’d remain by your side with your Clan?  I love you, and I know Tevinter holds terrible memories for you.  I wouldn’t hold it against you if you wanted to leave, but I’m not leaving your side again.”

“Dorian, all I’ve wanted since Corypheus died is you.  Tevinter is worse than the Fade, but you have work to do here.  You’re not leaving, and I’ll be with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

Dorian sought out Kestrel’s hand.  Having it in his grasp, he placed a gentle kiss to the ring still secure on his finger.  “Forever it is, then.  I should’ve known when the ring didn’t come off,” he finished in a mutter.  Suddenly, a look of horror washed over his face.  “I went to the pit after I was told your body was burned...there were remains there and I…”

“You took what you thought was a piece of me with you?”

Dorian opened a small pouch on his belt and retrieved a charred finger bone.  With a look of absolute disgust, he whispered, “Whose bone am I holding if not yours?”

“Morven’s.”

“Maker’s breath!”  Dorian chucked the bone across the tent, through the opening.  “Mother thought he ran away with that boy, too afraid to face her wrath, when he didn’t show back up.  She was highly disappointed, but I can’t say I was sad to see him gone.  Now that I know the truth, I really should’ve known you were alive!”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Dorian.  You had no way of knowing.”

“True.  And I’m going to be quite peeved at you for a bit for letting me believe you’d truly died.  You’ll have to work for my forgiveness.”  Dorian smirked that oh-so familiar smirk that went straight to Kestrel’s groin.  

“Forever,” Kestrel breathed, leaning in close, although something stopped him from closing the gap completely.  Some nagging lack of self-worth left him lingering close with lips slightly parted and brow creased in doubt.

Dorian didn’t hesitate.  He kissed Kestrel fast and hard, and the groan of appreciation that left one of them, maybe both of them, was sinful and completely unavoidable.

The kiss was tears of sorrow and joy and love all compressed into a single, peaceful moment between the two of them.  And then it turned needy and desperate.

Kestrel shifted his position, straddling Dorian.  He took a moment to stare down at Dorian from his new height, fingers skimming along the shorn side of his head before threading through the base of the ponytail and pinned him in place with a harsh hold.

“Kes,” Dorian groaned, lips parted in need, but unable to close the distance between them.

“Why have the last two months felt longer than the last two years apart?” Kestrel whispered, mouth hovering close but not close enough.

Dorian smirked.  “I missed you too.”

That playful grin was his downfall from the first time he met Dorian.  That hadn’t changed over the years.  Unable to resist him any longer, Kestrel crushed his lips against Dorian’s, tongue questing out to meet his.  This man was Kestrel’s whole world.  Gone was the struggle of the last two months, gone was the wedding waiting for them, gone was the worry of being noticed or caught.  Even though doubt and shadows still plagued him, nothing else mattered but Dorian.  He lost himself in Dorian’s mouth, in Dorian’s touch, in the soothing scent of sandalwood that permeated the air around him.  It was all too much and not enough at the same time.

Dorian seemed to feel the same, for he grabbed Kestrel’s hips and pushed him down on his cock tenting the thin fabric of his pants.

With only thin leggings on himself, Kestrel moaned with the lack of barrier between them, and Dorian pressed up further.  “I want you.  Now.  Right now,” Kestrel whispered, urgent and eager.

“Eh-hem.”  Someone cleared their voice nearby.

Both men stilled before reluctantly separating.  

“Seems like that may have to wait,” Dorian murmured.

Swamped by barely buried fears, Kestrel remained rigid and watched Dorian for his reaction to the visitor.

“Dorian, everyone is waiting for you, for your own wedding that you inanely agreed to, and here I find you making out with a slave instead!  If you were this determined to fuck it up, you should’ve declined the marriage agreement.”

Kestrel recognized Maevaris’ voice and turned his head to find her annoyed glare land on him.  He watched as it shifted from irritation to confusion to wonder.

“Oh!  Now I understand!  Don’t quite understand how you’re here, alive, mind you, but I completely understand what has Dorian preoccupied now.”

“He’s not dead, Mae,” Dorian said, arms wrapping around Kestrel possessively, as if he was worried if he let Kestrel go, he’d disappear again.

“I can see that.  Now, what’s the plan?  I assume poor Atria needs to be informed.  And then…?”

“We have to stop your mother, Dorian.  This is our chance to confront her in front of a crowd,” Kestrel said.

Maevaris nodded her head.  “I agree.  If she makes a deal with you before half of the elite of Tevinter, she’ll have to honor it.”

“The only chance we have of that happening is to catch her off guard,” Dorian said with a frown.  That frown suddenly shifted to a devilish grin.  “Walk down the aisle with me, Kes.”

Kestrel looked at him, confused.  “What?”

“Walk down the aisle with me instead of Atria.  My mother believes you dead, it’ll completely shock her.  Before she collects her wits, I’ll lay the blame on her for the attacks, stealing you from me, and for forcing the marriage.”

“And if she attacks?” Maevaris asked.

“I doubt she will before a crowd.  But, if it happens, we can fight back.  She has to make the first move, though, if our defense is to be completely sanctioned.”

Kestrel and Maevaris nodded in agreement.

“Mae, can you please give us a moment?”

Grinning, Maevaris said, “Of course, my dear.  But don’t take too long.  The crowd is waiting for the show.  I’ll break the news to Atria.”

They both watched her leave before turning their focus back to each other.

“Do you think this will work?” Kestrel asked.

“It’s our best chance at being free from her.”

“I’ll kill her if I have to,” whispered Kestrel into the growing space between them.

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that.”

Kestrel kissed Dorian’s cheek before climbing off his lap and removing one of the blades underneath his cloak.  Passing it over to Dorian, he said, “Just in case.”  He’d kill anyone he needed to keep Dorian safe, but Dorian needed his own protection too.

Dorian accepted the blade and promptly shifted topics, asking with a playful wink, “Ready to walk down the aisle?”

Kestrel flushed.  “With you?  Yes.  Oh!  But…”  Didn’t to-be spouses normally lay everything on the table before getting married?  Even if this wasn’t the real deal, Kestrel still felt the need to confess bubbling up within him.

Dorian watched him with a raised brow.  “...Yes?”

“Uhm...just to let you know, I sort of adopted a kid while we were apart.”

Dorian’s face contorted, and Kestrel couldn’t be sure what the expression staring back at him meant.

“The boy…?  The boy Dalish from my mother’s estate?” Dorian finally said after a heavy pause.

Nodding, Kestrel remained silent to allow Dorian to process.

“I shouldn’t be surprised.  You took in every stray animal at Skyhold, even those terrifying draskolisks and the oversized nug.  Why, I’m surprised you aren’t running an orphanage at this point.  And, unlike the beasts, at least he’s old enough to handle his own waste, right?” Dorian muttered, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Kestrel laughed.  That was Dorian’s reluctant acceptance.  He’d take it for the time being, knowing Dorian would warm to the boy soon enough.  “I think you two will get along well,” he said once his laughter broke.  He offered a reassuring pat to Dorian’s shoulder.

“And there’s always the Circle to ship him off to if not,” Dorian said with a grin.

***

After further delay to ensure Kestrel was presentable to the public of Tevinter and to allow for a surprisingly amiable good luck and goodbye from Dorian’s now ex-fiance, they were ready to proceed with their plan to demand their freedom from Dorian’s mother.  In hindsight, it was a poorly thought-out plan, and if they weren’t so high on the feelings from their reunion, maybe calmer minds would have recognized this.  As it stood, they marched arm-in-arm down the field as delicate music filled the air, heralding the arrival of the groom and his bride.  They made it to the back end of the guests before an errant bow screeched over the wrong string and the music shuddered to a halt.

Offended gasps and hushed whispers filled the silence, growing louder during their procession along the white velvet walkway.  Chairs creaked, everybody repositioning to follow their trek closer and closer to the gaping Grand Cleric waiting under the arbor.

Kestrel clung hard to Dorian’s arm, hoping the crowd didn’t notice how tight his grip was.  He kept his back straight and head held high even as sneers and racist remarks waited behind every shocked expression, yet on the inside, he longed to stealth.  As Inquisitor, he learned to tolerate being the center of attention, but that had waned over the years.  Now he wanted nothing more than to slip away from the hard glares.

Dorian seemed to sense his unease and placed his hand over Kestrel’s, thumb stroking Kestrel’s tumultuous hold.

It calmed him, soothed his very soul to know that he was by Dorian’s side again.  He was the one walking down the aisle with him, no one else.  Even if this was a farce, Dorian was his, and he’d fiercely protect those he loved.  Dorian has been right about that.  Kestrel cloaked himself in his anger, pissed that people would pass judgement on them so quickly without knowing anything about them.  He glared back at those Magisters and Altus and anyone else who dared to meet his gaze, feeling feral and fierce.

“Why, Inquisitor, what a pleasant surprise.  I thought you dead.  And very few runaway slaves return to their Mistress by their own will.”

Kestrel turned his snarl to Aquinea perched upon her platform, overlooking the ensemble.

“I didn’t return to you as your slave.  We came to negotiate.”

“Negotiate with a slave?  You wear my brand, pet.  I only use your former title as a reward for returning to your side, not to give you a false sense of power.”  She waved her hand towards Kestrel.  “Guards, retrieve my property.”

The guard stationed around the platform moved to intercept, but Dorian held up his hand, buying them a moment’s pause.

Dorian squeezed Kestrel’s hand.  “Mother, this is unacceptable.  Kestrel is not a slave, but the Inquisitor of Fereldan and Orlais.  You forced his enslavement before through trickery and deceit.”

“What do I care what importance he carries in other countries?  In Tevinter, he’s a lowly raffas, and my men captured him fairly in the streets of Minrathous.  I’ve branded him and claimed him as my own.”

“Kestrel won’t be your pet, and I will not be going through my your marriage arrangements.”

“Your sense of entitlement is impressive, son, but fruitless.  If you will not keep to the deal we agreed upon, then I see no further use for you.  Guards, kill him but capture the slave.”

Six men advanced on them, shoving startled guests out of their way.  Soon enough the people got the message and abandoned their seats to form a semi-circle around the podium

Aquinea didn’t seem to care about attacking them in front of an audience which worried Kestrel.  Did she have enough power or enough clout that she didn’t fear the repercussions from attacking a Magister in the open?

That was the last Kestrel was able to ponder as two guards lunged at him, weapons still sheathed.  He had the advantage.  They were working to subdue while he had no such constraints.

He yanked his dagger from its sheath on his lower back just in time to cut into the forearm of a guard reaching for him.  The man jolted back with a startled hiss, gripping the cut as blood ran freely.  Yet as he dropped back, the second man jumped him from behind, putting him into a choke hold and pulling him off balance.  The two of them toppled onto the ground.  Kestrel used the momentum of their fall to flip the blade in his palm and plunge it deep into the man’s gut.  He was immediately released, and Kestrel scrambled to his feet, searching for Dorian.

Dorian had made quick work of the other four guards.  Three burned corpses sprawled on the ground around him while the fourth stumbled over to Aquinea.  He made a choking noise, reaching for her.  Then he exploded.  Blood and bits of flesh and innards rained down around two booted feet left behind, falling primarily on the stage and on Aquinea, turning her white dress crimson.

“We will win, Mother.  It’s time you see reason and let us be,” Dorian said, strands of unruly hair plastered to his sweaty forehead.  He looked glorious, and he looked pissed.

Aquinea dragged her fingers over her lips, smearing blood from her cheek along her face.  A pink tongue darted out, tasting.  “Seems I’ll have to do this myself,” she said, sounding completely put out.  Her gaze locked on to the remaining guard nursing his arm.  With a smirk, she gestured and more blood poured from his wound.

Kestrel and Dorian stood horrified as a shocked gasp rose up around them.  Still, no one came to help.

The collected blood launched as red spears at Dorian, slamming into a hastily generated barrier.

Kestrel stealthed, bloodied dagger ready.  If he could just get to her…

Dorian’s shield shattered around him, sending him to his knees.  He was helpless and by the grin on Aquinea’s face, she knew it.

Abandoning all plans of assassination, Kestrel tucked the blade close to his arm and darted towards Dorian, tackling him just as a fresh spell was cast.  It slammed into his back, knocking the breath from his lungs and leaving him gasping.

Dorian frowned beneath him, cupping Kestrel’s face in his hands.  “Amatus?”

And that’s when Kestrel realized everything was horribly wrong.

While he could feel Dorian’s gentle touch, he couldn’t move.  Nothing would respond to his mind’s command.  Not a blink, not a twitch, not a part of him moved as he willed it.  Fortunately, his lungs still fought for air and his heart thudded in his chest.  All he could do was watch Dorian struggle beneath him, pinned and trying desperately to figure out what was wrong with Kestrel.  And then the burning started.

It was subtle at first, a tingling in his veins of his extremities before it worked its way inward, intensifying until every cell of his body screamed as if it were on fire.  Strangled gasps left Kestrel as his body seized, its only way of a fought-for response.  Water trickled out his eyes, out of his nose, dripping red onto Dorian’s face.  Not water, then.

“Kes?  Kes!” Dorian cried, clutching his face.

The fingers digging into his cheeks felt like a gentle caress compared to the raging inferno that burned within him, blood boiling in his veins.

Kestrel watched as Dorian’s attention was redirected at someone incoming.  There was a jerk of Kestrel’s hand as Dorian’s face settled into a delicate mask of disgust, barely hiding the fear and rage behind it.

“His death is on your hands, son.  I wanted to keep him alive, but you had to fight,” Aquinea said, her boot appearing in the periphery of Kestrel’s vision, near Dorian’s head.

The agony was too much to bare, darkening the edge of his vision.  Yet the most frustrating part was not being able to scream or curse out the pain or clench his body against an incoming blow.  He was helpless to whatever blood magic spell had taken hold of him.

Aquinea‘s boot inched closer, her shadow darkening their forms.  “I wish you’d never been born, Dorian.  You were such a waste of my time and energy.  Halward agreed until the end when you somehow persuaded him otherwise, and I—“

Without warning, Dorian snagged her ankle and yanked with all his might.

Aquinea yelp in surprise as she fell to the ground next to Dorian.

Again, calling on his strength, Dorian wrapped his arms around Kestrel and shoved up, rolling them over until Kestrel was wedged between Dorian on top, and Aquinea’s lower half underneath.

Kestrel barely registered what happened next as the void of unconsciousness threatened to pull him under.  It’d be a welcomed relief from his melting insides.

Metal glinted in the sunlight as Dorian reared back, blade-in-hand plummeting towards Aquinea’s heart.  

Then Kestrel slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

[hoodoo12]

The Old College Try

Barkeep has her sights on Tailor Rick. Spoiler alert: she’s got her work cut out for her.  Extra thanks to @porkchop-ao3 for letting me play with her character! Due to some references made in my story, it is set after her great Charlie Foxtrot (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7). Mature. 

⁂

It was a hopping busy night. You ran back and forth between patrons, supplying fresh drinks, clearing empty glasses, making small talk and filling server’s orders nonstop. Something major must have happened on the Citadel, because there were more Ricks patronizing the place than normal, and more of them than not were focused on getting plastered. But when that uppity Rick who’d burst into the Bar months ago, the one who’d wrecked your chances with Ice Cream Rick, you vowed to yourself to spend some time with him.

He was as well-put together as the time you’d seen him before: a smartly fitted teal suit, an equally fitted shirt with the faintest hint of a baroque pattern woven into it, an expertly knotted tie, and--here you leaned over the bar to look--the same leather wingtips polished to a high shine. You also didn’t miss how well his trousers fit. They had to be tailored, to support and emphasize the bulge at his crotch.

The color of his suit didn’t do much for you, but the way his blue eyes seemed to dismiss most of his surroundings did, and you grinned to yourself at the challenge he was going to be. It’d be an extra sweet victory to get him into your bed.

He moved smoothly through the crowd, twisting so he didn’t touch any of the other patrons. He steadfastly ignored them too, whether they cursed him when there was an accidental bump or called to him in recognition. It was obvious his goal was a seat along the table built into the side wall, where he’d be able to look over the crowd, but someone else slid into it before he could get there.

Knowing you were going to regret saying this, you called, “Rick!” just over the buzz of the bar.

The noise level dropped immediately as so many of them swiveled their heads to you. Pointedly you ignored them but kept your gaze directly on your target. He grimaced. Not exactly the response you were hoping for, but you smiled at him anyway and tapped the bar in front of a lone stool.

With a resigned sigh that you could almost hear, he made his way over.

Normal sounds of the bar--the crack of pool balls, bragging, laughter--started up again as he sat down.

“Hey,” you said in greeting, setting a napkin in front of him. “Nice to see you again, Rick.”

“Don’t call me that,” he said, looking over the crowd instead of at you.

Even though he grumbled, he sounded sophisticated. You hadn’t forgotten he was one of the only Ricks you’d met with a British accent.

It was on the tip of your tongue to point out that “Rick” got his attention a moment ago, but you let it slide. “Okay. What do you prefer? Richard? Mr. Sanchez? Daddy?”

That got his attention even faster. He spun around with a startled expression that melted into a snarl of distaste when he saw you grinning at him.

“Did I get one of them right?”

He ground out, “I’m called Tailor,” in a definitive tone.

You shrugged. “Whatever you’d like. I would have expected Mr. Sanchez. Or maybe Sir Richard Sanchez, habadasher to the Queen--”

You cut yourself off with a chuckle.

“Your mirth is misplaced, since you obviously have no clue that word has different meanings in England versus the Colonies,” he interrupted coldly. “I do more than simply sell clothing. I design and create high fashion for men and women. Therefore, Tailor. Not that I expected you to be familiar with even that word . . .”

He finished by making a show of looking you over, taking in your standard work outfit: a tank top and jeans. He couldn’t see your feet, thank god; he’d probably have a heart attack if he saw you wearing clunky server’s shoes! With the least amount of self-consciousness you could manage, you slipped your thumb under your bra strap--it had slipped!--to situate it properly on your shoulder and under the strap of your tank again.

He waited expectantly for your reply.

You narrowed your eyes and decided you couldn’t wait to fuck him. You’d win when you both were yanking each other clothes off. You decided maybe you’d keep one of his jacket’s buttons as a souvenir.

Laughing out loud, you said, “Tailor, I like you. Let me buy you a drink! What’ll it be?”

Tailor didn’t return your laughter. He simply told you he wanted a whisky on the rocks. You made it a double in a more expensive brand, and let your fingers linger on his as he accepted it from you.

He didn’t jerk back or scowl again, so you figured that was a chink in his armor.

Leaving him be for the moment, you decided round one was yours.

⁂

There were plenty more Ricks to flirt with; just because you had your eyes on someone specific tonight didn’t mean you wanted to close the door on others who may be back later. Most seemed more interested in drinking steadily, but some flirted back. Any other night you’d have taken one (or two, or three) home, but your sights were set on Tailor.

You kept him plied with drink and tried to carry on a conversation with him when you had a free moment. His answers were curt at first, but looser after a few glasses. You got out of him that the correct name for the color of his suit was Caribbean Blue, not teal; that he had designed gowns for the Queen and several other Royals as well; that his assistant was a nice woman but much too smitten with someone he called Mr. Whippy; that he usually didn’t come to places like this but he’d been in the neighborhood and--

Tailor, who’d not once given you full attention even as he tipsily spilled some of his guts, broke off his own sentence. Glancing in the direction he was looking, you saw a few members of the Council of Ricks enter the Bar: Riq IV, Maximums Rickimus, and Zeta Alpha Rick. The door almost closed again when Rick Prime came through as well. They were easily recognizable, even in new outfits you’d never seen before.

Tailor threw back the remainder of his drink and asked for another without turning to you.

He wasn’t the only Rick who’d stopped and stared at the Council members as they came in. For the second time tonight, the Bar fell oddly quiet.

“Where’s the rest of the Council, assholes?” someone shouted. “Too afraid to show their faces after that farce?”

“Suck my dick!” Riq IV spit back indiscriminately to all the patrons. Then, reverting more to the politician he was, his gaze seemed to meet every single person’s--including yours--in the place, like he was talking to everyone personally. “Our ruling stands. If you don’t like it, fucking run for Council yourself. For everyone else who’s not a complete fucking idiot, a round of drinks on me.”

A cheer went up. Whatever went down on the Citadel, free alcohol could smooth things over. You called a couple of servers over to help pull taps for the crowd, while you poured another double for Tailor and set up a vodka martini for Riq IV, who accepted it from you with a nod before heading to the table the other Council members had taken over.

You carried the new drink to Tailor, who was staring hard at the Council.

“Some Ricks seem a little anti-Council tonight,” you said conversationally.

“They better not get sloppy in those suits,” he groused, not taking his eyes from them, and not in the least replying to your statement.

Your gaze drifted to them again. You had to admit their new outfits were less obnoxious than the previous ones; they still declared “official” and “high-standing” but with subtlety, without the over-the-top gild and frippery that you were accustomed seeing on them. Or in the case of Riq, on your bedroom floor.

“What are they thinking, wearing those here? They could have worn burlap sacks and everyone would still know who they are! That fabric is hand woven and bloody expensive! If they fucking spill beer on it, who’s going to be the one getting the call to have it cleaned properly? Goddamn me, that’s who!”

It dawned on you that Tailor was muttering angrily to himself.

“So those are your designs?” you asked.

He shot you a look that advertised he couldn’t believe how stupid you were. “Of course they are! I’ve been after them to allow me to redesign those horrors they’d been wearing--they finally let me, and now they’re parading them around in a shit hole like this?!”

You took a second, then said, “I like them. They’re not so ugly. And it looks like the fabric is more substantial. Those other ones were pretty thin.”

“Yes they fucking were--” Tailor replied automatically, then cut himself off to appraise you with a keen eye. “How do you know the weight of the fabric from their old monstrosities?”

“Oh, you know. Just a guess,” you answered mildly, waving your hand. You knew you had a reputation among Ricks, but you weren’t sure if this particular Rick would be more disgusted than eager about it.

“You know them?” he asked sharply.

You nodded. “I’ve met a couple.”

“You’ve met a couple, and were able to feel how thin their robes were,” he said, as a statement of fact.

You shrugged and smiled, but didn’t elaborate.

Calculations were going on in Tailor’s head. You could tell. You had no idea what they may be, but you were called away again before he could say anything more. You hoped whatever it was burned him up, and he’d be more excited when you returned.

⁂

Typically with a Rick that you had your sights on, you’d flirt, you’d play up your cleavage. You’d joke and flatter; Ricks tended to eat that up. Occasionally, you’d be more up-front, but with your reputation and Ricks’ standard willingness to get down and dirty that wasn’t common. This Rick, however--

Tailor was either obtuse or a eunuch. Those were the only two explanations you could come up with for him repeatedly brushing you off. You dismissed the idea he may be gay; you supposed it could be possible but you’d never met a Rick that didn’t swing at least a little bit both ways.

So you turned on the charm. You were flattering, you were witty, you continued to ply him with doubles and made sure to lean far enough over the wooden bar to display your boobs whenever possible. He remained steadfastly annoyed with you.

The rest of the patrons seemed to loosen up regarding the Council being there--free booze helped--but Tailor continued to stare them down with laser-like intensity. The Council themselves seemed to be having a grand time laughing and swaggering. Several times Riq IV caught your eye; he raised his eyebrows and smirked at Tailor too. He also elbowed the Council members near him and made it obvious he was talking about the Rick at the bar. Each time that happened you noticed Tailor scowled and took a bigger mouthful of alcohol.

You decided to try and use whatever hatred Tailor was feeling towards them to your advantage, and once more struck up a conversation with him when work slowed down a little.

“So those new Council outfits. Tell me about them.”

He replied with only an eyeroll, to demonstrate how little he thought of your attempt to engage him.

Undeterred, you continued, “Did you have to take individual measurements, or could you just work from one of them?”

That ridiculous ice-breaker of a question made him pause and gulp for some reason. You thought maybe he didn’t hear you, or you didn’t phrase it correctly.

“I don’t know much about sewing,” you continued. “I thought that for tailored clothing all these measurements had to be taken, to get all the seams or whatever right. With Ricks, though, most of them are pretty much the same body type, so maybe it’s different? You could even just take measurements of yourself and work from it, right?”

Tailor closed his eyes for longer than a blink and his lips moved a little. You swear he was counting to ten. When he finally turned back to you, you could tell he was trying to keep his cool.

“Working from a mannequin or my own personal measurements doesn’t take into account variations of individuals. Yes, we’re all Ricks, but we’re not all the same. I’m sure you’ve been able to note the differences between the multitudes?”

It was meant to be a stinging shut down, and truthfully, it did hurt a bit. But eyes on the prize! It wasn’t enough to make you wilt.

“I have,” you admitted, leaning in close. “So you’ve had your hands on at least the Ricks that make up the Council members. Wanna go back to my place and compare notes?”

In the middle of a dismissive sip of whisky, Tailor choked. You laughed while passing him a handful of napkins, plus a glass of water; you always liked to be able to catch Ricks off their guard. You rubbed his shoulder soothingly as he caught his breath. 

The slight commotion he caused made a few other patrons, including the Council, look your way.

“You okay?”

Even though his eyes were watering, Tailor managed to pull himself together and radiate distain. He slapped your hand away, not caring he was in front of an audience.

“I-I-I’m fine,” he stuttered in a croak.

There was an aura around him now, something dark and angry and it dawned on you there was a line you weren’t aware of but crossed. You get the sense he wanted to storm away, make a scene, but with people still looking over he cleared his throat and slipped off the barstool with a grace you knew he had to fight for due to how much he drank. Once standing, he pulled at his jacket to straighten it, and tossed a handful of folded bills on the bar.

“Good day,” he told you, barely moving his lips, in a tone that inferred the opposite.

He grabbed his tumbler and stalked away.

“Huh,” you said out loud, mostly to yourself.

Apparently it was loud enough for some co-workers behind you to hear; they were twittering, and more than one of them lay a hand in mock sympathy on your shoulder. Bruce, the bouncer with a mouth as full of teeth and wide as a shark’s--you couldn’t pronounce his real name in whatever his native language was; you just nicknamed him Bruce after the mechanical shark in the movie Jaws--even came over to whisper how disappointed he was you didn’t take Tailor home. He had money riding on you that you’d succeed.

You knocked him in the shoulder. Even a light punch made your knuckles ache.

Oh well. They can’t all be winners, you consoled yourself. Licking your wounds, you continued to flirt with the increasingly drunk Ricks still seated at the Bar, but none of them were going to be good companions for the rest of the evening.

As the night wore down, the Bar started leaking patrons. Maximums Rickimus--whom you had a hard time talking to after how your evening ended with him the last time you took him and Riq home--left. Other Council members peeled off their original group to speak to other people. You caught sight of Tailor sidling up to and chatting with a Council member you only knew by name. Rick Prime. You watched him straighten the other Rick’s jacket across the shoulders and swipe his hands down the other man’s back to smooth the fabric. You didn’t miss him giving a subtle squeeze to Rick Prime’s ass, and it all became clear to you why you couldn’t close the deal with Tailor.

Growling obscenities to and at yourself, mindless that there was still a bit of time till last call, you set yourself up a gimlet and drank half of it in one go.

“Not just downing a s-shot?”

“This is classier,” you snapped at Riq, who’d made his way to the bar. “And it’s bigger than a shot, so I get two swallows out of it.”

You proved yourself right by finishing it off with one more drink.

“Much classier,” he remarked drily. “Get me-set me up another vodka martini, so you don’t have to drink alone.”

Grumbling, but quietly, you complied. You didn’t give Riq his glass until your next gimlet was prepared. When you finally passed his over, he lifted it in a silent cheers to you, and took a sip. You took another large mouthful of gin and lime, staring daggers at Tailor and Rick Prime, who seemed to be sharing a private joke at the moment. Tailor hadn’t taken his hand from Rick Prime’s lower back.

Riq’s eyes slid over to the object of your attention, and he grinned.

“Ah,” he said in what sounded like sudden understanding.

With that one syllable it suddenly struck you that Riq had watched you all evening trying your damnedest to get with Tailor! You dragged your gaze away from Tailor back to him, and you exclaimed,

“You knew all along! You knew I was wasting my time!”

Riq’s grin widened, and he agreed easily, “Yes.”

“Goddamn it!’ you pouted, but it was more towards yourself than him. He heard that.

In faux sympathy, he put his gloved hand over yours. “I’m sorry you struck out with Tailor. I would have been happy to tell you he only hooks up with other Ricks, and that he’s been itching to get Rick Prime in bed . . . but what fun would that have been?”

“Oh, you’re a prick.”

“I’ll drink to-to that. Let me buy you another, and I’ll fill you in on all the shit that hit the fan today on the Citadel.”

Whatever victory it was that put him in a chatty, generous mood, it was fine by you. Anything to take away the anger at yourself for not realizing you were barking way up the wrong tree with the British Rick known as Tailor. 

fin.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Thirty-One: On A Hill ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: A Light Amongst Shadows ] [ AO3 Link ]

It still shakes him to see this place.

Most of the destruction was lost on him in those final few minutes. He’d been a little preoccupied to take in the scenery, what with his using the last of his chakra on Kirin, not wanting to take his eyes off Itachi for a moment. Exhausted, terrified, and desperate, he’d hardly noticed the rubble until he his back had been pressed against it.

No escape.

...Sasuke’s not even sure why he’s come back. The stones are still scorched from Amaterasu’s obsidian flames, a brush of his fingers smudging soot. Almost nothing remains of the old Uchiha hideout. A piece of history lost to violence. But those are long-bygone days, now. He’s almost glad a testament to what was before is gone. While he grieves his clan, and their oppression...so too does Sasuke know they weren’t always blameless. They were ruthless during the Sengoku Jidai. They had to be, under Madara’s banner.

And even now, the scraps of them left have to be tough. But not in ways that require grand fortresses atop mountains.

Ironically enough, it’s raining. Lightly, just barely a misting...but he can’t help but find it...fitting. He doesn’t even bother with the hood of his traveling cloak as they breach the top of the hill.

“It’s still unbelievable...what you two did here.”

A dark eye glances to his right, where his companion stands. Her own kekkei genkai is active, looking over the ruins quietly. “This place must have been huge...and to end up like this…”

“...Itachi and I are both peerless shinobi. Even then, we were both forces to be reckoned with.” Of course, the purple, rippled iris he keeps hidden beneath his hitai ate now means he’s grown even more powerful since then. Destruction of this scale is hardly unheard of for him now. Just look what he and Naruto wrought a few months later upon Shūmatsu no Tani. Granted...both that battle and the one here were fought with the highest of stakes. But that doesn’t mean he’s not still as capable.

Hinata lets her eyes rest. “...does he know you were coming back here today?”

“No. No point.”

“Why...are we here…?”

In truth, he’s not sure. He just felt compelled to revisit it. “...closure, maybe. Guilt. I don’t know. Just felt right to come back.”

She doesn't offer a reply - there’s no need. Sometimes a person doesn’t need a reason. Just a feeling. Wordlessly, she makes her way forward, Sasuke following.

“...you said still. Still unbelievable. Have you seen this before, Hinata?”

“I have. Did I never tell you?” There’s a curious glance to her new husband. “I was part of the retrieval team that went looking for you just as you and Itachi-san began your fight. My team went along as trackers.I went with Naruto-kun and Yamato-san, and one of Kakashi-sensei’s ninken. Later we all met up here, but...you and Itachi’s body were already gone. Obito had taken you…” Her gaze turns somber, turning back ahead. “...Naruto-kun was so upset...he’d thought you killing Orochimaru would mean coming home. And when that failed te be true, then surely, after Itachi was dead...but then Akatsuki got ahold of you.”

“...and I learned the truth about my clan’s massacre.”

“From a rather jilted source.”

Sasuke doesn’t stop a humorless snort. “...you’re right...but it didn’t make it any less true. Just...weaponized. Manipulating. I still would have reacted the same had anyone else told me. I just happened to ally with the wrong person because of it.”

It’s then they end up at the threshold of what was once the floor. Nearly all of the walls have been blown apart. One can only tell due to the smoothing of the stone compared to the outside. “What...was this place, exactly?”

“All I know is that it was once a clan hideout. Pretty sure from before the formation of the hidden villages. It was huge...even had a throne.” Another snort. “I’d bet my life savings Madara was the only one to ever use it...clan head or not, he had the ego for it.”

Hinata’s lips give a small twitch.

“...well I’ll be damned.”

Speaking of, said throne sits - majorly chipped - at the rear of the ruins. A large portion of the back is missing, only part of the mural behind it still standing. “...guess it wasn’t directly impacted. Makes sense...it was inside.” Sasuke nods to it. “...that’s where Itachi was sitting when I walked in.”

“...he really did go all out…”

Flashes of his brother’s behavior flicker through Sasuke’s mind. “...he kept up the charade until the very end. I thought he’d just lost it right before he died, saying what he said...doing what he did. I wasn’t...exactly in the best frame of mind at that point, either.”

Hinata can’t help a sympathetic glance. “...no, I’d imagine not…”

It’s then Sasuke decides to just...elaborate about what happened that day. He points to where each stage of the battle took place, vaguely narrating from what he can recall. It’s been over five years, now...and yet being here makes it feel just like yesterday. And all the while, Hinata listens quietly, delving into a piece of her beloved’s past he’s avoided up until now. The recollection, she knows, can’t be easy. Itachi’s truth had to have made it hard enough...but having his brother returned to him must make living with those choices - not to mention all those years - more than difficult.

“...here.”

They come to a stop, having moved through the rubble as he spoke. Before them, a huge hunk of stone with an inlaid Uchiha crest lies, turned to one side. “...he pinned me here. I remember my back hitting the wall, looking up, seeing the crest...it really hit me that I was going to die. And then he just…”

Waiting for a moment, Hinata looks over as Sasuke’s silence stretches. “...he spared you.”

“...it was all a farce. To convince me I’d outlasted him. Killed him. All while letting himself finally succumb to illness...he freed me from my curse seal. Set everything up so that I could walk away with a clear conscience. My revenge. My body. And then Obito subverted all his work.”

“...would you have gone back to Konoha then? If Obito hadn’t found you?”

“...I don't know. It had been my plan to go back eventually. But I don’t know if I would have felt satisfied at that point. I might have needed time first. But...it doesn’t really matter. I’ll never know. And as...convoluted as my path ended up...I think it was for the best. It led to my brother’s revival. I don’t know if he could have been if things hadn’t gone the way they did. My life isn’t perfect...and there’s no taking away what I suffered. But...I’m on a better path. I have a better future ahead of me now. I have a few pieces of my family back, and a few new ones…” Sasuke turns to her, lips lifting in just a hint of a smile. “...including you.”

Hinata softens. “...you’re right. No more what-ifs. Just what-will-bes. And we’ll face them all together.”

“...I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As though hearing their words, a few dapples of sunlight manage to filter through the clouds.

“...should we head back?”

“We should. I’m sure everyone’s wondering where we went.”

“...will we tell them?”

“We might as well. I think I’m done letting this hang over me. Over us. Time to move forward.”

“I agree.” Taking Sasuke’s hand, Hinata gently tugs him back toward the main staircase, giving the view from on the hill one last glance before they make their way down.

Behind them, the sunrays glitter over the Uchiha crest before growing, bathing the ruins in a new light.

     AHHH!!! A whole month down, omggg! I'm so psyched guys - this month has just...FLOWN by! Technically I'm posting this after midnight, so a little late (like...most entries are), BUT! I didn't miss a SINGLE DAY! Let's see if I can keep it up for the rest of the year, ahaha!      ANYWAY, this prompt threw me a little bit. I almost went with something FAR angstier, but...I figured this was somber enough. Poor Sasuke...coming back here isn't easy. But I think he feels a lot better for having done so. Especially since he didn't have to go alone.      But yes, on that note, I really need to call it a night here pretty soon - but as always, thank you SO much for reading! One month down...eleven to go!

[elaianna]

Block Captain

One Week Ago

The passage of time was a certainty in the dismal, dim, halls that ran like a labyrinth through the network of dungeon blocks. No Sun, no Moon, hours could pass like minutes, minutes could pass as days and no man nor woman could tell a difference, merely that time continued to move on without them. Few sounds passed through the sealed corridors once a prisoner had been broken. In their first days, their days with fight left in their bodies a man could be heard screaming, threatening, for hours on end. Like all others this soon faded with their will until all that remained was the quiet murmurings of guards, their jeers toward some prisoners over others, and the rattle of chains over the ill coughs of prisoners.

As a marching jostle of plated boots and swaying chain jingled down the center corridor with a growing reverberation it heralded a newcomer to the block. The grinding of rusted bars thrummed as they forcibly were drawn open with a screeching scrape of metal on metal. After a hearty 'thump' the welcomed arrival of a new tenant to cell C-3 became known to all others around.

Steps reaching closer, away from the cell, the soles of leather boots and and plate brushing against itself brought a guard closer to cell C-1. A harsh rap of his club smacked to one of the bars of the cage, Anna's cage, before his commanding voice barked,

"Up and at 'em! Block Captain's comin' in for ya."

Elaianna's head jerked upright, having been caught in that lucid spot between sleep and consciousness where not everything seemed real but she was vividly aware of the gnashing hunger in her stomach.  It took a few moments for her to register the words spoken at her.  

Comin' in for ya.

Was it time then? For trial? Or for justice without seeing the rigged jury?

Chains scraped against the floor as she pulled herself up to her feet.

The room seemed to change to suit the approach of the block captain. Additional torches were brought in so that the area now felt fully lit for the first time in years, revealing it to be more than what could seem like a single room but a two-storied jailhouse unit. Guards fell quiet, their murmurings being replaced with hard snaps to attention in the wake of a slow thud of boots. Finally, as the growing sound of steps drew closer a short stool was brought forward a foot from the bars of Elaianna's cell.

Coming in to the light was a man far removed from thought to be in such a position, even less to command silence and a presence of both fear and respect. With fellow prisoner's silhouettes dotting every third cell at most, all eyes cast to the man stepping into the light, then sitting calmly facing Anna. Pale, scrawny, the man looked more at place being a librarian or perhaps with a desk job than the position he filled. Sporting a pair of glasses with one lens chipped at the top and a spiderweb of cracks running down, the man stared forward to Elaianna with his hands cupping either knee.

"Good morning, Miss Stalsworth." The man spoke in a bright, almost eerily brimming voice.

"I would like to ask you a few questions if you can be troubled, the depth of your answers will alter your stay and the welfare of those close to you. I would like you to ask honestly, and fully, is that clear?"

Licking her lips to try and moisten her mouth, there was only one response to the spindly man she saw before her. "Missus," she corrected him, voice hoarse, but defiant. They could do a great many things to her in here but they couldn't take that away from her.

With a cock of his head the thinning block captain smiled. Awkwardly, sweetly, almost smiling on at Anna like she was an old friend to whom he could admire. Turning his gaze upward to one of the guards at his side he continued that sickly smile before stating coolly,

"See to it 'Missus'-" He turned back to Anna giving her a soft nod. "Stalsworth now will go three days between food and water if you'd please."

Perhaps they couldn't take her stubborn nature from her, but at the very least they could punish it until she knew better.

"Now then, Missus Stalsworth," He continued to articulate for her. "I need names, and locations of your husband, and all leading faculty of your company as well as House. I would like to of course preface things with they are in no danger, and no harm is intended upon them, we merely wish to extend invitation properly so that they may appear before court for your trial."

As if on cue, the hungering pit of her stomach growled audibly. 'What was another day when you're already starving?' she reasoned with herself, trying to give herself some inner fortitude to accept the punishment. At least he did acknowledge her married name now. Small victories.

Brows knit together, and Elaianna's face scrunched up. Days without make up and in the lighting that was only now afforded her cell, one could see that the woman had a light splattering of freckles no longer hidden beneath the powder of make up.

"You have them in custody, don't you?"

"Well, I don't-"

With his hands opening a moment beneath his shrug, the man quickly fell back to clasping his knees.

"It's very possible some other individual has but I am just a captain, see this here?"

The man reached upward holding a hand out and waving it repeatedly before a clipboard was placed in to it by an adjacent guard.

"This is a clipboard. I'm supposed to read the questions, mark down what you say, then relay that just like everyone else. So maybe some is outdated, maybe some isn't- I am here to ask, you are to answer. Now, if they have been arrested, it has surely been for some offense like...some of the others in your company..." He began squinting, flipping over the first page of his clipboard to scan the long list of new arrivals. "But let's assume they haven't, so- names and locations, please."

Did she dare to hope she was lied to? That he didn't have her children? Her family? ...Or was it just a ploy to do that, to get her hopes up only for them to take joy in shattering her. Paranoia had always been present for the Lady, but now more so than ever.

"I've been locked up for what? Weeks?" How long had it been? She couldn't tell anymore. "How would I know where they're at by now?"

The man stared on in silence again. A quill in hand he made a show of continuing to stare at her as the tip scratched across the surface of his clipboard, striking away the top line.

"How very disappointing. I was hoping you'd be more keen on speaking up on your own behalf- question two then...please give a through accounting of your occupation of Stormhollow. You came with the initial-" He pauses to squint at the page, trying to make out the questions he was told to ask before huffing.

"Your family was loyal, you broke that, held the land illegally- blah blah, elaborate why, please."

"I inherited the land. I held it legally. This entire thing is an illegal farce," she rasped, the last syllable hissing from her lips. She swallowed once, trying not to wince as it felt like she was swallowing shards of glass from how parched she was.

"My actions came from your Lord demanding slaves of his people, like some savage."

"I...don't care."  The man spoke briskly, his hands waving with the clipboard still in grasp in a light swirling motion. 

"Clipboard. I just read the questions, I've had plenty of traitors rustle their chains at me about 'this is all a misunderstanding' and 'I'm innocent, do you know who I am'." He mocked in a higher pitch tone that minced each word.

"I'll just mark it down as you did not care to do as asked, sound good?" His brows rose, lips pulling back in a tight withdrawal. "Good." After a moment of scribbling, the man mouthing each word as he wrote just as he'd stated to her, his eyes rose again to meet her.

"How about assets? Care to tell us what assets you formerly possessed, Missus Stalsworth?"

"Irrelevant," she answered, staring in defiance. She didn't formerly possess anything.

With a heavy sigh the man turned his head upwards to the guard beside him yet again.

"Please see to it Missus Stalsworth receives half her current rations for the month, remaining with the current schedule." Turning to her with a blank face, lips curled in again and brows raised expectantly he gestures his hand to her to give her the floor to speak.

"Would you like to amend, your answer, Missus Stalsworth?"

"My amended answer is that should you wish me to speak, then it will be through my lawyer."

With the soft clicking sound of his tongue thumping in a deliberate manner off the roof of his mouth the block captain stared onward. Jaw stilling, eyes blinking in a slow, measured pace he began to shift in his seat, one cheek then the other until he wiggled in to comfort.

"Well then I don't see anything else needed here, I'll hand this information off to the judge and we'll see if we can't get you sentenced sooner rather than later then, aye?" With a pleasant grin he leaned forward, the stool being pulled away as he took to his feet again. "You have yourself a lovely day now." He'd point forward in a short movement.

"Oh but uhm, one final question then just for you- how would you rate your accommodations thus far?" Stepping back toward the center of the room, the captain cast his gaze upward and began scanning the room of torches that were now being dimmed. "I'm thinking about painting...new decorations maybe, make it feel more homely you know?"

"Perhaps your head on a spike," came the sour remark. "I think that'd make a lovely embellishment for down here."

@atc-wra @eidrich-crone @thomasstalsworth @gloryofsteel

[weelittleweasley]

What Are You Doing Here? | Sweet Pea x Reader

Prompt: After your parents divorce, you moved to Chicago, separated from your father and your brother, Archie. Not to mention, you had to leave your boyfriend, Sweet Pea behind. But when you come back to Riverdale, things change.

Request status: Closed!

Warnings: Profanity

Mary clung onto her daughter tight, wishing she didn’t have to let her baby girl go so soon. She was growing up too fast to let her go just yet. You laughed in hopes it would cover up your tears as you hugged your mother goodbye at the airport. “Mom, it’s okay. I’m gonna be with Dad. I promise I’ll visit as much as I can and you know that you can always come to visit me. Archie misses you a lot,” you hold onto her arms as she wipes away her tears. Your parents had separated and then had gone through divorce. Throughout it all, you had lived with your mother in Chicago while your brother, Archie, stayed back home with your father, Fred. It’s been a year since the divorce and you wished nothing more than to go home and graduate with your friends like you had originally planned on doing. Your mother was not fond of the idea--she wanted you to stay in Chicago with her like she had planned. But she knew how your heart longed for Riverdale, so eventually she gave in to your pleads and booked you a one way flight back home. 

Exhaling a shaky breath, Mary spoke, “You better call me everyday. I wanna hear how my baby girl is doing back home.” You nod your head as she plants kiss on your cheek. “You tell me when you are off the plane and then you tell me when you are home with your father and Archie. I don’t want to worry.”

You smile and squeeze her hands reassuringly. “I promise,” you tell her as she smiles back. Your flight is then announced for boarding as you hug your mother close once more before parting. “I love you, Mom. I’ll see you soon.”

Holding you in her arms, your mother makes sure she hugs you tight, not wanting to let go, knowing she must. “I love you, too. I’ll see you so soon. Give your brother a big hug for me.” Grabbing your backpack and suitcase, you head towards the gate, handing the attendant your boarding pass. You wave one last time, blowing your mom a kiss. “All my love!” she calls as you disappear into the plane. 

On the plane ride home, you listened to music, staring out of the window thinking about how excited you were to go back home. Archie and your dad would be waiting for you alongside Betty and her family. Just the thought of being reunited with your friends and family made your heart skip a beat. You, of course, talked to your dad and Archie all the time over the phone or through video chat and you would come to Riverdale maybe once a year for a weekend getaway. But now you were coming home and staying. A thought all too exciting. 

There was only one thing that made you hesitant about moving back and that was your previous relationship. Before you had moved to Chicago, you were in a long term relationship. It was frowned upon by Archie--him not being too content with the fact that you were dating a South Sider, a Serpent nonetheless. But you continued to date Sweet Pea, despite Archie’s discontent. You were crazy for Sweets, completely in love. But you had to move away to Chicago with your mom and there was no way a long distance relationship was going to work out between you two. The two of you couldn’t go two days without calling each other, begging the other to come home and come over. How would you two be able to survive? The memory of telling him you were leaving haunted you.

Knocking on his trailer door, you feel the pit in your stomach grow out of sheer anxiety. Biting your lip hard, you tried to suppress the tears. You were already a mess and you haven’t said one word to him. Sweets opened up the door, a smile on his face when he saw it was you. He kissed you softly as you took the time to relish in the kiss. This would be one of the last times you would be able to kiss those lips. “I didn’t know you were coming over, princess.”

Nervously brushing your hair out of your face, you speak, “Yeah, I have to talk to you, Pea. It’s important.” Pea’s heart starts to race as you lead him to the couch to sit. “I told you my parents are divorcing,” you hold his hands in yours. He shakes his head, asking you to elaborate. “Well, my parents have joint custody of me and Archie...” you start as Pea inhales, knowing where this is gonna go. “So, both of my parents decided where each of us is going to live and since Archie helps my dad out with his business...”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Pea abruptly says as the tears start to pool in your eyes.

You whisper, “I’m moving to Chicago.” Sweet Pea looks away from you, unable to watch how heartbroken you looked. “I didn’t want this to happen, Pea. Trust me, I don’t make the decisions. The lawyers and my parents do.” Sweets stands up from the couch, walking around the living room, resting his hands on his head, taking deep breaths. “I’m so sorry.”

Sweets shakes his head, “And you couldn’t even at least try to fight for us? Try to tell them you wanted to stay?”

You become offended by his words. He was so quick to assume. “You didn’t think I fought with my parents for weeks on the situation? I did everything I could possibly do!”

“Not everything, apparently,” he sighs as you scoff. There is a pause before he speaks, “You knew that you were moving for a few weeks? And you didn’t tell me?” You look away, knowing that you were wrong for doing that. You shouldn’t have waited until a week before you left to tell him. “I could have helped you fight for us!”

Tears welling up more, you say, “Do you really think my family, especially my brother, let my Serpent boyfriend dictate my life?” 

Pea widens his eyes, “You really care so much about Archie? Fuck Archie! This isn’t about Archie, it’s about us! It’s about how we can overcome these obstacles! That’s what couples do!” You wipe away your tears. “But apparently you don’t give a shit about us that you are willing to throw what we’ve build for a whole year go away.”

“You damn well that is not true!” you yell at him, getting choked up. “I’m currently not speaking with Archie because I was fighting with him for weeks about how I should stay and he should go! But everything I do never seems to be enough.” Pea rolls his eyes, flopping down on a chair. “I don’t want what we’ve built to end. I love you and I want to be with you.”

He sighs, “You should have thought about that before you bought your ticket to leave for Chicago.” Your heart breaks and your bottom lip trembles at this words. “When do you leave?”

You don’t answer him. You sit in silence before he repeats the question, this time much more demanding. “Next Wednesday.”

“And you didn’t think you’d tell me until when?” he gets angry. “You thought you were just going leave me without any warning?”

Huffing, you start, “I was not. I was going to tell you. The reason I didn’t is because I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want to end on a bad note!”

Sweets laughs, “Well, look at where we are now,” he gestures between you two as you bite your lip. You couldn’t believe he was acting out like this. “You are so selfish,” he shakes his head.

Widening your eyes, you speak, “I’m selfish? Let’s not forget that before we dated you didn’t want to be with me because you wanted to ‘keep your options open.’” Sweets remains silent. “It was only when you saw me flirting with other guys when you wanted to have me all to yourself.” Sweets scoffs. “Oh, don’t give me that shit!” You take a deep breath before speaking, “If you really loved me, we would try to make this work. We would try to figure out how we are going to make us work.”

“I don’t think we can,” Pea stated. You widen your eyes and your heart shatters. “We can’t do long distance--don’t kid yourself.” Looking away from him, you pace the living room floor. “Y/N, you know we can’t be together anymore.” You look at him, searching his face for something. Anything. “I don’t want to let you go,” he speaks. “But I have to.” Letting a small sob escape your lips, covering your mouth immediately. “We have to be realistic for once, Y/N. We can’t let a farce go on.”

You turn away from him, closing your eyes as tears flow freely. You feel his arms embrace you as you give into his touch. “I’m sorry, Pea.”

He hushes you, “I’m sorry I lashed out. I know you tried, baby. I know you did.” You sob into his chest as he lets a few tears fall from his eyes. But he knew he had to be strong for you. “I love you. Forever and always.”

“I love you. Forever and always,” you say before he leans down to kiss you lips, urgently. You wrap your arms around him as he pulls you close, not wanting to let go. That night, you spent you last night with Sweets in his bed, his arms wrapped around your naked body as you cuddled into him. 

You knew that coming back to Riverdale was just going to resurface those memories, but you would do your best to suppress them like you did before.

You took a taxi from the airport to your house, tipping the driver before you ran to the front door, suitcase and bags in hand. Ringing the doorbell about five times, too impatient for your father or Archie to open it. You bust in the house, seeing Archie and your dad in the kitchen and living room respectively. “Honey, I’m home!” you tease as Archie runs to you, scooping you up in his arms as you giggle. 

Archie laughs, “I’m so happy you’re home!”

“Me, too,” you say before running into Fred’s arms. “Daddy!”

Your father laughs as you hold him tight. “Oh, honey, I’ve missed you,” he kisses your forehead. “How was the flight? Did you text your mother? You know she’s gonna be worried sick about you.”

Laughing, you speak, “Long and I did. She’s glad I’m safe.” You smile, squeeze your dad’s hand. “It feels so good to be home,” you breathe in.

“It’s good to have you home,” your dad kisses your cheek. “Arch, bring your sister’s things to her room.” Archie grabs your bags, bringing them to your old room. “Your room hasn’t changed since you left it. I didn’t wanna touch anything.” Your father was always too upset to go into your room. It would just make him sad to know you were gone. “Now, go unpack. I’m sure you have some catching up with friends to do.”

The rest of the day and the following few days, you spent them surrounded by your old friends, catching up. Being home was so nice and made your heart so full. Your friends had not changed--Betty was still dating Jughead, although now Betty had an older brother. Veronica and Archie were still PDA monkeys. But that’s the way you wanted it to be. Normal. But normal was unusual in Riverdale. As you sat on your bed with Betty, painting your finger nails, she asks, “So, does Sweet Pea know your back in town?”

The mention of his name makes your heart stop. “I haven’t talked to him or made any contact with any of his friends besides Jug since I’ve been here,” you inform her. “I don’t plan on making contact with him anytime soon.”

Betty sighs, “Oh, don’t be irrational, Y/N. I know break ups suck, but you’re hanging onto the past. You’re gonna have to face him. South Side and Riverdale High are one school now.” You widen your eyes. A lot has changed since you’ve been gone. “It’s time to talk to him. I bet he wants to hear from you.”

You shake your head, “It’s too soon, Betts. I’ll do it later.”

Meanwhile, at the Wyrm, Jughead sat at the bar, Toni behind it, manning the bar. Sweet Pea sat next to him, talking to Jughead. “Where’s Betty? I thought you were supposed to be with her tonight,” he speaks before sipping from his beer.

Jughead shrugs, “No, she wanted to spend time with Y/N tonight.” Sweet Pea almost spits his beer out in shock, asking him to repeat what he just said. “Betty is hanging out with Y/N at her house. Why?” Toni smacks Jughead’s arm. It then became apparent to the boy that Sweet Pea was unaware of your arrival. “Oh.”

“She’s home?” Sweet Pea asks, looking between Toni and Jughead as both of them remain silent. “Since when?” Jughead replies a weak since Tuesday. “And you didn’t bother to tell me?”

Jughead looks at Toni before she speaks, “We didn’t want to make you upset. We figured you would find out soon enough.” Sweet Pea rubs his temples, not being able to comprehend all of the information that was given to him in such a short amount of time. “Are you gonna talk to her?” 

Sweets shakes his head, “I don’t know if she wants to talk to me. Not after what happened.” Sweet Pea takes a final swig of his beer. “I’m gonna need a lot more of these,” he sighs before popped open a new one.

Back at your house, you eat some reheated pizza with Betty and Archie in the kitchen, chatting. Your father enters the room, stealing a piece of pizza. “Betty, you sleeping over?” Fred asks. Betty shakes her head with a smile as you rest your head on her shoulder. “Guess I’ll have to bust out the pancake batter tomorrow.”

The four of you laugh as the doorbell rings at your front door. “I’ll get it,” you run to the front door, leaving your slice of pizza behind. “Archie, you so much as look at my piece of pizza, I’ll kill you,” you tease as you open up the door a gasp coming out of your mouth. “Sweets, what are you doing here?”

Sweet Pea stands at your front door, smelling faintly of alcohol as you groan. He was intoxicated. That’s why he was here. “What am I doing here?” he laughs. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Chicago!” he holds out the ‘o’ in Chicago like a sing song. “But you’re back in Riverdale and you don’t even tell me,” he grasps his chest as if to act hurt before he chuckles. 

You look into the kitchen, hoping that your family or Betty wasn’t looking at what was going on in the next room. You hush him, “Keep it down!” Sweets laughs, biting his lip as he looks you up and down. “I didn’t think it was vital to let my ex-boyfriend know I was back in town.”

He shakes his head, “Are you seeing someone?”

“Y/N,” Archie calls as you hear his footsteps approaching. “Who is at the-why are you here?”

Groaning, you rub your temples. “This can’t be happening.”

To make matters worse, your father walks in behind Archie as Sweet Pea smiles bright. “Mr. Andrews! It’s been awhile. How have ya been? Archie, still the same grumpy troll you are,” Sweets chuckles as Archie tightens his fist. “I came over to see Y/N because a little birdie told me she was back in town!”

Archie steps forward, “If my sister wanted you to know she was back, she would have called you.” 

You push Archie’s chest back, “Arch, don’t start please. Not now. Not here.” He relaxes as your father looks at you, asking You got this? You nod your head as he escorts Archie back to the kitchen.

“What crawled into his pants?” Sweets asks loudly as you hush him, exiting your house, closing the door behind you. “Sorry,” he whispers as you fold your arms in front of you.

Sighing, you start, “Pea, I didn’t tell you I was coming home because I figure’d you didn’t want to know.” His eyes soften as he reaches out for your hand, but you quickly pull away. “We broke up for a reason. I thought that you would have moved on by now,” you confess.

He takes a step closer to you as your heart rate beats faster. Your eyes dart between his eyes and his lips, you desperately wanting to kiss him in that moment. It takes everything for you to hold back. “Y/N,” he sighs. “I promised to love you forever and always. I meant that.” Your heart flutter at his words and a blush creeps up onto your cheeks. 

“God, Pea, why do always do this to me?” you laugh, looking away from him.

But his hand reaches up to turn your attention back to you. “Do what?” he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You gulp, “You make me remember all of the reasons I fell in love with you.”

He smiles at your words as you lightly laugh. “I’m glad you remember,” he speaks. “But now,” he straightens himself out. “I’m not gonna leave until you agree to go on a date with me.”

You knew he was being excessive now as you roll your eyes, “Goodnight, Sweets.” Opening the door back up, you try to enter your home, but he stops you.

“I will actually stay here the whole night!” Sweets speaks. “Betty!” he sees Betty from the kitchen. “Betty, tell Y/N that I will actually stay here the whole night if she doesn’t go out on a date with me.”

Betty looks at you and then at Sweet Pea. “He will.”

Sweets looks at you now, a smirk on his face as you narrow your eyes on him. “I’m waiting, princess.”

With a groan, you say, “You pick me up tomorrow, sober, at seven.” Sweets smiles brightly. “Now, call Jug for a ride and go home.”

“No kiss goodnight?” he asks.

“Don’t push it,” Archie speaks for you from the kitchen.

You close the door, waving goodnight to Sweet Pea before turning to your family in the kitchen. Sending them a nervous smile, you say, “Where were we?”

[tessatechaitea]

Batman #50

Why is this an anniversary issue? Does DC not know how years work? Or weddings?

Fact: Snickers' vampires grow their canine teeth in the wrong place. No wait. The fact is the artist of this piece is a dolt.

The story begins with Kite Man getting the crap kicked out of him by Batman and Catwoman because Tom King's hard on for Kite Man is legendary. It's so big and thick and veiny! I wonder what part of Kite Man Tom King likes best? Is it the kite part? Or the man part? Batman and Catwoman decide to get married on the blood spot where Kite Man was defeated at the break of day. Because that's when bats and cats are most horny. It might also be the place least likely to have a Joker ruin it. "Isn't it 'the' Joker, Grunion Guy?" you probably aren't now asking. But if you were, I might have to remind you that there are three Jokers in the DC Universe. Nobody has really elaborated on that too much. Maybe nobody was ever meant to. Perhaps it's just an easy way for DC editors to answer huge nerd critics of their comics. Huge Nerd Critic: "How come the Joker wasn't act...." DC Editor: "THERE ARE THREE OF THEM! CHRIST YOU NERDS ARE GETTING ON MY LAST TIT!" Batman finds a judge for the marriage ceremony. His name is Wolfman and he's known as the Raping Judge. Not because he's into rape! That's a terrible thought and nobody should think it. It's because he's named after Marv Wolfman who is totally into rape. Catwoman's witness for the marriage (her and Batman each get to bring one) is Holly Robinson. Not the Holly Robinson of 21 Jumpstreet fame (is she still famous for that? Or is she famous for marrying Barry Sanders?!) but the one that murdered all of those people who Catwoman was blamed for murdering. She has to break her out of Arkham for the experience. Batman should be totally cool with that and definitely won't be thinking, "What the hell?! How many times do I have to tell her, 'No crime! Bad kitty! You're going to be punished for sure!'" Then he'll think about her whip and smirk a bit and think, "Oh yeah. I see why she keeps doing crime now." If you read that last paragraph and began developing a hot take on what I'm not saying around the words I am saying, just stop now. I'm just reporting what Batman was probably thinking. I'm not agreeing with his need to control Catwoman's thoughts and actions! That's all Bruce Wayne, baby! The issue is made up of a lot of pin-ups by various artists. Laid out over the pin-ups are Batman and Catwoman's words. They're probably their vows but since I'm not done reading, that's just a guess. Anyway, the layout, where everything is kind of a mirror of the opposite page, is pure Tom King which probably pissed off all the Tom King haters. "He's just repeating everything in that way that means nothing except he's trying to be smarter than us! Why the fuck does he have to use form?! And tones?! And theme!? What's wrong with Batman punching stuff for eight pages straight?! So obnoxious!" I began this review with the joke that the wedding obviously won't work out. This is comic books. Everybody read that initial paragraph and rolled their eyes and thought, "Yeah. We know this is a huge farce. It's going to end in disaster." But how many of you thought, "Grunion Guy probably really means what he's writing here. The big fag." First off, such language! Come on, imaginary reader. Be better! Second, I did mean it. I do mean it. I really hope that Tom King surprises us and he allows Batman and Catwoman to be happily married. Why not for as long as he's writing this book? Why can't they have part of their middle story be one where they get the joy of being together? Who is that going to harm?! So now you know my secret. No, not that I'm a big fag! Sheesh. You people are terrible. I mean, yeah, that's my secret! But I wouldn't word it that way, you gross jerks. Selina and Bruce have their big wedding kiss in the exact middle of the book which can't be a good sign for how it's going to end. I mean, they haven't had the wedding yet! They just get all dressed up and then meet, right in the middle, right there on the staples (okay, not exactly because the staples come the page before. But I blame an error in the layout of the advertisements. I see what you were trying to do, Tom King. I got you!). The big loving embrace. The big kiss in their wedding finery. The moment they knew was coming. And hopefully not the last moment they were happy. Don't you dare, Tom King, with your shitty mirror image story telling that everybody hates (I mean, not me! Just the dumb critics!), do that mirror thing with this story. Don't you begin hopeful, get to a middle that's the peak of happiness, and then descend into chaos, despair, and destruction! DON'T YOU FUCKING DO IT, TOM KING!

This is the page immediately after the big kiss (and the pin-ups, of course! Every two page spread of story is followed by two pages of pin-ups and wedding vows). Things are already tumbling down the story's climactic peak!

Of course Alfred is Batman's witness. Even Alfred knew it would be him but he was too polite to assume so he still gets emotional when Bruce asks him. Or, rather, casually tells him like it's no big deal. On the subject of the pin-ups: they tell the story of Batman and Catwoman across DC's history. It even feels like, in many cases, they use artists chronologically along the way (there are obvious places where this doesn't hold up. But it, mostly, feels fairly close to the mark). They even eventually get to the New 52 on the roof sex scene, and the recent double date with Clark and Lois. It's really quite sweet. The wedding vows have a lot to do with one partner's thoughts on the other partner's eyes. It's romantic but not in that way that makes me think, "Oh boy! At the end of these vows, they're going to declare their undying love for each other!" The tone feels more like they'll cause me to exclaim, "Oh no! It sounds like they're both reaching the conclusion that maybe they shouldn't get married! But they'll still probably keep up the tradition of fucking on rooftops!" Also, I'm nearing the end and not a single whiff of Batcow. As Selina and Holly head to the wedding, Selina mentions that she's currently writing Batman a letter. So that's what the "vows" have been. Her letter. And Batman's letter to her (I'm assuming on the next page which I have yet to read, he'll confess to Alfred that he's also been working on a letter!). Both of which, as I mentioned in the previous paragraph, seem to be heading to the conclusion that neither one will want to go through with the marriage because they feel it will go against, and possibly change, the very nature of the other person. So. You know. Shit. And so, Selina declares, in her letter, that she can't marry Batman because it will kill him. And Bruce declares in his letter, that maybe he can become somebody happy. Maybe he can change. Which isn't exactly what I expected. I thought they would both agree. So, at least, Tom King surprised me on that level. And, apparently, that was the point since Holly goes back to Arkham to discover Bane and a bunch of other people who have been highlighted in Tom King's run (along with Poorly Shaved Batman. I don't remember if that's somebody or if that's Batman and this is all a hallucination of some kind or maybe Tom King is speaking through Bane or maybe...well, I don't know!). Bane says, "The Bat is broken," (which is a terrific pun that somebody once thought up and now Batman writers can't stop using!). Rating:: I guess giving Batman hope that he can be happy and then taking it away is supposed to break Batman? But isn't the whole point that Batman's unhappiness and grim misery and obsession over justice are the only things keeping him Batman? Won't this devastating loss just make him even more Batmanier?! Or do the members of Batman's rogue's gallery all believe he's going to become a pouting emo baby for the next few months? A total pushover which they can take advantage of?! Anyway, it was a good story well told. The only flaw was that the staples were off by one page. Stupid layout editor! Somebody should fire whoever's job it was to place the ads!