#I also have a full length version with every time she gets cooked

[withleeknow]

all I've done for the last 24 hours is hyperventilate bc everyone decided to post their album previews (you truly are my solace bc I need to get this off my chest + this ask is solely just brainrot) . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖

my entire tl last night was this jay - THE CAPTIONS: tinyurl.com/yc4wdkp6 + tinyurl.com/2445p6jf I didn't realise I could be even more enamoured by this man but there we are. i'm srs, this moment is a repeat of 230107 gda lee know + will be my hyperfixation for july 🙃

also to fuel your heeseung rotation: tinyurl.com/2wn37njd ♡

my stomach did multiple flips watching skz's unveil today - THEIR VOICES! THE REFERENCES! MIMO CENTER LOOKING LIKE A GREEK GOD! *🍙 hc - wrapping your fingers around and tugging on that necktie to beckon him forwards until he's entirely flush so ofc his hands and arms naturally find their place around you /cutscene/ - goodbye <3*

tldr; RIP microwave 05/07/24, you'll be missed.

P.S. speaking of ldn, will report back if I make the trek for skz next sunday 👀 no I don't have a ticket yes we might just vibe out of designated areas w/ a picnic and megaverse/topline as ambience

1 2 dear god what the hell is that?! i started out looking at heeseung and i never would've expected to slowly slide down a jay rabbit hole but alas, here we are. mainly bc of you too 😭 crazy how he looks so good in a simple ass white t-shirt 😭🔫 ngl you're like my sole source for enha updates now lmao i never would've known about anything they're putting out if not for you lol

hee.............. looks like a lil gummy worm i want to chomp

why would you send me that hc jesus why would you sit down and type that and send it to ME 😭 i didn't let myself mull over that mimo too much bc i cannot afford to get more Ideas™️ but i have not stopped thinking about the hc. if i come back having written a little something something know that it would entirely your fault :)

yeah microwaves just aren't gonna cut it anymore. when they first revealed the album name, i was telling my friends lol it would be kinda funny if the album is called ate and they don't eat. but they do. they're eating this shit up. they ate with every single thing that's come out since and i feel like i'm losing my mind over here.

also, look at himmm 🥹 looks like he's in the studio cooking up something already :((( i can't wait for more jin music especially if it's a full length version of super tuna

ahhh bst hyde park is already next week damn. i hope you'll still have a nice time if you do decide to go! having a picnic while listening to hyunjin's Ne SoNiM~ growl somewhere in the background isn't a bad way to spend the weekend lol. and i cannot believe skz is gonna meet one of my favorite artists (maisie peters) when she opens for them :(( she opened for coldplay at my show and i fell even more in love with her and now skz is gonna meet her and i'll be able to say they'll indirect meet me as well lmfao

[nanowrimo]

5 Tips for Fast Drafting from a New York Times Bestselling Author

NaNoWriMo is basically an exercise in fast drafting: getting as much of the first draft of the story as you can on the page as quickly as possible. Today, bestselling author J. Elle is here to share some pro tips for fast drafting: My first middle grade novel took me nine days to write. 

The first draft was about 40,000 words or so. And yes, it needed to be revised before it sold to a publisher. But the meat of the story was on the page in just over a week’s time. I’d never drafted anything quite that fast before. Within a single month I’d written an entire novel, revised it a couple times and readied it for sale. A few months later that novel sold at auction and will be on shelves May 2022. 

I still look back on this feat with a bit of shock and awe. To date I’ve sold five novels to major publishers, two young adult, two middle grade and one non fiction and my experience fast drafting has forever altered the way I approach writing. I should mention, fast drafting isn’t for everyone. Writing is such a personal thing and each storyteller has their own process, but in the event getting the first draft out is the biggest hurdle for you, like it is for me, I’m going to share five tips for knocking out that first draft in record time. 

1. Start with a SHORT story pitch.

Pitching a story in a few words is tough. But it’s a worthy effort and the best use of your time before you get any words on the page. Why? Because it helps you hone in on the core of your story and its hook. A good short pitch involves the character, their dilemma, and a hint of the stakes. In October of 2018 I pitched my YA debut novel in a tweet which then blew up. Not many words can fit in a tweet, but by choosing the right set of words, I was able to convey the heart of my story and it really resonated. (From that tweet, I signed with a literary agent and sold my debut novel to a Big 5 publisher in a six-figure-deal.) The biggest favor you can do for yourself is understand the story—its essence, its core—you’re trying to tell before you start drafting. And that’s hard. But the more you play around with creating a short pitch, you’ll begin to see a clear snapshot of what your book is going to be about. That’s your jumping off point. 

2. Expand your pitch into tent pole beats.

From your short pitch, spend some time deciding on what your major beats are. Now, yes this is a bit like outlining. And for you pantsers out there, I empathize with you. I was a pantser and still am in many ways. But I still do this step because this step ultimately saves me time. The beauty of fast drafting is that you know what you need to do when you sit down to type. So a lot of these steps are about doing pre-work so that when you sit down to type you’re not spinning your wheels to figure out what to type. Instead you’ll have a clear goal and you’ll be ready to execute it. Also, note that the goal isn’t to perfect each of these steps, but instead to try to do each step, to the best of your ability, and in a way that makes sense. 

I could write an entire piece on beat sheeting novels (which I love and do for all my books), but for the purposes here, I’ve organized the main things you want to know below in a series of questions. Simply answer each, make a chart if you like that sort of thing, and once you have each question filled out in a way that logically makes sense, move on to the next step. (NOTE: It’s a good idea to get feedback on this step if you have critique partners and fellow writers you trust.)  

Opening Scene - Who is the character before the world changes?

Inciting Incident - What happens that forces them to make a choice, changing their lives forever? What are they choosing between? 

“A” Plot - What is that choice they make? What are they pursuing or working toward? Finding information? Going on a quest? Uncovering the truth behind a murder?

Stakes - What are the stakes of the “A” plot? What’s at risk if they fail to accomplish whatever they’re pursuing? It should be something that personally affects them or someone / something they care about. 

“B” Plot / Character - Who or what is the theme of the story? What character in your story is going to embody that theme and play a key role in helping the main character change?

Midpoint - what happens in the middle of the book to change the character’s direction. Usually it’s some bit of new information or they realize things are not as they seem. 

Stakes Raise - How do the stakes (what’s at risk if they fail) raise after the middle of the book? 

Character Arc - what does your character believe about the world in the beginning of the book that by the book’s end they will no longer believe? (An extension of this question is: what things can happen in this character’s life to facilitate them incrementally learning this big truth? If you don’t know this question right off, that’s okay. But this is a question you want to go back to every now and again, even after you finish the first draft, to ensure your character is actively involved in a plot that is resulting in their change.)

Failure - How will your character fail big? This happens at about the 75% point of the book and it's the final moment of failure, usually, before they pick themselves up off the ground (figuratively or literally) and learn the lesson they’ve needed to learn. There forward they act on their new belief to the end of the book, demonstrating how they’re changed. 

If you’d like a more in depth look at how to beat sheet a novel, I strongly suggest reading Jessica Brody’s Save The Cat Writes A Novel. 

3. Flesh out your beats into a detailed synopsis. 

Now the fun part! This step is the most helpful thing you can do to enable yourself to fast draft. 

Write a mini version of your story, also known as a detailed synopsis. The key to writing synopses is not to worry about the voice, but instead what happens. Try to convey what happens and its impact on the character to show how the story moves from tent pole moment to tent pole moment (per the step above). This takes some trial and error and you may get annoyed with yourself because it’s not as easy as it seems. But, I’ve seen that if you can write a compelling and cohesive synopsis, the draft that you execute will be far stronger and more efficiently executed. 

Definitely get beta feedback on your synopsis from writing friends you trust. It’s worth going over this a few times to get it right. In terms of length, aim for 3-4 pages for a middle grade novel and 5-10 pages for a young adult or adult novel. These are just general guidelines. My latest YA novel required a fifteen page synopsis and I am very glad I did it because it conveys the tone, arc, and plot of the novel and the main plot threads quite well, which allowed me to draft the first 23,000 words of the story in five days. 

4. Summarize each scene. 

(Note: a chapter can have more than one scene.)

Okay, we’re getting really close to writing! Now that you have a mini version of your story, consider how you will break it up into scenes. This doesn't need to be perfect, but spend some time figuring how to stretch your synopsis into a full novel. Give each scene a short summary. Aim for a few sentences, no more than a paragraph, just so you know what needs to happen in that scene (or scenes). Do not skip this step. I repeat, do not skip this step. This step allows you to sit down and execute the scene without figuring out what to write. The “figuring out” part is where a lot of writers slow down. Do that in the summaries so when it’s time to draft you are ready to execute, not sort out details. 

5. Write with a goal in mind.

Plan your writing days. I’m not talking anything extensive here. Just grab your phone calendar or a post-it note and write down which days you want to do which scenes. Then on writing day re-read that summary and execute it. If you’ve done all the pre-work the words will fly from your fingers. Don’t worry about grammar, typos, reading back what you did. Insert fillers such as, “TITLE” or “NAME” for details you haven’t worked out yet. Just get the scene that you’ve summarized out. The goal is to finish the draft. After that is when you make sure it all works together through revisions and fill in the details. Right now the goal is finishing the draft. It literally just needs to exist! 

If you’ve done all five steps, pat yourself on the back because congrats, you’re ready to fast draft! Don’t hesitate to tag me on socials if you try this method out and it works for you. I’d love to hear how it goes!

J.Elle is the New York Times bestselling author of Wings of Ebony. Elle has a Bachelor’s of journalism and an MA in educational administration and human development.  She grew up in Texas, but has lived all over, from coast to coast which she credits as inspiration for her writing. These days the former educator can be found mentoring aspiring authors, binging reality TV, loving on her three littles, or cooking up something true to her Louisiana roots.

Website: WingsOfEbony.com

Twitter: @AuthorJ_Elle

Instagram: @AuthorJ.Elle

TikTok: @authorjelle

[like-a-bag-of-potatoes]

Our Story - Prologue

theA/N: My first Chris Evans series. This is just a fluffy little series that has been floating around in my brain for a while, and because I've recently fallen head first into the Chris trashcan, I figured he’d be the perfect person for this little love story AU. I mean absolutely no disrespect with this, it's just a work of fiction. I also want to give a huge thank you to @percywinchester27​ and @girl-next-door-writes​ for being my betas for this story. You are both amazing and I'm so grateful for your help on this. 

Chapter: One

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader (unfortunately no Chris in this part) 

Warnings: Absolutely none. 

Wordcount: 1850

Four weeks after my twentieth birthday, I left my childhood home in Savannah, Georgia, and pointed my nose towards New York. It was hard to believe that eight years had passed already, but my twenty-eighth birthday approached in large strides to remind me of how much time had passed, and how much had changed. New York City was a stark contrast to Savannah, the city that never sleeps VS the most charming city in America. When I first moved here, it was my intention to stay for only a year, then I would be back in Savannah with my family and the man that I loved so deeply, Josh. 

However, life never really turns out how you intend it to, no matter how much you plan for your future. Josh and I used to talk at length about our future together, and I honestly couldn't wait to get started on it all, house, careers, and then a family of our own at some point. Then, after eight or so months of long-distance we finally broke and admitted to ourselves that it was just too hard. I know you might think that since we had stuck it out for that long, we surely could manage a few more months, but by then I had been asked to stay on in what was supposed to be a temporary position, and I had fallen in love, not only with the city, but with my work. I asked Josh to come to me, told him we could find ourselves a little apartment in Queens, or the East Village, something we could afford, and we could spend a few years together here before moving back home to start a family. I guess you’ve already figured it didn't turn out that way, and it ended, as long-distance relationships often do, in heartbreak. It was my first real heartbreak- amicable, civil, and soul-crushing. It was also then I realized, as we all, unfortunately, do at some point in our lives, that love does not, in fact, conquer all. 

If I'm being completely honest, I knew within my first month in this magical city that I would never want to leave, and after things ended with Josh, I felt as though I had deceived him in some cruel, unintentional way. Every conversation we had, had after that had been filled with lies and promises I never intended to keep. I had fooled myself as much as I had fooled him. After our break up, although completely heartbroken, I felt free and unburdened, which strangely made me feel even worse about the whole thing. Our love didn't end in some big blowout argument, or because we didn't want to be with one another. It ended because of the thousands of miles that separated us, and because in the months we spent apart, I changed in a way that could not have been foreseen. Never did I imagine myself in a big and busy city, but as I said, New York and me, it was love at first sight. 

You might be wondering what job took me from my safe and comfortable life in Georgia, thinking that it must have been some grand, once in a lifetime thing. It was not. It was a temporary job as a personal assistant. I found it as I sat by my computer one night, daydreaming about what kind of life I would live if I had all the money in the world, what life Josh and I could create for ourselves. That's when I came across the ad. A woman, Mrs. Wallace, needed an assistant. She was a very wealthy woman in need of someone to keep track of her very busy social calendar, amongst other things. I knew she was wealthy because she lived on Fifth Avenue, not that I had ever been to New York and really knew what that entailed, but I had seen movies and read books placed in the city and knew very well that Fifth Avenue was a very expensive street. There was little to no description of the job or what Mrs. Wallace was looking for in an assistant, other than that they had to be organized and were able to juggle multiple things at once. Beyond that it really came down to compatibility. I was nothing if not organized, so before I knew it, I had compiled an application letter and sent to her email. I told no one about this, because it was ridiculous for me to think I'd even get a reply back. In all honesty, it had all been forgotten by the next morning, and I didn't think of it again until three days later when, at dinner with Josh I might add, I got an answer. She would like for us to meet. We sent a couple of emails back and forth where I tried to, as politely as possible, explain that I did not have the means to travel to New York just for an interview. I stated that I appreciated her interest, and apologized profusely for not being able to make it out there. It was then she asked for my details, and about fifteen minutes later I got a confirmation from American Airlines that my ticket had been booked and paid for. Two days later I was sitting opposite Mrs. Wallace at a restaurant that I would never be able to afford, listening to her talk about the job I had applied for and what she expected of me. 

The very first thing that struck me about Mrs. Wallace was her age. For some reason, I had imagined someone in their fifties, full of botox, fillers, and whatever else middle-aged women put into their faces to look younger, but Mrs. Wallace was not that much older than me. At the time we met, she was twenty-seven, so younger than I am now, and strikingly beautiful. Thick, black hair that looked professionally blow-dried and sculpted so that not a single strand was out of place. It draped over her shoulders in loose Hollywood style waves and stood in sharp contrast to the white blazer she wore. Her skin was olive, her eyes deep brown, and her cheekbones could probably cut glass. When you put that together with her long, model-like legs, an hourglass waistline, and a very ample bosom, the woman looked like a greek goddess. To top it all off she had a warm and kind smile, and a kick-ass sense of humor. Kate, as she insisted I call her, was far from the stuck up, nose in the sky, botox filled woman that I had imagined in my head. We hit it off, and before dessert was served, I had a job offer. 

It's hard to explain, but I felt as though I needed to take this opportunity, that this was an experience I was meant to have in some inexplicable way, and I accepted right then and there without a second thought, or even a conversation with my family or boyfriend. Josh was angry with me at first, but supportive, so two weeks later I stood in front of 1040 Fifth Avenue and looked up at the towering building with its limestone and intricate carvings here and there. Kate greeted me at the front door as I stepped out of the car that she had sent to pick me up from the airport. This place even had a porte-cochere to protect the residents from rain as they walked from the door to their private chauffeur-driven vehicles. I would be staying here with the Wallace family, in the staff quarters with the rest of the staff of course, so that I could be available to Kate at all times. And that's how my New York adventure started. 

Eight years later, I am still working for Kate, still living in my little room in the staff quarters, but I love it. I have a little bathroom and everything I need. Food is prepared for us all by the cook, Rosalia. She is a little, plump woman in her mid-fifties, kind and compassionate, not to mention deeply passionate about the food she prepared for the whole household. Along with me and Rosalia, the other staff in our quarters are Magdalena, the housekeeper, and Mitch, who is Mr Wallace’s assistant. There was more staff, of course, like the private chauffeur’s, who didn't live on-site and throughout any given day, people would be in and out of the place like it was a busy office space as opposed to the home that it actually is. 

Now, Mr Wallace was a very busy man, working non-stop whether it be at his office, or at his home office. It seemed as whenever I saw him, he was walking in fast strides, either on the phone, or confirming things with Mitch who half sprinted behind him with his I-pad, trying not to trip over anything as he tried to keep up and take down notes at the same time. Henry, that was Mr Wallace’s first name, was a little older than Kate, not so much that you could accuse her of being a gold digger, but he was approaching his fifties now. He didn't look it though, he was a very handsome man, and kind. Imagine George Clooney, a man that just seems to get more gorgeous with every passing year. Kate and Henry were busy, always had their hands full with whatever it was, but somehow they always found time to share a meal together every day. Even if it meant having Rosalia heat up some leftovers for them at midnight. They were very much in love, and it was clear in the way they looked at one another, and how they always made sure to have that little moment to themselves every day. A couple of years ago, Kate had confided in me that she could not have children of her own, it was something that had weighed on her since she was only sixteen years old, but with Henry, she said, ‘I have all I need with that man, all the love I could ever wish for.’ It was a shame really, because I knew that Kate would have made an amazing mother, and Henry a great dad. ‘I'm alright,’ she had assured me. ‘I've come to peace with it, and learned not to dwell on something that will never be.’ 

So, that's the short version of how I ended up here, doing a job I adored in a city I loved with all my heart, so I think it's about time we move forward. Jump to the part where my real story starts. Spoiler alert; it involves a warm summer day in Central Park, a ruined dress, and an extremely handsome man named Chris. 

******

If you liked what you read, how about slamming that reblog button and help spread my work? If you leave a little comment on top of that, you’ll be in my heart forever. 

Want a tag? I got you!! Just send me an ASK and I'll add you. 

Tags: @thesecretlifeofdaydreamss

[astalavista4u]

In another life - Nier: Replicant

Check out this awesome fanfic my friend wrote! Honestly I loved this story so much, so I convinced them to share it with the world.

Pairing: Emil/Nier (one-sided)

A/N: in Nier:Replicant one can change the character name. In my version he is called Llys. All the events described here take place in the second part of the game.

It rained all morning. Emil looked up into the sky wondering how long will it last. Kaine was dozing off nearby, her back against stiff and wet rock. Their campfire was long gone, the remaining embers washed away by the rain. Probably they need to find a new place, dry and comfortable but for some reason Emil was reluctant to move.

He thought about his body…Will the rains turn his skeleton-like limbs all rusty and then they will slowly start falling apart? Kaine and Llys are human, rain is no threat to them…but what about him? Surely the forces of nature will try to fight this disgusting body, will try to wipe him away from Earth. The crying seagulls on their way to Seafront distracted him a bit but this pain lingered in his mind. Instinctively he hugged himself with his long skeletal arms, a protection of sort from nature…And from voices in his head so full of self-hatred.

Kaine moved anxiously in her sleep. -She did not actually sleep during the night. – he thought. – So I won’t disturb her now…Maybe she is dreaming of something nice this time.

Should the likes of me even dream?

His eyes suddenly caught a glimpse of a silhouette approaching from the north-east of the plains – white messy hair, slim and tall figure, a giant broadsword behind his back. Emil thanked the gods again for letting him see all this without hurting anyone. Probably the only thing he really was thankful for.

The white circles he had for eyes were lifeless but in truth his real eyes devoured every last part of the figure trying to memorize every little detail: the length of his boots, his walking manner, every feature of his almost perfect face which was now visible from where he sat. Each time he saw Llys he drowned in that grey and blue eyes of his, confident and cold but somehow at the same time kind and understanding. Each time he saw Llys he brought up memories of how he lost his human body and how he felt and how Llys never rejected him but greeted him instead with calming words and opened arms.

I will never abandon you.

Do you really think that he cares about you?

He keeps you by his side because he thinks you are useful.

For now.

YOU’RE WRONG! – with this last cry the other whispering voices slowly retreated to the darkest places of his mind only to appear again later.

Emil gathered himself quickly and floated towards Llys. After all Kaine was still sleeping…Let her rest just a bit longer.

- Llys! – he said, voice as cheerful as always. – What’s up? How was that business of yours at Seafront?

- Fine, I guess. – Llys looked tired and wary after the journey. Exhausted, even. – The package was hard to deliver but the client paid handsomely. -Let it be the last time when we fulfill such foolish requests. – Grimmoire Weiss materialized behind Llys.

- Don’t push yourself too hard, please. – Emil placed his hand on Llys’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. The sensation was very nice, it sent electric impulses up to his spine. Emil suddenly imagined himself like a real human, a version of himself but five years older. Back then during their first encounter Kaine told him that he was a “cute little thing”, so probably after five years this cuteness will remain? Maybe Llys will also call him cute. He imagined a real hand touching the shoulder of his dear friend, a hand of flesh and blood. He imagined his own lilac eyes looking at Llys with warmth and care and not these horrible empty sockets. His own lips smiling cheerfully not this terrifying mouth twisted with everlasting monstrosity which no one ever will call a smile.

You are disgusting…

He is disgusted by your touch, can’t you see?

This sudden outburst of his imagination only lasted for a moment but with these thoughts Emil’s hand hastily left Llys’s side. Emil looked away ashamed of his actions. – You stupid piece of junk, you should have asked if he was okay with the touch, he probably felt…

- Emil, is everything okay? – Emil felt two strong hands grabbing his skeleton shoulders and felt Llys’s gaze on his face.

- Ha..ha-hah, y-yeah, sure! Why do you ask? – even if his face wasn’t capable of showing any emotion his voice still betrayed him.

- Are you sure? – Emil turned to face Llys only to find him several centimeters away. If he had a real body his cheeks would probably blush…

- Y-yeah, of course I’m sure…Just feeling a bit lonely, you know. Kaine is sleeping, didn’t get much sleep during the night and you were at Seafront, so…

- Emil…- Weiss stopped unable to find the right words.

Llys glanced quickly at their camping place – remnants of the fire, Kaine lying on hard wet rock, her swords and Emil’s scepter covered carefully by a piece of cloth. Something dire ran across his beautiful face…something like rage. Emil has already prepared himself for this talk they had had several times before: - No, Llys, everything is fine, really…We are used to sleeping outside. We feel perfectly comfortable and we don’t need anything, so don’t worry about us.

And then Llys leaned closer and hugged him. He pressed Emil’s head to his chest whispering: I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…Somehow among the countless rain droplets bombarding his head he made out one that was entirely different. And then another. And another. Hot tears poured from Llys’s eyes, small droplets traveling down to where Emil’s eyes and nose should be. All Emil could do was just to hug him back and try to wave away the thought of how he would like to sense the taste of these tears on his own lips.

He never realized that his and Kaine’s sleeping place was such a miserable sight. Never put much thought into it. His well-being never was much of a concern. Yet here he was, his dearest friend crying about his fate.

- Please, moment, never go away…Let me stand here hugging my friend for an eternity. Let the worlds collapse around us, just please don’t let go

Of course he knew the absurdity of this thought and he cursed himself for it. No happy life was possible without Kaine, without Weiss, without Yonah who is still out there, probably in grave danger. And yet…Please let me be selfish just once…

***

Sometime after the events in Façade

Kaine tossed some paper into their campfire. Emil cuddled near it watching the chaotic dance of flames.

- Kaine…I wanted to ask you something.

- Well, go ahead. – She leaned against the rock throwing the remaining paper into the fire. – What is it, Emil?

- Well, it’s about the king’s wedding…Or more about what I’ve said on that wedding.

- So? – Kaine raised an eyebrow. – What is it you said?

Emil would have licked his lips if he had those before starting this awkward conversation.

- Well…Just before the tragedy I spoke with Llys. I told him how I envied Fyra, how I wanted to be Fyra on this wedding. He told me that one day I will find a wonderful bride. But…

- It wasn’t the case, was it? – she asked.

Emil gasped. – W-wait! How did you even…

- I’m not fucking blind, you know. – she plainly looked at him, her gaze didn’t show any judgement, maybe a bit of concern.

- It’s just…I…Is something wrong with me? I really felt that way…I wanted to be on Fyra’s place and I would never say that to him of course, but I wanted Llys to be on king’s place.

Kaine kept silent, though somehow her gaze seemed encouraging. She wanted him to keep talking.

- I just…I imagined this ceremony…I, meaning my true self, will wear a white suit holding a great bouquet of lunar tears and Llys, he will be dressed in black and grey cause I think these colors look great on him. Everyone will be singing and dancing, eating tasty food, tossing flower petals over their heads. And…and you will be there too, Kaine. Cheering and laughing with others! No, don’t give me that look! I know that you will join us this time.

His imagination flowed onwards and onwards but he was so overwhelmed with these thoughts and ideas that he never wanted to stop. And Kaine didn’t seem to bother.

- Weiss will probably grumble again but he will end up sharing jokes with guests. Yonah will be there too, she will cook one of her special dishes! And Devola and Popola! I’ve heard that they have angelic voices and their singing is magnificent…And me and Llys, we will cheer with you. He will take my hand and lead me onwards…We will stand in front of everyone and someone will say: Now, you can seal your marriage with a kiss! And Llys he will…he will kiss me and then I…

His speech ended abruptly as his eyes accidentally caught a glimpse of a skeleton hand. He stared at it stupidly as if it wasn’t his, waiting for a real hand of flesh and bone to replace this monstrous limb. Realization stroke him like a lightning bolt. How could you forget something like this?

- No…No, what am I saying…O God…I am so sorry, I never really meant any of this, please don’t take it seriously. Just please, forget it, Kaine!

His body started to shake, he felt like he will burst into tears. But they never came. Another reminder to toss away these stupid dreams…He sobbed. Long skeleton limbs gathered around to protect him from the outside world. Only to be stopped by firm grip on his arm.

- Quit your whining, goddammit! – Kaine rarely raised her voice at him before. But now she was furious, flickers of red in her eyes. In a one harsh movement she pulled him up and looked directly at his face. There was no chance for Emil to avoid those eyes now. – Listen to me, Emil. And listen carefully. I don’t give a fuck about this romantic fluffy stuff you were babbling about. But here is what I know: if you love someone than fucking go for it, no whirling around. Trust me, we don’t have time for this bullshit.

- I know why you hesitate – “look at my body, I am so disgusting, I am a monster, no one will ever love me”. I am a monster too, Emil. And yet I had grandma who cared about me, protected me from those fuckers in the Aerie, who loved me. And then I found Llys. You found Llys. Did he treat you like you were a freak back then when you still haven’t lost your human form?

- N-no. – Emil managed to answer between his quiet sobs. – He was gentle, kind to me even if I was a total stranger.

- Did his attitude change when you transformed?

- No, no…When I realized that I had changed I started to cry. I hated myself so much…But still he hugged me. Told me that we will figure something out.

- That’s what I’m talking about. Our small group is a motherfucking freak show – stupid floating book, skeleton boy, possessed bitch. And yet he took us all in, accepted our sins and our souls. Don’t doubt him, Emil. He won’t abandon you.

- What I am trying to say is that you shoudn’t think for Llys. He has his own head on his shoulders and if you ever come up with confession he will answer without hurting your feelings. And well, if he won’t I’ll shove the stick right up his ass!

- Kaine! Don’t say things like that!

- Shut up and let me finish my thought. – Kaine let him go and Emil slowly retreated to his seat still sobbing. – I don’t know if the answer will be yes or no. What I DO know is that you, Emil, deserve love. Yes, you look like a skeleton but you are the kindest, the gentlest creature on this goddamn earth. You saved everyone in that village, you sacrificed your body to get me back. Such souls are so hard to find… like lunar tears. You. Deserve. Love. Never even try to tell me otherwise!

She breathed in heavily, tired from this improvised speech. Silence fell over their camp disturbed only by cracking of fire. Emil’s sobs died with Kaine’s words.

- The only thing to do is to tell him about your feelings. The sooner the better.

- I know that we don’t have much time. But the only thing Llys thinks of now is Yonah. And I…I don’t want to disturb his grief and add even more problems.

His voice still trembled from the crying but with each phrase spoken he seemed to become more confident.

- We all need to focus on Yonah’s rescue, so I’ll probably save my…my confession for later. I will tell him everything after we return from the Shadowlord’s castle.

***

That night Emil dreamt. He saw a mansion as big as the one where he had been locked up for his entire life but this one wasn’t so ominous. Sunrays knocked at the windows, green moss crawled up the walls, the front doors were wide open welcoming every traveler inside. Birds sang their praises to the sun hidden behind the branches of gigantic oak, a wild boar tamed by Llys rolled in circles on the grass. The waters of the nearby lake glistened invitingly, one gaze just enough to go swimming. Though Llys probably spent all his time fishing. Behind the mansion he saw a small garden with long rows of vegetables and entire flowerbeds vibrant with lunar tears. Wow, Llys has finally found a way to grow them…

On the second floor there was a library: books gathered from Seafront and Façade and from Llys’s village, books on languages long forgotten, scientific reports, treasure maps, musical scores…Everything was there for him to dig in, to reveal all the secrets the history of humanity has to offer. He heard the sounds of music from the first floor – someone was playing the piano and two angelic voices followed the tune. Popola entered the song after Devola and their voices intertwined beautifully when they reached the refrain.

Kaine was there, sitting casually on a chair, her terrifying blades nowhere to be seen. Yonah, her arms crossed on the chest, stood near Kaine, completely devoured by the song. Grimoire Weiss floated nearby trying to follow the rhythm. The young king of Façade and his wife Fyra were dancing gracefully in the center of the room and another pair of more clumsy dancers whirled around them – they both had red bags fastened on their shoulders.

Only then Emil turned his gaze to the piano. And stunned. An older version of himself, no more than nineteen years old, was playing the piano, his lilac eyes serious and focused, movements of his fingers precise and quick. He was not alone…Another pair of hands joined him, clumsily pressing on piano keys.

Llys was there…By his side.

When the song finally came to the end the dancers stopped catching their breaths. The red bag couple immediately started their usual argument – who stepped on whose foot and who was the first to lose rhythm during the dance. The king shouted praises to musicians, his wife nodding fiercely.

Kaine shrugged but he caught a glimpse of smile on her always emotionless face. Yonah clapped so hard that Weiss started to accuse her of creating additional vibrations making his floating more difficult. The twins laughed cheerfully at his grumbling.

Emil’s heart almost stopped when he looked again at the pair at the piano. Llys placed his hands around the waist of his older version, he saw himself blushing vividly at the touch. While everyone else was talking, clapping and laughing, Llys’s head rested on his shoulder, nose poking at the curve of his neck. With one lazy movement Llys cupped his blushing cheek and turned Emil, so he could see his face. There was a question on his lips, something unimportant, stupid even but it all died immediately when Llys covered Emil’s lips with his. Emil stumbled just for a second but then his lilac eyes closed and he eagerly returned the kiss placing his hands in a soft white mess of Llys’s hair.

- I want to stay here forever

***

In the Shadowlord’s castle

- Emil, no!

- Get back here! EMIL!

He could perfectly hear their shouts from here. His small sphere floated back dragged by Popola’s magic. There isn’t much time. The sphere containing his friends successfully reached the other side of the broken bridge and he sighed in relief casting a dispel.

They’ve made it. Good. They still have a chance to defeat the Shadowlord.

…

You are such a coward.

I didn’t have the strength to confess. I failed.

You lost your chance. I’m sorry.

…

The black void devoured him completely. Small cracks started to appear on the light-blue surface of the sphere looking like spider webs. Beautiful.

Llys…I…

I love you

I want to see you again.

I want to see all of you again.

I don’t want to die.

There is so much I wanted to tell you, Llys

Perhaps, in another life.

The sphere crushed under the pressure of the void. It continued to collapse until it reached the size of an apple. As hungrily and fiercely the void devoured everything on its way before as calmly and peacefully it turned into golden ashes carried away by the winds.

Emil’s scepter fell on the ground with an ominous ringing.

In another life.

[thelibrarbian]

Rating: T

Chapter word count: 3249

Read on Ao3

or below the cut:

Papyrus was well aware that his lessons with Captain Undyne did not include every aspect of the training a future Royal Guardsman should receive. There was, as far as Papyrus was aware, usually more emphasis on fighting humans and less on cooking pasta, for instance. But the chapter on first aid was a section that she had taken him through in detail, and he was very grateful for that right now.

To be quite honest, he was somewhat surprised by his own knowledge of skeletal anatomy and medicine; he was reasonably sure that not all of it came from Undyne's lessons, but he couldn't remember where else he had learned it. He didn't dwell on it, though - he had probably just read a book at some point and then forgotten about it, or it was simply instinct from being a skeleton monster himself - it only meant that he was even better equipped to take care of the unconscious monster on his living room floor, even if he hadn't realized the extent of his own greatness before.

He couldn't say he felt particularly Great, though.

Fell might have been no longer in danger of dusting, but actually healing his wounds proved much more difficult than it should have been. Not only did attacks deal more damage the more harming intent went into them, it also made them harder to heal - and what Papyrus could feel lingering where Fell had been hit was outright murderous. Healing it wasn't impossible, most certainly not impossible for the Great Papyrus, but if he had hoped to fully mend any of the broken bones right there and then, that was very clearly not happening. The most he could do was to ease some of the pain and encourage Fell's natural healing to do its job perhaps a little faster.

Well! That was a minor setback, but no matter! They could still patch Fell up the regular way, and everything would be fine. And while Sans couldn't assist with healing magic, Papyrus was very glad for the extra hands.

It took longer than he would have liked to admit, but eventually they had cleaned all the wounds, set and splinted the breaks, and wrapped what felt like the majority of Fell's body in bandages. Fell never stirred throughout it all, and Papyrus decided to be glad that he was sleeping through what could not be a pleasant experience from his end if he was conscious. The alternative train of thought that his unresponsiveness prompted was not one that Papyrus wanted to follow.

If Papyrus was perfectly honest, it surprised him a little just how eager his brother was to help. Not that he thought Sans would refuse to assist a monster in need, of course not, but... For reasons that Papyrus didn't entirely understand, Sans and Fell… did not usually get along particularly well, to put it lightly. Yet now it was only on Papyrus' insistence that yes, he really was able to handle everything else on his own that Sans eventually left the injured monster's side, taking Red upstairs with him to let him sleep on a proper (albeit ketchup-stained) mattress.

Papyrus would have preferred to move Fell to a bed as well so he could rest better, but the thought of carrying him up the stairs in this state seemed daunting. Of course, it wasn't that he didn't trust his ability to maneuver a badly injured skeleton through the house, who was probably going to dust if Papyrus accidentally dropped him, or knocked his head against a doorframe, or jostled him just a little bit too much… But there was also now an unoccupied, reasonably comfortable couch only two steps away, and lifting Fell onto that did not come with nearly the same potential for highly unlikely fatal accidents.

He was exceedingly careful as he looped his arms under Fell's shoulders and legs and lifted him up, using a bit of blue magic to make the move go more smoothly for his alternate and avoid aggravating his injuries. Once he had double checked and triple checked and quadruple checked that Fell's HP really was stable now and would remain that way even if Papyrus left his side for a moment, he darted around the house, picked up any additional pillows from the other rooms (excluding Sans' room because he was not going to subject Fell to the ketchup stains he would inevitably find on his brother's pillows - and besides, Red was probably using those), and rushed back to the couch. He carefully arranged Fell a little more comfortably, supporting his upper body with pillows, making sure there was no pressure on his injured ribs, and draping a blanket over him. And then another, because Fell's state called for more than one blanket.

Finally, he brought a chair from the kitchen and sat down next to the couch, reaching over to lightly rest his hand on Fell's broken leg and continue to channel a slow, but steady stream of healing magic into him. It may not have been helping much, but Papyrus had enough magic at his disposal to keep this up for the rest of the night. And probably the next morning as well.

It was more disturbing than he wanted to admit, seeing his alternate so still in the pile of pillows and blankets. A few months had passed since their universes had crossed paths for the first time, but they had remained in somewhat regular contact since then - mostly due to Papyrus' own insistence to invite their rougher counterparts to a biweekly cross-universal skeleton game and movie night. And as much as Fell kept grumbling about those meetings and adamantly refused to host one in his own world, neither he nor Red had missed a single one so far.

Still, as much as Papyrus would like to, he didn't think he was allowed to call his alternate a friend yet. Red and Sans got along well, exchanging puns and knock-knock jokes and generally bonding over their terrible sense of humor, much to Papyrus' chagrin.

Fell was a different matter.

His grumbling may have noticeably decreased since their first meeting, but Papyrus suspected that he thought of the get-togethers more as strategic missions for potential cross-universal allyships rather than socializing. While Red, just like Sans, easily kept up a friendly (and pun-filled) conversation without sharing anything consequential, Fell made no pretense of always keeping the two of them at a metaphorical arm's length, always politely, but firmly turning down any of Papyrus’ suggestions to stay for longer than initially agreed. (Which, in turn, had led Sans to certain comments about sticks and pelvic cavities.) The few times Papyrus had seen his counterpart soften, for lack of a better word, was when the topic of conversation turned to either cooking or his cat, and those moments never lasted long before his carefully kept mask slid back into place.

Papyrus didn't take it personally, of course! Their rougher counterparts just weren't the kind of monsters to make friends easily, and with what Papyrus knew about the 'kill or be killed' universe they came from, he couldn’t expect them to be. It was simply going to be a challenge to earn their trust and friendship, and the Great Papyrus wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

The Great Papyrus also wasn’t one to doubt his chances of success with that particular challenge. He wasn’t one to linger on how long his friend quantity had remained stagnant despite his best efforts, or on the fact that, while he himself had just barely obtained a semi-official job as a sentry, Fell had climbed up through the ranks of his own Royal Guard in record time…

Fell, who was now not only a full member of the Royal Guard, but the second-in-command, outranked only by Captain Undyne and the King himself. Who, if Red was to be believed, was single-handedly responsible for turning the previously lawless town of Snowdin into one of the safest places in his version of the Underground. Whose name was feared and respected from Snowdin all the way to the capital.

Fell… was not supposed to look this small.

He had still shown no sign of movement other than his shallow breathing. His face, the only part of him not covered in blankets, was pale, even for a skull, devoid of the faint glow of magic that was usually the sign of a healthy skeleton monster.

Papyrus swallowed dryly and increased the flow of his healing magic.

He very decisively did not think about what could have happened if Red had been held up, or if Fell had taken any more hits, or if Papyrus' magic hadn't been strong enough to stop the bleeding in time. Worrying too much wasn't helping anything right now. Besides, Red was going to do enough worrying for all of them combined once he woke up, whether he would show it or not, and apparently, there was a good chance that Sans would be joining him. So all the worrying in this house was already more than taken care of, and Papyrus didn't also need to think about things that hadn't happened, or question whether Fell remaining unconscious was to be expected with the severity of his injuries or whether it was a sign that he was- Yes, no, that was exactly what Papyrus was not thinking about.

In the same line of not-thinking, he really hoped that Red was alright.

With a sigh, Papyrus let his healing magic fade out. He needed to refocus. He sat up straight, stretching his arms and back until his spine popped; bending over his alternate like this wasn't the most comfortable position to keep for long periods of time, he realized. Not that it mattered - he would gladly take some minor discomfort if it helped Fell recover.

As quietly as possible, he scooted the chair over so he could better reach his alternate’s ribcage. But before he could even touch him, a faint noise, softer than what he would have expected, came from the end of the couch, and Papyrus' gaze darted over immediately.

Fell's head was turned towards him, his eye sockets were open, and he was staring at Papyrus with an unreadable expression.

Papyrus' shoulders sagged with relief. "Oh, thank the stars you're awake! You had me worried there for a moment - not that I thought that someone as Great and Terrible as yourself could be kept down by anything at all, of course, what a ridiculous idea!" He gave a small and very much not nervous laugh. "But, I am rambling when I should instead be asking: How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Are you comfortable, or should I get more pillows?"

Fell gave no response, which, Papyrus could somewhat understand. That had probably been at least two questions too many for someone who didn't look like he was entirely awake yet.

"How are you feeling?" he repeated, fidgeting slightly with his hands and successfully stopping himself from continuing to ramble this time.

Fell still gave no response, although he stopped staring at Papyrus, his eye lights dim and unfocused as they scanned the room. Then, with a grunt of effort, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking as if he was fully intending to get up.

Papyrus gave a noise of alarm and quickly reached out to stop him. "Oh, no, I believe that is not a good idea at this moment! You might hurt yourself - I mean, worse than you already - well…"

Fell let himself be guided back into the cushions without any resistance, and that was somehow more alarming than his attempt to get up in the first place. Papyrus was certain that, in any other instance, his alternate would have snapped at him for the mere suggestion that he should lie back down, and if Papyrus hadn't been concerned before, he certainly was now.

Trying his best not to let his worry show, he lightly patted Fell's shoulder and carefully tugged the blankets back up. "There you go, that's better! You just try to rest, and let us take care of everything else! I can even read you a book to help you relax, that usually works for me - although I do not know if you would enjoy Fluffy Bunny. Maybe 'A History of Puzzles'? Or maybe not, if it's too interesting to fall asleep to, that won't do, either!"

He paused his chatter to give his counterpart a closer look. Despite leaning back into the pillows again, Fell still looked tense, dim eye lights darting back and forth as if looking for something. Or searching the room for possible threats. Or both.

"Sans?" His voice was rougher and quieter than Papyrus remembered, closer to a whisper than anything else, but he supposed that was to be expected given the circumstances. Right now, Papyrus was glad to hear him speak at all.

"Your brother? He's upstairs, sleeping. He was exhausted when he came here, but Sa- Comic said he would be fine, he just needed some rest." Papyrus gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "He brought you here, to mine and Comic's house, in case you were wondering how you got here. Or, er, where you were." He probably should have mentioned that right away, but, well, it couldn't be changed now.

Fell stared at him intensely, and Papyrus couldn't tell whether he was trying to judge the truthfulness of those statements, or if he just needed a while to process the words. Then he blinked a few times, looked over the room again, and something seemed to click in his mind. Some of the tension left his face as he exhaled, sinking back into the pillows.

For a moment, Papyrus considered asking what had happened to leave him in such a state, and he had already opened his mouth to do so when he paused. Fell didn't exactly seem like he was up for any sort of extended conversation at this point, and Papyrus decided to let him rest a bit more before he started needling him with more questions.

There were a few moments of awkward silence before Papyrus cleared his non-existent throat. "Well! I was just going to heal you a bit more before you woke up, so if that's alright with you, I'll just get back to that?" When there were no objections, Papyrus brought his hand over his alternate's blanket-covered ribcage, fingers starting to glow green.

Faster than Papyrus thought his alternate could move, Fell's hand closed around his wrist before he made contact.

Papyrus stopped moving immediately. He wasn't afraid of his alternate, although he knew better than to underestimate him even in this state, if Papyrus' approach had somehow registered as a threat to him. Still, he really didn't want to startle him.

But Fell only stared at Papyrus' hand with a somewhat puzzled expression, slightly tilting his head. "Whadda ya..." He paused, frowning at his own slurred speech. When he continued after a moment, it sounded like it was taking him quite a bit of concentration to enunciate the words clearly. "What. Are you… doing?"

Oh. Right. Healing magic was… not much of a thing in Fell's universe. Not that Fell or Red had ever explicitly spoken about the topic - they very rarely spoke about anything regarding their universe, Red's occasional gushing about his brother's accomplishments notwithstanding - but Papyrus had come to his own conclusions. (Although he had wondered, with him and Fell being essentially the same monster… but that was neither here nor there.)

Papyrus straightened up slightly, as much as he could with his wrist still in Fell's grip. "Like I said, healing you! If you will allow me, that is. Which I very much hope you will, because despite my best efforts I'm afraid that you're still… not quite back to full health yet." And if that wasn't one of the biggest understatements to ever come out of his mouth, Papyrus didn't know what was.

Fell still looked confused, but he slowly released him.

"Thank you!" Papyrus gave a bright smile, which came a bit more easily than before. "Now, I'm just going to reach over there and place my hand on the blanket, alright? It shouldn't hurt, but please do let me know if it becomes uncomfortable at any-"

Another noise interrupted him, but he couldn't make out what Fell was trying to say this time.

"Pardon?"

Fell blinked furiously as if he was fighting hard to stay awake. Papyrus knew better than to tell him to go back to sleep; instead, he waited patiently for him to sort his words. "Why're ya… you… on th' chair?"

Papyrus blinked back. "Because I am planning to stay here for a while longer, and while I could stand the entire time, there wasn't really any need to, so I brought a chair from the kitchen?"

Fell huffed softly, his eye sockets starting to close before he forced them back open. "Not… what I mean… why'ren't ya on th' couch?"

"Because. You are on the couch??"

Fell stared at him - he had been doing a lot of that since he woke up -, then slowly raised his arm and patted the space behind his head. Which was mostly occupied by pillows at the moment.

"You… want me to sit on the couch with you?" Papyrus had to confirm. While they had, of course, shared the couch on movie nights before, Fell wasn't lying down on those occasions… and he didn't exactly strike Papyrus as the cuddly type.

Fell scoffed. "Obv'sly. If you're gonna keep… doin' this…" He vaguely gestured towards Papyrus, the chair he was sitting on, and the hand that Papyrus was still holding awkwardly over his ribs without touching him. "Don' need ta… need ta..." Then he let out a tired huff, clearly frustrated with his apparent struggle to finish the sentence. "Couch. Sit," he commanded, closing his eyes without waiting for a response.

Well. Alright. That was unexpected, but if Fell was this adamant about it, Papyrus couldn't really object, could he? It took a bit of shuffling, but in the end, he managed to arrange himself on the end of the couch next to Fell's head, with his legs under the pillows, and Fell seemed to have no objections to essentially lying in Papyrus' lap - or rather, lying in the pile of pillows that Papyrus had on his lap. In any case, the lack of protest was probably more of a testament to Fell's not-fully-conscious state than anything else, but it was certainly a more comfortable position for Papyrus than sitting on the chair and leaning over his alternate.

"Can I continue healing you now?" Papyrus asked again after a few moments.

He received a vague hum that sounded half like confirmation and half like Fell was falling asleep.

Papyrus took it as a 'yes'. He positioned his hand over the blankets around Fell's ribs, careful not to press on the injury, and focused on keeping his intent warm and soothing, pushing his worries to the back of his mind. Now, with one arm over his alternate, the position felt almost like a hug - another thing that Fell certainly would not have tolerated if he was fully conscious. As things were, though, there was another, even fainter hum as Fell shifted minutely in the pillows, and Papyrus got the strange impression that he was trying to curl closer.

[sodapill]

days like television

words: 3.9k

relationships: denji & hayakawa aki & power, implied akiangel

ao3 link

a/n: here’s something i wrote exploring the dynamic of the hayakawa household from denji’s pov!

cw: mild emetophobia, smoking, ptsd

These days, Denji finds himself greeting every morning with a face full of cat fur.

These days, Denji finds himself greeting every morning with a face full of cat fur.

Nyako has taken a liking to sleeping in his room, and she’s got a strict routine that he’s expected to follow. Breakfast doesn’t begin at the reasonable time after Aki doles out their portions, but rather whenever Nyako demands it, usually before the sun has peaked past the horizon and always when Denji is dead asleep.

Her favorite method of waking him used to be persistent yowling, but recently she’s adopted a new strategy—settling the length of her pudgy stomach over his head and cutting off his air supply.

It’s devious but effective, and as Denji’s body kicks into fight or flight from lack of oxygen, he can’t help but think they’ve raised a spoiled brat.

Power claims that’s how all pets are, but Pochita never refused the pathetic scraps of food Denji managed to scrounge up for their sporadic meal times. Nyako is the odd one for being a normal cat with normal needs.

It’s a good thing Denji is “nothing if not adaptable,” a phrase Aki used once that he’s since latched onto. Whether Aki meant it as an insult or not is irrelevant.

Occasionally growing a chainsaw for a head has made him realize he can adapt to pretty much anything. The hardest part of it all was learning to live with other people, and Denji sort of manages that. What difference does a daily smothering make in the grand scheme of things?

He’s gotten used to pulling a purring Nyako from his face so he can trudge to the kitchen and open a can of cat food. It’s considered one of his chores anyway—and yeah, they have a chore chart now.

That was all Aki, of course. Fed up with the stacks of unwashed dishes and dirty clothes strewn across the living room floor, he’d cooked and then withheld a delicious hotpot dinner until Denji and Power both agreed to work out a schedule. They’d decided to cycle cleaning throughout the week and set Saturday as laundry day. That way there was no excuse for Power to walk around in her underwear under the guise of not having anything to wear. It was her idea that the penalty for missing a chore be losing a finger, and Aki added it to the chart like that wasn’t something he’d ever have to worry about.

Denji didn’t want to give either of his housemates the satisfaction, so he’d gotten used to doing chores.

Begrudgingly.

Make no mistake—he can get used to anything, but he doesn’t have to like it. He’s learned to tolerate doing dishes like he tolerates the acrid smell of second-hand smoke filling his lungs whenever Aki feels like having a cig indoors. Bad smells never bothered him when he’d lived in poverty, but the weight of smoke in particular is stomach-turning.

As he’s forced to crack open a window and watch Nyako slink a similar retreat onto the sill, Denji considers how all this luxury has possibly made him a bit spoiled too.

After all, not everything he grows accustomed to is outright shitty.

For all her annoying living habits, Power proves to be a low-maintenance roommate. Her moods fluctuate so wildly, if she finds anything to complain about in the first place, she’s over it by the next turn of the clock. She also takes bizarre pride in completing her chores, dragging him or Aki around the apartment to boast of what a good job she’s done.

She pouts if they don’t praise her enough—but whatever. Denji is used to it.

Her constant chatter becomes less annoying the more time they spend together, until he realizes the apartment is too quiet on the rare occasion she’s not there. The sound of her exchanging meows with Nyako reminds him he’s home, and even her cackling laugh soon registers as comforting background noise.

Similarly, Denji now recognizes the shifts in Aki’s tone well enough to know if he’s actually in trouble, versus if Aki is scolding him for the sake of propriety. Denji watches for other tells when pulling pranks with Power—an indulgent shake of the head and a tug at the corner of Aki’s lips means they’re in the clear.

It's easy to pinpoint exactly what shade of melancholy he’s drifted into just by counting the number of consecutive cigarettes he pulls from the pack. Two is contemplative—four, somber. Anything past that means they’ll have to arrange for takeout that night.

Aki is consistent, and when he starts drifting in and out of rooms like he’s lost something, his fingers trailing the walls as if navigating in the dark, Denji knows he’s actually looking for a distraction. In those moments, Denji makes an effort to act extra obnoxious, riling Power up in turn until Aki has no choice but to pay attention to them and forget whatever bad memory he’d gotten hung up on.

Gathering facts about the people he lives with isn’t a conscious choice. It’s instinctual, like how his body expects food on the regular. He’d put up with a constant state of starvation for his entire adolescence, doing odd jobs on an empty stomach like it was nothing. Now it ruins his entire day if he doesn’t get at least three meals. What’s crazier, his body punishes him when he takes advantage of the unrestricted access to food.

Aki’s cooking is good. So good in fact, that for a large span of time, Denji is constantly shifting into “eat as much as possible” mode, left over from when food was scarce. This results in several post-meal puke sessions, made all the more miserable because Denji’s body is pretty much invincible, right? He’d thought whatever devils were made out of meant they were above this shit. Ending up with his face inside a toilet bowl has forced him to rethink his previous assumptions.

It sucks waiting for his body to adjust alongside his brain, but Power and Aki do their best to make it more bearable. The first time Power kneels beside him on the cold tile, he’s sure she’s there to laugh at his misery—it wouldn't be the first time. He’s bewildered when instead, she places both palms on his back and rubs them vigorously up and down in what must be her version of a soothing caress. She doesn’t laugh or even complain, and only when his stomach is empty and he’s slumped against the wall in exhaustion does she get up and fetch Aki, who steps into the bathroom with a soldier's solemnity to deposit a mug of hot tea into Denji’s hands.

It happens enough times where Denji doesn’t bother to ask questions, filing it away as one of those things that fits into an unnamed category of half shitty, half not so shitty—like movie nights.

The three of them have vastly different tastes, Aki with his mind-numbing art house flicks and Power’s penchant for talking animal movies made for literal children. Denji doesn’t know what genre he likes most, but it’s definitely not either of those.

It’s an unspoken rule that they have to watch each one all the way through. Aki is the type to sit in complete silence because talking “ruins the integrity of the film,” whatever that means, and Denji’s running commentary annoys him to no end.

Denji and Power make bets each time on how long it’ll take him to snap or huff out a laugh.

On the rare occasion it’s Denji’s turn to choose, he splits the difference and puts on something from the best seller section at the video store. With this method, they all have to suffer through garbage, but occasionally he’ll stumble across a good movie—one he doesn’t mind staying quiet for. He watches Aki and Power rather than the television screen, their rapt attention filling him with an odd sense of pride.

Denji categorizes those nights as not so shitty.

After a while, he gets so used to the good and bad mundanities of domestic living, he can’t even imagine what a change in routine would look like.

Then they go to Hell, and instead of cat fur, Denji is more often violently jerked awake to the sound of Power’s screams.

She’s more dependent than ever before, clinging to Denji at all times like an extra limb. When the sun begins to set outside their windows, she startles at every sound, working herself into a panic while her nails dig half-moon circles into his arms that he’s sure would leave permanent scars were he fully human.

Looking after her turns out to be even more work than getting up at the crack of dawn to feed Nyako—but for some reason, Denji can’t bring himself to resent her for it.

He takes on the responsibility of comforting her with a resilience he never knew he had, going as far as holding her hand each night while she struggles to calm down enough to fall asleep.

Power isn’t the only one Denji has to keep an eye on.

At first, he doesn’t notice the way Aki will sometimes stop cold in the middle of cutting vegetables, gripping the knife handle hard enough to whiten his knuckles as a shudder of something awful passes through his body. He’s good at hiding it, and when Denji catches the tail end of one of these attacks, Aki brushes it off like it’s nothing.

It’s only after Aki suddenly sinks to the floor in the middle of a conversation, his hand clutching at the place where his missing arm wouldn’t reattach, that Denji realizes he’s overlooked something important.

Phantom limb syndrome, Aki explains, is an ongoing side effect of losing a limb wherein the brain gets mixed signals from the area of severance and translates them in the only way it knows how—as pain. He rambles off some more medical science that goes completely over Denji’s head, but from what he can gather, this affliction is severe, unavoidable, and sometimes life long. There’s no cure, but as with other chronic conditions, the goal is learning to manage it the best you can.

The thought of Aki suffering in silence makes Denji want to deck him as much as it makes him want to find a solution for his pain. He juggles these warring impulses until Aki clenches his jaw and looks away—and Denji understands that Aki won’t spend any extra energy looking after himself by choice.

So Denji and Power force him to.

They keep a hot pack in the cabinet above the microwave, and when Aki shows even the slightest sign of falling under the grip of pain, they warm it up and force him to sit with it pressed to the aching muscle. They know it’s particularly bad when Aki doesn’t bother hiding how much it hurts, and in those moments they take turns massaging his shoulder.

Aki refuses to speak with them during, so Denji and Power talk to each other, treating the situation like it’s something they’ve always done.

Denji doesn’t comment on Aki’s silence. He’s come to understand that there are some things they don't need to say aloud. When you’ve lived with a person long enough, you can share a thought with just a gesture, or pick up on ideas that you can't put into words

Power doesn't need to tell him she appreciates his company on her bad nights. Likewise, he doesn’t need to voice why he doesn’t mind taking care of her. He couldn’t even if he tried.

And when Denji questions Aki on why he’s wearing a glove indoors, Aki only has to shoot a single warning look to shut him up.

Later that night, Aki welcomes the Angel Devil into their apartment.

One arm between the two of them—Denji thinks that's pretty funny, but he doesn’t say so. Instead, he hangs back as Power slinks around their guest like she’s investigating a new play thing.

Angel endures her attention for a short time, then flicks Denji a cool look and tucks his wings in, settling on the couch without a word.

Aki hovers in the foyer, glancing between the three of them like he’s waiting for a fight to break out. It’s such a dumb look on him that Denji takes it upon himself to make the first move.

He plops down on the arm rest and asks Angel outright if he’s ever tried using the thing floating above his head as a frisbee.

Angel rolls his eyes and informs Denji that his halo is sharp enough to slice through metal.

“Sounds like a challenge,” Denji shoots back, and he’s sure Aki’s surprise mirrors his own when the corner of Angel’s mouth lifts into a smirk.

“By all means, be my guest,” he says, inclining his head in invitation.

Denji moves to take Angel up on his offer, but Aki comes back to himself and catches Denji’s hand in a tight hold. He then spends several minutes lecturing them both on how hard it is to get blood stains out of upholstery.

The rest of the night is...well, it’s still weird. But Aki so obviously wants it not to be that they all pretend for his sake. While he cooks dinner, Denji and Power keep their surprise guest company.

Angel is surprisingly talkative when prompted, though he always seems to veer their conversations into the morose. At one point, he stares glumly at Nyako snoozing on the counter and warns them to watch her closely.

“Cats don’t actually have nine lives,” he remarks, “I learned that the hard way.”

Denji doesn’t say anything when Aki lays out enough food to feed a small army, all special dishes that he’d never cook for Power or Denji even if they begged. He digs in without a word, and it’s a good thing his mouth is stuffed, otherwise he’d be gaping at the way Aki carefully feeds Angel, every so often lifting a glass of water to his lips.

They follow up dinner with ice cream—which must be Angel’s favorite as Aki spoons him two extra helpings—and then Power is tugging at Denji’s arm, urging him to come take a bath with her.

He relents under the assumption that Angel will be gone by the time they’re done washing up. But about half an hour later, Denji exits the bathroom toweling off his hair to find Angel is still there, sitting close to Aki. They’re angled towards each other, Aki’s arm thrown over the back of the couch and the fabric of his long sleeve shirt brushing the tops of Angel’s wings.

They both look up at Denji when he enters the room. Angel’s expression appears bored as usual, but Aki’s is strange, his face relaxed in an unfamiliar way.

Denji opens his mouth, then decides better.

Aki stands, helping Angel up with a steady gloved hand to his back, and it takes everything Denji has in him to stay quiet as Aki mumbles an awkward goodnight, shepherding Angel down the hall and into his room.

Denji immediately makes up an excuse to run to the convenience store so he can check the balcony outside Aki’s room from street level. Sure enough, Aki and Angel are leaning up against the railing, heads inclined as if they’re speaking in low tones.

Denji watches Aki light himself a cigarette. He offers the box to Angel, who says something that actually makes Aki laugh, the sound ringing clear even from a distance. Placing a second cigarette in Angel’s mouth, Aki holds his own steady between two fingers, bending forward to meet the smoldering end to Angel’s unlit one. A pinpoint glow of orange flares in the dark space between their faces like a morning star.

Denji turns away, stuffs his hands in his empty pockets, and decides he’ll swing by the convenience store after all.

By the time he gets back, Angel is gone.

Aki is once again sitting on the couch, staring at the blank TV screen with a stupid smile on his face, and Denji has to say something.

It turns out Aki can punch just as hard with one arm as with two.

After that, Denji pays closer attention. Without intending, he starts to notice the way Aki sometimes looks at him and Power—though he can’t focus long enough to figure out what those looks mean. They’re gentle and wistful in a way that makes Denji want to pull at Aki’s cheeks and mold a better expression.

He tries it once, but that puts Aki in a foul mood for hours so he doesn’t do it again.

Things get even more confusing on a night where they’re all sprawled out on the carpet. The movie Aki puts on is so boring it knocks Power out in minutes, her head pillowed in the crook of Denji’s arm. He starts drifting off soon after.

It happens as he’s on the verge of sleep. His mind is muddled to the world around him, but for a second, he imagines he feels Aki place an ear to his chest.

Denji is sure he dreamt it until he walks in on Aki in the same position over a napping Power, his cheek pressed to her collarbone and his brows furrowed in concentration.

Denji backs out of the room and thinks there’s something he’s missing here.

The next time Aki is in the kitchen, Denji tests a theory, loudly announcing that he’s going to take a nap before stretching out on the couch. He feigns sleep long enough to rethink his entire strategy—when he finally hears Aki pause his task and tread softly across the room.

Denji struggles to keep a straight face as Aki kneels beside the couch and lowers an ear to his chest, keeping it there much too long for someone trying not to get caught. Eventually, he heaves a great sigh and pulls away, returning to the kitchen like he’d never left.

So, yeah. There’s the whole listening to their heartbeats thing.

Another quirk to add onto the list of Aki behavior that Denji doesn’t understand but has to accept.

Aki is still Aki. He still shouts at them when they break things, still cooks their meals and tolerates their company—though, maybe tolerates isn’t the right word anymore.

Denji is flipping through the pages of a porno mag when one of the ads catches his eye. A smiling woman in a bikini holds up a machine with a handle on top and an open space in the middle. He thinks it might be some crazy sex thing, but he has Power read the description, and she tells him it’s for making a dessert called “shaved ice.”

Neither of them know what that is, but the ad makes it sound like the best thing ever—

“—and it can be ours for the low price of two-thousand yen!” Power shouts, smacking the magazine against his arm.

Denji tears out the ad and goes to pester Aki into buying it for them.

Aki bitches and moans about wasting money on useless shit, but after getting it out of his system, he puts down the laundry he was folding and snatches the page from Denji’s hand, dialing the number with a sour expression. He’s curt over the phone, reading off his credit card details like someone has a gun to his head. Denji wishes he could see the face of the unlucky salesperson on the other line.

“Denji.” Aki says, and Denji tilts his head before realizing he’s not being spoken to. Aki pauses, and then directs a puzzled frown his way. “Last name?”

Denji shrugs.

Aki blinks at him, the furrow between his brow smoothing as if in stunned realization. After a bizarre stretch of silence, he readjusts his hold on the handset and glances away, mumbling out, “Hayakawa. Hayakawa Denji.”

When he eventually hangs up, his gaze stays trained on the far wall like he’s lost in thought. Denji decides not to test his luck by sticking around, but Aki catches his wrist as he goes to leave.

“What?” Denji grumbles. “I said thank you, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t, actually,” Aki replies dryly, but there’s no real reproval in his tone. “That’s not—just hold on a minute.”

His faltering words give Denji pause. He shakes off Aki’s hand but stays put.

“Listen,” Aki begins, messing with the pile of clothes he’d left aside. He unfolds a shirt, holds it out, and then folds it again, all the while not meeting Denji’s eye. “If you or Power ever needed— If for some reason I wasn’t here...and you needed something for documents…”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?” Denji asks, and thinks of their work. “If you’re traveling we can call you.”

Aki turns to him then, something unreadable in his thousand-yard stare.

It’s like facing a door labeled, “do not open.”

Aki sighs and looks away. “Forget it.”

And Denji does forget—until a fews days later when a package arrives at their doorstep postmarked to one Hayakawa Denji.

Placing the box on the living room table, he studies the characters of his given name, covering and uncovering them with his palm. He’d never noticed how incomplete they looked without a surname to go before. The sight turns rusty gears in his head, almost like he’s on the verge of understanding an important truth.

Power bowls him over in her excitement before he comes to a conclusion.

They leave the setup to Aki, who confiscates the shaved ice maker and reads the instructions with the two of them hovering over his shoulder. It turns out to be very simple, just a matter of filling the upper compartment with ice and turning the lever. The machine wobbles below Aki’s hand, so Denji holds it steady, watching with fascination as snow-like flakes collect in the bowl underneath. The novelty wears off a little when he dips a finger in to taste and finds it flavorless like regular ice, but Aki bats his hand away and pulls out a bottle of blue liquid.

“Flavor syrup,” he says, scanning the label. “Hawaiian Blast—what’s that supposed to be?”

Whatever it is, it tastes delicious drizzled over the ice flakes, sweet and refreshing like no dessert Denji has ever had.

Power gobbles up the first serving faster than Aki can make more, and he’s unsympathetic to the excruciating brain freeze that earns her.

She flicks the lever and turns to Denji with a conspiratorial grin. “Think it would work with blood?”

“Great idea,” Aki says, chin in hand. “Why not make this perfectly innocent activity fucked up and evil?”

Power sticks her vibrant blue tongue out at him.

Denji hates getting cut open on principle, so he appeases her by mashing up strawberries with condensed milk into a gory looking topping they can all enjoy. Even Nyako gets to lick a drop off his finger.

Aki takes his first bite and gazes into his bowl like it’s a window into a far off time and place. “I haven’t had this since I was a kid.”

“Old man,” Denji snickers.

Power echoes him at double the volume, falling back and kicking her legs in the air. The motion disturbs Nyako, who clambers off her lap and settles at Aki’s feet

“Oh, shut it,” Aki says, but the hint of a smile softens his tone into fondness. He scratches at Nyako’s ear. “At least you’re on my side.”

Shaken by her cat’s betrayal, Power stammers out, “‘Tis only pity! Nyako feels nothing but pity for humans, just like her master!”

“Is that so?” Aki raises a brow and—to Power’s great dismay—makes a show of lifting Nyako into his lap. “Lucky us then.”

“Yeah,” Denji says, a brilliant grin working its way onto his face. “Lucky us.”

[thebluestbluewords]

9 for the OTP questions? Choose any ship you’d like!

Thank you nonnie! Sorry for taking almost a week to get to this, hope you enjoy :)

Number 9-- Pirate AU: Who is the pirate? Who is the member of the royal family who did not sign up for this?

(There are two not-fics below-- rotten four as is my brand, and mal/audrey)

There’s two ways I could go with this:

either THIS is the Maldry rivals-to-friends-to-lovers fic, where Mal is a dashing pirate who is young and rebellious and was kicked off of her ship by her mother, who wants her to attend the young lady's academy on the mainland and educate herself in the ways of “proper” society so that they can infiltrate the rich ships better and get the reputation as the gentlewoman pirates that they deserve. Of course, in this fic Mal meets Audrey along the way, and hates her immediately. Seriously, this girl likes PINK and PRINCESSES but also NOT PRINCESSES because she is NOT INTO GIRLS and it’s INFURIATING.

“Mal,” says Evie, who is Mal’s best friend from the pirate ship who is actually delighted to be attending the princess academy and is learning new ways to hide knives in her fancy dresses every day “Babe.”

“Fuck off,” says Mal, who has known Evie since they were six and had a falling-out so dramatic that they sailed on separate ships next to each other for four years afterwards.

“You’re so gay for her.” says Evie, who is already hooking up with Mal in their free time because it’s easy and comfortable and they both enjoy it well enough. “I know that look, Mal Bertha.”

“There’s no look,” says Mal, sulking.

“Just ask her out with all of your dashing pirate charm.” Evie says. She has not stopped applying her lipgloss throughout this conversation, and it’s not as distracting as it should be for either girl.

So Mal goes out and picks up a new pair of boots with less bloodstains than her old ones, and rents a boat (renting is like stealing, except it’s only for a while. It’s practically borrowing, really, except for how Evie has drilling it into Mal’s mind after a few too many incidents with lost books that BORROWING happens when you’ve ASKED FIRST) and decides to turn on the full pirate charm

Audrey is not impressed, and does not break up with her boyfriend, Chad Charming, over this attempt at wooing. She is a princess, and in NO HECKING WAY did she sign up to be….harassed!! By a pirate no less!! Everyone knows who her mother really is, no matter if she’s here under an “education decree” from the “crown prince” for the “children” of the exiled *former* smuggler’s community by the coast.

….Mal steals a boat, and tries again. Only this time with kidnapping.

Audrey is impressed with the dedication, if nothing else. She may not like a pirate, but she can appreciate a girl who will dedicate at least six hours of her life to plotting and stealing a whole finishing vessel from the coast. And cook her a lobster dinner on it.

Mal is delighted by this turn of events. Evie is thrilled that she finally has time without her best friend where she can FINALLY decorate their room the way she wants. Audrey is reluctant at first, but eventually comes around to the idea of dating a bad girl.

….and also there’s a bit where Mal gets dumped in the water and Audrey, despite Not Signing Up For This Bull Crap, has to jump in and save her. From about two feet of water. Because Audrey was being a reasonable person and taking her shirt off so that she could get the full benefits of the sun. Make that vitamin D.

Mal is so gay that she walked off the side of the boat when it happened.

The OTHER answer is that it’s a rotten ot4 story, and Mal is an evil princess who gets sent away to live on a pirate ship for a year by her mother, who wants her to become more evil and also learn some leadership skills. The other three are the pirates who are supposed to teach her their wicked ways of stealing and drinking and cruelty.

Unfortunately for Maleficent’s plans, the shipping journey doesn’t go exactly according to plan.

Mal does not fall overboard this time, but what DOES happen is that the OTHER wicked princess on board the ship is too perfect for words, and when it’s revealed that actually, Evie is the famous pirate princesa espelho and NOT another wicked boarding school member, Mal has a full blown gay crisis.

“Well YEAH,” says Jay, who is also dating essentially pirate royalty. “She’s like, basically the coolest person you’ll ever meet, aside from me. What, did you think she was one of us regular wicked school brats?”

“I don’t know what I expected,” Mal tells her pillow, which she is burying her face in during said Gay Crisis. “She’s too good to be true.”

“Nah.” Jay says, mouth full of ye olde cheetos or something. “She’s pretty lame sometimes. You should ask her about what her room looked like when she first got her own ship. All dark and gloomy.”

“WHAT” shrieks Mal, who has been working on changing her bunk to the darkest, deepest corner since she first arrived. “She THREW OUT a room that was dark AND gloomy in favor of what?”

“Better lighting for her makeup tutorials, mostly.” Jay says, not paying attention anymore. “I think she might also have a full journalism setup there too. She won’t tell me anymore, not after what happened with the caustic tar.

Mal is horrifically curious about the caustic tar now. “What was it made from,do you know?” she asks, because she’s still working on how to cohabitate with other people peacefully despite growing up running around an evil academy since she was a child.

“Nothing important,” says Jay casually, throwing a ball at the ceiling.. “She had some boards replaced, scrubbed off all the skin on her palms fixing the parts of the door she didn’t want to replace, and then made a very cool liquid version of the tar for spraying on fabric to get natural wear and tear patterns on new garments.

“Sick.” Mal says, and before she can make any other comments:

“There was the matter of the handprints though,” Jay say, still extremely fake-casually. .”they were weird, you know, because Evie had them on her back for weeks, with the tar and all, and they were definitely dainty. Almost like some girl kissed her around the neck while there was still tar on her hands.”

Mal throws a shoe at him, knocking both the ball and the boy out of the way, and shoves past to find Evie.

Because the roles are already a mess for this (I am very small and very tired place just roll with it as I am not editing this before I post) Mal runs into exactly the pirate royalty she doesn’t want to see.

“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” asks Carlos, who is basically a tiny perfect decoy in this world. His mother had a monopoly on the exotics trade for a good few years when he was a child, and would tie him to the mast and make him cry for mercy as a way of luring other ships hoping to rescue a nobleman’s child closer. It worked disturbingly well, and now at sixteen, Carlos is both a pirate elite and terrified of falling into the water.

Mal pushes past, because she is as always a little bit of an asshole, and goes off to find her OWN pirate princess to date. She doesn’t need any stupid boys who just look at her like she’s dumb when she doesn’t know an anchor form a bowline. She doesn’t need to know. She’s going to be managing her own crew eventually, and they’ll do all of the heavy lifting aspects of it all. Mal is simply going to chill out and wait for the princess to come to her.

Of course, because this is a pirate story, this is when another ship sees the school experience boat, and decides that the best experience for the young baddies to have is explosions. Lots of them.

First hand, even.

The pirates (Evie and Jay and Carlos included) get to stations.

Mal, confused and distressed by this turn of events, is about halfway from transforming her whole shit and dealing with the dragon claw marks later, decides to wait in the hold. She is not getting paid for this experience, and it’s so beyond her ability to control what other ships do, mom.

Mal might have a few mommy issues in addition to the princess issues. A balance there.

“Fuck” Mal says, instead of dictating a letter to her mother like she should when entering a potentially life-threatening situation. “Now I’m never going to be able to talk to her.”

Mal does not die, Evie does not die, neither of them actually manage to steal anything in this story except for each other’s hearts, and then they talk at length about their feelings and how they should become a mean fighting team.

The next pirate raid (intentional), they’re ready. They’ve practiced all of their cool two-person moves together, and they’re ready for this.

Two minutes into the battle, Jay gets taken by the unwitting second team and disappears. Mal, predictably, flips her shit when this happens.

Aaaaand now it is late and I’ve written up enough of a piece of a fic I won’t write for this hour. Hope you enjoyed one or both of these ideas, nonny.

(the second one ends with Evie and Carlos dragging Mal along on an adventure to get Jay back, where Mal learns how not to be useless on a ship anymore and she and Evie bond as people and they keep Carlos and Mal in turns from having a nervous breakdown as they get their boyfriend/BFF back and then they all realize that ACTUALLY they work best as a foursome and do that)

[ri-ahhh]

desperate

Grayson makes his girlfriend all kinds of desperate by posting those photoshoot pictures for everyone to see

warnings: long af, about 4.6K, but mostly sexy times

***

MJ Macias is in a hurry as she huffs and struggles across the threshold of the front door and into the Dolan boys’ house. She practically lives there, so she had taken it upon herself to do the weekly food shop for all three of them. Her arms are laden with reusable shopping bags that are filled to the brim with groceries from Trader Joe’s, so she bumps the door closed with her hip behind her before waddling as fast as she can into the kitchen.

“Hey,” she greets Ethan hurriedly, heaving up and plopping down the heavy bags onto the granite countertops.

Ethan stands in the middle of the kitchen, minding his own business, eating a banana and scrolling on his phone. He nods his head in return, his mouth otherwise occupied by a mouthful of fruit.

MJ whips off her sunglasses and tosses them with her keys onto the island catch-all plate, simultaneously toeing off her AF1’s. “Can you do me a solid and put those away, please?” she asks. Her body feels hot despite the fact that they keep their AC on typical-boy freezing temperatures. “I gotta, um…take a poop. Yeah.”

Ethan eyes her suspiciously and chomps off another bite of his banana as he does so. Her flushed face, her twitchy hands, her slightly breathless voice, are all telling a different story. Unfortunately, he’s around his brother and his girlfriend often enough to know their horny tells, which are usually his cues to get the hell away from them; those two really didn’t give a fuck who was around when they got desperate enough.

“No you don’t. You saw his douchey Instagram post, didn’t you?”

MJ at least has the decency to blush a little as she rolls her eyes and digs through the black hole of her purse in search of her phone. There was no point in denying it if he was gonna call her out like that. “Fine! Would you rather me tell you I’m off to suck your brother’s dick? Because I am.”

Ethan retches a little. Drama queen. He looks down at the half-eaten banana in his hand, grimaces, and sits it on the countertop he had just been leaning against. “Ugh. So many terrible, terrible images I can’t stop now.”

Phone in hand, MJ is already halfway to the hallway when she stops and turns to give him a deadpan look. “You’ve caught us full-on fucking, E. Just think, you’ve already seen worse.”

She smirks when he groans loudly, his head tipping back exasperatedly. If there’s one thing that provides her with endless entertainment, it’s pushing her boyfriend’s brother’s sometimes oversensitive buttons. “Okay, okay, MJ, leave now please, before you inflict more mental scarring on my poor virgin brain. I’ll just… pretend like I don’t have any idea what’s going on in there.”

MJ scoffs. ‘Virgin brain’ is the biggest lie she’s ever heard pass his lips.

It also jogs a helpful memory in her head from two nights ago.

It started when she had woken up in the middle of the night completely parched, and padded herself sleepily into the kitchen at 3 AM for some water. The muffled yet tell-tale noises breaking the silence blanketing the rest of the house should have been her warning, but in her defense, she had still been half asleep. Cut to zombie-esque MJ suddenly turning wide awake when she rounded the corner to find Ethan on his knees on the kitchen floor, his head buried between his girlfriend Evie’s legs where she sat perched on the counter. A nearly inaudible squeak of surprise was the only thing she had left behind before booking it back to bed, leaving the couple none the wiser in the dim light of the kitchen.

She had still been thirsty, she remembers grumpily, and was left with her own mental images burned in her mind, which she had spent a good portion of the rest of that night trying to put out.

It’s only fair, as payback, that he doesn't find out that she and Gray have been in the exact same position several times before.

Alright, so it’s a little hypocritical for her to continue to dig at him, but she does so anyways without any guilt whatsoever. “Hm. Well, at least we’re behind closed doors. You should probably remember: the kitchen is for cooking, not for eating.”

She gives him a grin and a pointed look at the counter behind him, leaving Ethan looking momentarily confused before understanding dawns on him. “MJ, shut up. Serious— wait!”

“Thanks for putting the food away, E!” she calls over her shoulder as she continues across the living room, laughing heartily at the furious blush on his face.

MJ is still chuckling when her phone buzzes in her hand. Her heart lifts when she sees it’s from Grayson, asking if that was her he could hear Ethan yelling at. She swipes the text notification away and bites her lip as she stares at the new photo that is her background wallpaper. Thousands of other girls are probably looking at that picture of him laying in bed the same way she is now. What they don’t have, she thought smugly, is the real thing waiting for them on the other side of a door.

That’s exactly what she finds when she enters their room: him sprawled out on that very bed, looking superbly comfy in his athletic shorts and soft t-shirt, barefoot, his skin a fresh golden tone from doing laps in the pool earlier today. His eyes dart away from his phone, which he tosses to the other side of the bed when he hears her come in.

“I thought that was you,” he says with a bright smile, reaching his arms out to her. “C’mere. I haven't seen you all day.”

Not exactly true, as they had crossed paths a few times in passing in the morning, but the effect had been there since they were both separately busy. She doesn’t correct him and ignores his grabby hands, too, despite how much her body longs to dive into them.

She shuts the door quietly behind her, her green eyes appreciating the real-life version of the man in those photos. Those photos that she had gotten a tiny preview of a few days ago when Grayson had showed her the email, but were nothing compared to the final product. When she saw his Instagram post right when she got in her car to come home, her mind, heart, and pussy were all instantly fighting with each other to process the coinciding beauty and sexiness of the images blessing her eyes.

Now, she wants to take the time to appreciate every aspect of him. To let her brain wrap around how he can be so beautiful inside and out; to let her heart simply feel how much she loves him; and to let her body be a tool for his enjoyment.

Her lust must be evident on her face as she stares at him, unmoving from her spot by the door, because Grayson’s bright smile turns knowing. He loves the effect it has on her when he shows off what’s really hers to his millions of followers. It’s mostly why he does it. Admittedly, he’s self-aware enough to realize he thrives off the praise and attention from his fans, but he’s also selfish enough to do it simply for the rise it gets out of his beautiful girlfriend; he knows it could only end in his favor.

He also knows MJ like the back of his hand by now, and he hasn’t seen her this turned on without him even touching her since he made that post in Australia about saving the duckling. The marathon session he had been rewarded with after that was unmatched to this day.

Grayson has a feeling now might be the time.

MJ is finally brought back to her senses a little bit when he shifts up the pillows to get more comfy and to allow himself a better view of what he knows is about to go down. She takes off her black baseball cap and tosses it to the corner of the bedroom, eyes never leaving his as she shakes out her wavy waist-length hair. Her delicate fingers tug at the drawstring of her grey sweats — the very ones of his that he’s wearing in the pictures, actually — and steps out of them when they fall to the floor. Finally, her casual black body suit is all that adorns her body, and she pulls the spaghetti straps down her arms so it can slide to the ground as well.

Grayson licks his lips and let’s his hazel eyes absorb the delectable curves of her body as she stalks over to him like a panther on the hunt for her prey. She climbs onto the bed with their eyes still locked, small smiles tugging at both of their lips, until she’s straddling his fully-clothed waist.

“Who gave you permission to be that sexy online?” she asks quietly, combing his hair back with the manicured fingers of one hand and using the other to steady herself on his shoulder as she sits back and wastes no time rocking her hips over his lap. “Making all those girls want you. Jealous they can’t have you.”

Grayson bites his plump lower lip and brushes her long tresses over her shoulders so her tits are fully exposed for him. He takes a few moments to admire his favorite part of her body while his large hands find her hips to help her grind against him. He can feel her wetness already seeping through his shorts, and it makes him dizzy that she’s this turned on by him without him having to do anything at all.

“I thought you liked it when I make other girls jealous,” he retorts, meeting her eyes once again with a grin. MJ gasps when his hands sweep upwards to cup her sensitive breasts, where he rubs his thumbs a couple of times teasingly over her nipples before dropping one down to swipe through her slit. He moans when he brings the digit to his mouth, sucking the coating of her sweet, earthy arousal off his skin. “Mm. In fact, I know you like it.”

He’s so perfectly feeding into this sexy-and-I-know-it douchebag fetish of hers and it’s making her head swim dangerously. MJ moans herself and pushes his hand away from his mouth so she can kiss him deeply, sloppily, her tongue finding his in his mouth and sliding alongside it sensually.

“I fucking love it,” she whispers hotly when they pull back for air, her chest heaving with both desire and the attempts to catch her breath.

She uses the downtime to take hold of the hem of his shirt and tug upwards. Grayson lifts his arms in assistance until the garment is over his head and thrown across the room. MJ’s fingers are instantly drawn to the newest addition of body art inked into him: the black-and-grey photorealistic peach on his ribs.

For all intents and purposes, it’s her name etched into his skin forever. Usually when she sees it, it just makes her heart extra soft for him. Now, it only drives her lust for him through the roof, because if only those millions of people knew what that peach really meant.

MJ dives back in to kiss him again, both of their hands grabbing at every bit of exposed skin they can reach as their lips and teeth and tongues clash roughly, perfectly. They make out like that for a few more minutes until MJ’s finally able to comprehend that he’s fully hard beneath her. She could very easily keep grinding on him until she came, but she decides to focus on him. Really, it’s almost selfish how desperate she is to make him cum first.

Her breaths are loud and heavy as she bites her lip and scoots down his body with a grip in the waistband of his shorts, dragging them down with her. Grayson lifts his ass off the bed and hisses when his dick springs free, hot and hard and throbbing for her. MJ’s mouth waters at the sight, and she sits back on her knees with her eyes glued to him as she throws her hair up in a messy bun. With it sufficiently pulled out of her face, she settles on her belly in-between his legs, getting comfy; she’d be there for a while if she has it her way.

Her legs naturally bend at the knees and cross at the ankles, looking innocent and seductive as she takes him in one petite hand, the other scratching her long nails along the skin of his abdomen, hip, and upper thigh. She makes sure his eyes are on hers when she turns her head and licks up the whole underside of him like an ice cream cone. Grayson sighs and interlaces his fingers behind his head to watch her work, just like the spoiled prince she’s treating him as.

“You’re so hot,” she murmurs after giving the head a lascivious kiss. Grayson moans softly and throws his head back, swallowing hard when she follows it with a gentle suckle of the whole tip — just teasing little snippets of what’s to come. “Makes me crazy how sexy you are, Bear.”

With that, she dips her head lower and takes more of him in her warm, wet mouth a few times, then pulls back and drizzles some of the saliva pooling in her cheeks onto his dick. She repeats this again. And again. And again, her eyes shining mischievously as she watches him get more and more worked up the longer she goes without giving him exactly what she knows he wants.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hazel eyes glazed over as she spreads the considerable amount of slickness from her mouth all over his shaft. She’s got him as desperate as she set out to, which is only confirmed when he finally begs, “Suck it, baby, please.”

MJ grins against his skin and, with his dick sufficiently wet, gives in instantly. She dips her head and takes the first couple of inches into her mouth, then a few more on the next pass, until finally she has enough of him in her so that his tip is tickling the back of her throat. She hollows her cheeks and twists her hand on the way back up, continuing until she’s got a rhythm and pressure that has him moaning unashamedly amidst the filthy sounds created by her mouth on him.

“So fucking good,” he groans, gripping the base of her messy bun and holding her down so her spit and drool pools at the base of him, dripping down his balls. Tears start to stream from her eyes as MJ allows him to keep her there until she has to tap his hard stomach, trying to lift off of him to gasp for air.  

Grayson pulls up on her hair at once to let her, swiping at the tears on her freckled cheekbones for her as well. MJ giggles breathlessly and strokes one hand over him while the other cradles his sac. “Because you have the best dick, Gray. So big and thick and nice. I love your dick,” she moans and ducks down to suck one of his balls into her mouth, giving it a warm bath before the other gets the same treatment. “Mmm. Want it back in my mouth right now.”

“Yeah,” he growls, his eyes shutting momentarily when her lips wrap back around him. He doesn’t want to miss a second of her pretty face so close to his cock, though, so he opens them once again and demands, “Wanna fuck your mouth.”

God, yes. “Do it, baby, I’m ready,” she instructs with a moan. Her pussy throbs greedily when she takes him back all the way down, relaxing her throat and concentrating on breathing through her nose when he bends his knees and starts thrusting gently.

His hand returns to her hair for leverage and holds her head steady as he finds a tempo with his hips that she can handle. MJ fights her gag reflex and does her best to look up so she can watch his beautiful face with teary green eyes for as long as she can. Giving head has always been something she’s relatively enjoyed, but Grayson has taken her appreciation for it to a whole new level. Never before had she craved the feeling of her throat being stretched, the slight ache of her jaw, the way her eyes watered, like she does with him.

Grayson’s sounds are getting more frequent and needy, music to MJ’s ears solely for the fact that they feed her ego and drive her own arousal. She’s always loved that he wasn't afraid to be as loud as he usually is outside of the bedroom, inside it as well; whether he was working out or talking or getting his dick sucked, he had zero regard for his volume in respect of his twin just down the hall.

“Fuuuckk,” he moans, almost painfully so, and tugs roughly on her hair once again to pull her off of him as he sits up. He’s panting, a cute flush tinting his cheeks and neck and chest. She catches the sexy glint of one of his tooth jewels as he grits his teeth with a little snarl in attempts to hold himself together. “C’mere.”

MJ whines and follows his physical order, but not his verbal one. His cock is an absolute mess with her spit, a beautiful sight to see, and she rubs it all into his tight balls and his shaft with two hands. “Put it back in, Grayson, I want it in my throat,” she pleads, opening her mouth wide for him.

A deep, guttural noise passes his lips, his eyes blown out with desperation and desire. His visceral reaction to her defiance sends a gush of moisture to her already dripping pussy as he drags her up to him by her hair.

They’re nose to nose, breathing heavily, and MJ expects him to pull her by the back of the neck to kiss him, but he just reaches a big hand up to wipe the moisture from both her eyes and her mouth off of her flushed face.

“Ride me,” he growls, his fingers moving from the soft skin of her cheeks to the more delicate area of her throat. He squeezes gently, and she’s so turned on, that the simple hitch in her breath that results from it makes her eyes roll back and her clit pulse. “Ride me as good as you suck my dick, MJ.”

MJ whimpers and lunges forward to crash her lips against his, moving from the middle of his legs to straddle him with a knee on either side of his hips. Without breaking the heated seal of their mouths, she lifts up onto her shins and reaches behind her to find his cock and line him up with her center. If he wants a good ride, she’ll sure as hell give him one.

Grayson’s moan is synchronized with her own as she sinks down on him, so wet and ready for him it’s just one easy movement until she’s balls deep on him.

“God, this pussy,” he growls, grabbing a handful of her thick ass and following it with a sharp spank to her skin, causing her to yelp into the minimal space between them. He bites his lip and looks up at her darkly as she wraps her arms loosely around his neck, her nails digging into the sinews of his broad back. “Go, Peach. Fuck me.”

Those were usually her choice words, so something about hearing them in his deep, raspy voice said to her, sends her head reeling and her hips rocking of their own accord. She is fucking him; they both know everything she’s doing right now is for him. If she happens to cum in the meantime, it will simply be an added bonus this afternoon.

If she were taking herself into account, MJ would start by grinding on him, building that pressure in her core by stimulating her clit. But she wants to do everything she knows he likes, all for him. She looks at his face, his body, and sees those insane photos on Instagram. How many girls would do anything to be in her place?

A lot. Too many, really. The renewed thought both drives her crazy and makes her heady with a weird sense of momentary superiority.

MJ moans and starts rising up and down on him, bouncing on his lap so her tits are jiggling right in his face. Grayson grunts and watches intently until he takes them both in his hands, squeezing roughly. He releases one and wraps that arm around her waist, bringing her forward so he can suck her nipple of the breast he’s still holding into his warm mouth.

“Lay down,” she says breathlessly after a couple of minutes of letting him indulge, pushing gently on his chest. Grayson follows suit. He swallows hard when she drags her nails down the hard ridges of his abs before bracing herself there with her palms and making sweeping circles with her hips. As much as he loves a face-full of her tits, nothing beats the full view of her body when he's flat on his back like this. Her dark hair curtains the soft, blissful features of her face; her breasts shake enticingly; the respective dips of her waist and swells of her hips are more pronounced by the way she’s sitting astride him; her own lean muscles work hard as she moves gracefully, sensually, to give him as much pleasure as she can.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs lowly, overwhelmed by the sight of her on top of him, working just for him. Without him even realizing, his thumb instinctively finds her clit, his mind and his body hardwired to make sure she’s satisfied as well no matter what.

A new rush of heat floods her body at his touch, and the tip of his cock is hitting just right on that spot behind her belly. Her head tips back with a high-pitch gasp and she fights for a second between instinct to reach her own peak and the competitive, determined urge to get him to cum first.

It takes all her willpower to take the latter route and gather both of his hands in hers, interlacing their fingers and pinning them above his head. His biceps bulge obscenely, his shoulders and triceps equally pronounced, and MJ moans wantonly at the sight as she changes the motion of her hips. She uses the new leverage and goes back to moving up and down on him, a slight smirk gracing her lips when she watches his attention zero in on her tits swaying over him from the way she’s leaning above him.

Unfortunately (or, who is she kidding, fortunately) for her, Grayson also realizes the advantages of this new position. His knees raise behind her so his feet are flat on the mattress, and he grins when he starts thrusting full-force up into her. He would usually wrap his arms around her waist to hold her steady, but those abs are coming in clutch as he achieves the same effect with his hands captured above him.

He knows this is one of her favorite positions, when he jackhammers her like this, and sure enough her moans and whimpers shift in pitch and frequency as her body goes stiff. She can only take him like this, and any thoughts of other girls and jealousy and pride or any other emotion like them fly out of her mind as her body’s desires take over her brain’s thinking power.

“Fuckfuckfuck, Grayson!” she squeals, her eyes squeezing shut and breaking their mutual gaze as she cums and cums hard.

“Yes, baby, cum for Bear,” he grunts, snatching one of his hands from hers so he can grab her face by the cheeks and pull her down for a sloppy, desperate kiss.

It takes her almost a minute to come down enough for her to be coherent, and Grayson smiles smugly as he sits them up and trails his mouth to the spot behind her ear that never fails to make her shiver. “You love my dick, Peach? Hm? Who’s dick just made you cum that hard?”

MJ groans and grasps a handful of his dark hair when he bites into the junction of her neck and shoulder. “Yours,” she whispers. Her body is exhausted, but she starts moving over him again, tugging on his long, sweaty hair to pull him away from her skin so she can look him in the eye. If there’s anything that gets Grayson Dolan off, it’s eye contact. Eye contact, and dirty praises of his prowess. “Didn’t even need to touch my clit, it’s so good.”  

She clenches purposefully around him as she speeds up, and Grayson’s eyes roll back for a second. It’s MJ’s turn for her pride to swell, as the simple action puts him right at the edge. “Fuck yeah… ungh, MJ — gonna cum…”

She’s off him in an instant, back on her tummy as she strokes him off into her open mouth, her eyes big and green and sparkling as he whines with every spurt of his hot seed that gets released. The first couple of shots are powerful enough to miss her mouth entirely and land half on her face, which catches her by surprise, but she giggles as the rest find their place on her tongue.

“Holy shit,” he groans after a few moments, his chest heaving as he stares down at her with his white cum pooled on the surface of her tongue. It takes him an extra second to process the streaks on her face, and he smiles with a shake of his head. She grins back and swallows, swiping her finger across the bridge of her nose to collect the extra and sucks it into her mouth.

“Best nut I’ve ever tasted,” she says truthfully. Take his douchey captions as you will, but regular exercise and a vegan diet make the best cum. It’s science.

“Unreal,” he murmurs, plucking a Kleenex from the nightstand to clean the rest of her face, then reaches down to hook his hands under her arms and drag her up to lay next to him.

MJ smiles and nuzzles into his neck as she lets him pull her close to his chest. She reaches blindly behind her for the blanket to throw over their sweat-cooled bodies. “That’s my line. That’s what started this whole tryst in the first place. Because of how unreal you look in those photos.”

Grayson hums, and he kisses her temple. “You’re prettier. More beautiful. Absolutely stunning.”

MJ scoffs and blushes. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be used to him complimenting her like that, with such conviction. “I don’t think so, but okay.”

He shakes his head, his eyes closing as he starts to drift off. “You have boobs. You win by default. Nothing’s better than your boobs. Except your pretty face.”

She giggles and snuggles closer with a yawn. There’s a minute of comfortable silence, until she breaks it with her sex-rasped voice. “Oh, by the way, I caught your brother going down on Evie in the kitchen the other night. In case we need leverage in the future.”

Grayson grins, his eyes still shut as he nuzzles the top of her head. “Nice work, baby. But can we please take a nap? You wore me out.”

“Yeah, I did,” she says smugly to herself. She should probably get up to pee, but in her mind right now it’s worth the risk if she doesn't have to move. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Peach. Now go the fuck to sleep.”

[holyhellpod]

Holy Hell: 3. Metanarrativity: Who’s the Deleuze and who’s the Guattari in your relationship? aka the analysis no one asked for.

In this ep, we delve into authorship, narrative, fandom and narrative meaning. And somehow, as always, bring it back to Cas and Misha Collins.

(Note: the reason I didn’t talk about Billie’s authorship and library is because I completely forgot it existed until I watched season 13 “Advanced Thanatology” again, while waiting for this episode to upload. I’ll find a way to work her into later episodes tho!)

I had to upload it as a new podcast to Spotify so if you could just re-subscribe that would be great! Or listen to it at these other links.

Please listen to the bit at the beginning about monetisation and if you have any questions don’t hesitate to message me here.

Apple | Spotify | Google

Transcript under the cut!

Warnings: discussions of incest, date rape, rpf, war, 9/11, the bush administration, abuse, mental health, addiction, homelessness. Most of these are just one off comments, they’re not full discussions.

Meta-Textuality: Who’s the Deleuze and who’s the Guattari in your relationship?

In the third episode of Season 6, “The Third Man,” Balthazar says to Cas, “you tore up the whole script and burned the pages.” That is the fundamental idea the writers of the first five seasons were trying to sell us: whatever grand plan the biblical God had cooking up is worth nothing in face of the love these men have—for each other and the world. Sam, Bobby, Cas and Dean will go to any lengths to protect one another and keep people safe. What’s real? What’s worth saving? People are real. Families are worth saving. 

This show plugs free will as the most important thing a person, angel, demon or otherwise can have. The fact of the matter is that Dean was always going to fight against the status quo, Sam was always going to go his own way, and Bobby was always going to do his best for his boys. The only uncertainty in the entire narrative is Cas. He was never meant to rebel. He was never meant to fall from Heaven. He was supposed to fall in line, be a good soldier, and help bring on the apocalypse, but Cas was the first agent of free will in the show’s timeline. Sam followed Lucifer, Dean followed Michael, and John gave himself up for the sins of his children, at once both a God and Jesus figure. But Cas wasn’t modelled off anyone else. He is original. There are definitely some parallels to Ruby, but I would argue those are largely unintentional. Cas broke the mold. 

That’s to say nothing of the impact he’s had on the fanbase, and the show itself, which would not have reached 15 seasons and be able to end the way they wanted it to without Cas and Misha Collins. His back must be breaking from carrying the entire show. 

But what the holy hell are we doing here today? Not just talking about Cas. We’re talking about metanarrativity: as I define it, and for purposes of this episode, the story within a story, and the act of storytelling. We’re going to go through a select few episodes which I think exemplify the best of what this show has to offer in terms of framing the narrative. We’ll talk about characters like Chuck and Becky and the baby dykes in season 10. And most importantly we’ll talk about the audience’s role, our role, in the reciprocal relationship of storytelling. After all, a tv show is nothing without the viewer.

I was in fact introduced to the concept of metanarrativity by Supernatural, so the fact that I’m revisiting it six years after I finished my degree to talk about the show is one of life’s little jokes.

 I’m brushing off my degree and bringing out the big guns (aka literary theorists) to examine this concept. This will be yet another piece of analysis that would’ve gone well in my English Lit degree, but I’ll try not to make it dry as dog shit. 

First off, I’m going to argue that the relationship between the creators of Supernatural and the fans has always been a dialogue, albeit with a power imbalance. Throughout the series, even before explicitly metanarrative episodes like season 10 “Fan Fiction” and season 4 “the monster at the end of this book,” the creators have always engaged in conversations with the fans through the show. This includes but is not limited to fan conventions, where the creators have actual, live conversations with the fans. Misha Collins admitted at a con that he’d read fanfiction of Cas while he was filming season 4, but it’s pretty clear even from the first season that the creators, at the very least Eric Kripke, were engaging with fans. The show aired around the same time as Twitter and Tumblr were created, both of which opened up new passageways for fans to interact with each other, and for Twitter and Facebook especially, new passageways for fans to interact with creators and celebrities.

But being the creators, they have ultimate control over what is written, filmed and aired, while we can only speculate and make our own transformative interpretations. But at least since s4, they have engaged in meta narrative construction that at once speaks to fans as well as expands the universe in fun and creative ways. My favourite episodes are the ones where we see the Winchesters through the lens of other characters, such as the season 3 episode “Jus In Bello,” in which Sam and Dean are arrested by Victor Henriksen, and the season 7 episode “Slash Fiction” in which Dean and Sam’s dopplegangers rob banks and kill a bunch of people, loathe as I am to admit that season 7 had an effect on any part of me except my upchuck reflex. My second favourite episodes are the meta episodes, and for this episode of Holy Hell, we’ll be discussing a few: The French Mistake, he Monster at the end of this book, the real ghostbusters, Fan Fiction, Metafiction, and Don’t Call Me Shurley. I’ll also discuss Becky more broadly, because, like, of course I’ll be discussing Becky, she died for our sins. 

Let’s take it back. The Monster At The End Of This Book — written by Julie Siege and Nancy Weiner and directed by Mike Rohl. Inarguably one of the better episodes in the first five seasons. Not only is Cas in it, looking so beautiful, but Sam gets something to do, thank god, and it introduces the character of Chuck, who becomes a source of comic relief over the next two seasons. The episode starts with Chuck Shurley, pen named Carver Edlund after my besties, having a vision while passed out drunk. He dreams of Sam and Dean larping as Feds and finding a series of books based on their lives that Chuck has written. They eventually track Chuck down, interrogate him, and realise that he’s a prophet of the lord, tasked with writing the Winchester Gospels. The B plot is Sam plotting to kill Lilith while Dean fails to get them out of the town to escape her. The C plot is Dean and Cas having a moment that strengthens their friendship and leads further into Cas’s eventual disobedience for Dean. Like the movie Disobedience. Exactly like the movie Disobedience. Cas definitely spits in Dean’s mouth, it’s kinda gross to be honest. Maybe I’m just not allo enough to appreciate art. 

When Eric Kripke was showrunner of the first five seasons of Supernatural,  he conceptualised the character of Chuck. Kripke as the author-god introduced the character of the author-prophet who would later become in Jeremy Carver’s showrun seasons the biblical God. Judith May Fathallah writes in “I’m A God: The Author and the Writing Fan in Supernatural” that Kripke writes himself both into and out of the text, ending his era with Chuck winking at the camera, saying, “nothing really ends,” and disappearing. Kripke stayed on as producer, continuing to write episodes through Sera Gamble’s era, and was even inserted in text in the season 6 episode “The French Mistake”. So nothing really does end, not Kripke’s grip on the show he created, not even the show itself, which fans have jokingly referred to as continuing into its 16th season. Except we’re not joking. It will die when all of us are dead, when there is no one left to remember it. According to W R Fisher, humans are homo narrans, natural storytellers. The Supernatural fandom is telling a fidelitous narrative, one which matches our own beliefs, values and experiences instead of that of canon. Instead of, at Fathallah says, “the Greek tradition, that we should struggle to do the right thing simply because it is right, though we will suffer and be punished anyway,” the fans have created an ending for the characters that satisfies each and every one of our desires, because we each create our own endings. It’s better because we get to share them with each other, in the tradition of campfire stories, each telling our own version and building upon the others. If that’s not the epitome of mythmaking then I don’t know. It’s just great. Dean and Cas are married, Eileen and Sam are married, Jack is sometimes a baby who Claire and Kaia are forced to babysit, Jody and Donna are gonna get hitched soon. It’s season 17, time for many weddings, and Kevin Tran is alive. Kripke, you have no control over this anymore, you crusty hag. 

Chuck is introduced as someone with power, but not influence over the story, only how the story is told through the medium of the novels. It’s basically a very badly written, non authorised biography, and Charlie reading literally every book and referencing things she should have no knowledge of is so damn creepy and funny. At first Chuck is surprised by his characters coming to life, despite having written it already, and when shown the intimidating array of weapons in Baby’s trunk he gets real scared. Which is the appropriate response for a skinny 5-foot-8 white guy in a bathrobe who writes terrible fantasy novels for a living. 

As far as I can remember, this is the first explicitly metanarrative episode in the series, or at least the first one with in world consequences. It builds upon the lore of Christianity, angels, and God, while teasing what’s to come. Chuck and Sam have a conversation about how the rest of the season is going to play out, and Sam comes away with the impression that he’ll go down with the ship. They touch on Sam’s addiction to demon blood, which Chuck admits he didn’t write into the books, because in the world of supernatural, addiction should be demonised ha ha at every opportunity, except for Dean’s alcoholism which is cool and manly and should never be analysed as an unhealthy trauma coping mechanism. 

Chuck is mostly impotent in the story of Sam and Dean, but his very presence presents an element of good luck that turns quickly into a force of antagonism in the series four finale, “Lucifer Rising”, when the archangel Raphael who defeats Lilith in this episode also kills Cas in the finale. It’s Cas’s quick thinking and Dean’s quick doing that resolve the episode and save them from Lilith, once again proving that free will is the greatest force in the universe. Cas is already tearing up pages and burning scripts. The fandom does the same, acting as gods of their own making in taking canon and transforming it into fan art. The fans aren’t impotent like Chuck, but neither do we have sway over the story in the way that Cas and Dean do. Sam isn’t interested in changing the story in the same way—he wants to kill Lilith and save the world, but in doing so continues the story in the way it was always supposed to go, the way the angels and the demons and even God wanted him to. 

Neither of them are author-gods in the way that God is. We find out later that Chuck is in fact the real biblical god, and he engineers everything. The one thing he doesn’t engineer, however, is Castiel, and I’ll get to that in a minute.

The Real Ghostbusters

Season 5’s “The real ghostbusters,” written by Nancy Weiner and Erik Kripke, and directed by James L Conway, situates the Winchesters at a fan convention for the Supernatural books. While there, they are confronted by a slew of fans cosplaying as Sam, Dean, Bobby, the scarecrow, Azazel, and more. They happen to stumble upon a case, in the midst of the game where the fans pretend to be on a case, and with the help of two fans cosplaying as Sam and Dean, they put to rest a group of homicidal ghost children and save the day. Chuck as the special guest of the con has a hero moment that spurs Becky on to return his affections. And at the end, we learn that the Colt, which they’ve been hunting down to kill the devil, was given to a demon named Crowley. It’s a fun episode, but ultimately skippable. This episode isn’t so much metanarrative as it is metatextual—metatextual meaning more than one layer of text but not necessarily about the storytelling in those texts—but let’s take a look at it anyway.

The metanarrative element of a show about a series of books about the brothers the show is based on is dope and expands upon what we saw in “the monster at the end of this book”. But the episode tells a tale about about the show itself, and the fandom that surrounds it. 

Where “The Monster At The End Of This Book” and the season 5 premiere “Sympathy For The Devil” poked at the coiled snake of fans and the concept of fandom, “the real ghostbusters” drags them into the harsh light of an enclosure and antagonises them in front of an audience. The metanarrative element revolves around not only the books themselves, but the stories concocted within the episode: namely Barnes and Demian the cosplayers and the story of the ghosts. The Winchester brothers’s history that we’ve seen throughout the first five seasons of the show is bared in a tongue in cheek way: while we cried with them when Sam and Dean fought with John, now the story is thrown out in such a way as to mock both the story and the fans’ relationship to it. Let me tell you, there is a lot to be made fun of on this show, but the fans’ relationship to the story of Sam, Dean and everyone they encounter along the way isn’t part of it. I don’t mean to be like, wow you can’t make fun of us ever because we’re special little snowflakes and we take everything so seriously, because you are welcome to make fun of us, but when the creators do it, I can’t help but notice a hint of malice. And I think that’s understandable in a way. Like The relationship between creator and fan is both layered and symbiotic. While Kripke and co no doubt owe the show’s popularity to the fans, especially as the fandom has grown and evolved over time, we’re not exactly free of sin. And don’t get me wrong, no fandom is. But the bad apples always seem to outweigh the good ones, and bad experiences can stick with us long past their due.

However, portraying us as losers with no lives who get too obsessed with this show — well, you know, actually, maybe they’re right. I am a loser with no life and I am too obsessed with this show. So maybe they have a point. But they’re so harsh about it. From wincestie Becky who they paint as a desperate shrew to these cosplayers who threaten Dean’s very perception of himself, we’re not painted in a very good light. 

Dean says to Demian and Barnes, “It must be nice to get out of your mom’s basement.” He’s judging them for deriving pleasure from dressing up and pretending to be someone else for a night. He doesn’t seem to get the irony that he does that for a living. As the seasons wore on, the creators made sure to include episodes where Dean’s inner geek could run rampant, often in the form of dressing up like a cowboy, such as season six “Frontierland” and season 13 “Tombstone”. I had to take a break from writing this to laugh for five minutes because Dean is so funny. He’s a car gay but he only likes one car. He doesn’t follow sports. His echolalia causes him to blurt out lines from his favourite movies. He’s a posse magnet. And he loves cosplay. But he will continually degrade and insult anyone who expresses interest in role play, fandom, or interests in general. Maybe that’s why Sam is such a boring person, because Dean as his mother didn’t allow him to have any interests outside of hunting. And when Sam does express interests, Dean insults him too. What a dick. He’s my soulmate, but I am not going to stop listening to hair metal for him. That’s where I draw the line. 

 Where “the monster at the end of this book” is concerned with narrative and authorship, “the real ghostbusters” is concerned with fandom and fan reactions to the show. It’s not really the best example to talk about in an episode about metanarrativity, but I wanted to include it anyway. It veers from talk of narrative by focusing on the people in the periphery of the narrative—the fans and the author. In season 9 “Metafiction,” Metatron asks the question, who gives the story meaning? The text would have you believe it’s the characters. The angels think it’s God. The fandom think it’s us. The creators think it’s them. Perhaps we will never come to a consensus or even a satisfactory answer to this question. Perhaps that’s the point.

The ultimate takeaway from this episode is that ordinary people, the people Sam and Dean save, the people they save the world for, the people they die for again and again, are what give their story meaning. Chuck defeats a ghost and saves the people in the conference room from being murdered. Demian and Barnes, don’t ask me which is which, burn the bodies of the ghost children and lay their spirits to rest. The text says that ordinary, every day people can rise to the challenge of becoming extraordinary. It’s not a bad note to end on, by any means. And then we find out that Demian and Barnes are a couple, which of course Dean is surprised at, because he lacks object permanence. 

This is no doubt influenced by how a good portion of the transformative fandom are queer, and also a nod to the wincesties and RPF writers like Becky who continue to bottom feed off the wrong message of this show. But then, the creators encourage that sort of thing, so who are the real clowns here? Everyone. Everyone involved with this show in any way is a clown, except for the crew, who were able to feed their families for more than a decade. 

Okay side note… over the past year or so I’ve been in process of realising that even in fandom queers are in the minority. I know the statistic is that 10% of the world population is queer, but that doesn’t seem right to me? Maybe because 4/5 closest friends are queer and I hang around queers online, but I also think I lack object permanence when it comes to straight people. Like I just do not interact with straight people on a regular basis outside of my best friend and parents and school. So when I hear that someone in fandom is straight I’m like, what the fuck… can you keep that to yourself please? Like if I saw Misha Collins coming out as straight I would be like, I didn’t ask and you didn’t have to tell. Okay I’m mostly joking, but I do forget straight people exist. Mostly I don’t think about whether people are gay or trans or cis or straight unless they’ve explicitly said it and then yes it does colour my perception of them, because of course it would. If they’re part of the queer community, they’re my people. And if they’re straight and cis, then they could very well pose a threat to me and my wellbeing. But I never ask people because it’s not my business to ask. If they feel comfortable enough to tell me, that’s awesome.  I think Dean feels the same way. Towards the later seasons at least, he has a good reaction when it’s revealed that someone is queer, even if it is mostly played off as a joke. It’s just that he doesn’t have a frame of reference in his own life to having a gay relationship, either his or someone he’s close to. He says to Cesar and Jesse in season 11 “The Critters” that they fight like brothers, because that’s the only way he knows how to conceptualise it. He doesn’t have a way to categorise his and Cas’s relationship, which is in many ways, long before season 15 “Despair,” harking back even to the parallels between Ruby and Cas in season 3 and 4, a romantic one, aside from that Cas is like a brother to him. Because he’s never had anyone in his life care for him the way Cas does that wasn’t Sam and Bobby, and he doesn’t recognise the romantic element of their relationship until literally Cas says it to him in the third last episode, he just—doesn’t know what his and Cas’s relationship is. He just really doesn’t know. And he grew up with a father who despised him for taking the mom and wife role in their family, the role that John placed him in, for being subservient to John’s wishes where Sam was more rebellious, so of course he wouldn’t understand either his own desires or those of anyone around him who isn’t explicitly shoving their tits in his face. He moulded his entire personality around what he thought John wanted of him, and John says to him explicitly in season 14 “Lebanon”, “I thought you’d have a family,” meaning, like him, wife and two rugrats. And then, dear god, Dean says, thinking of Sam, Cas, Jack, Claire, and Mary, “I have a family.” God that hurts so much. But since for most of his life he hasn’t been himself, he’s been the man he thought his father wanted him to be, he’s never been able to examine his own desires, wants and goals. So even though he’s really good at reading people, he is not good at reading other people’s desires unless they have nefarious intentions. Because he doesn’t recognise what he feels is attraction to men, he doesn’t recognise that in anyone else. 

Okay that’s completely off topic, wow. Getting back to metanarrativity in “The Real Ghostbusters,” I’ll just cap it off by saying that the books in this episode are more a frame for the events than the events themselves. However, there are some good outtakes where Chuck answers some questions, and I’m not sure how much of that is scripted and how much is Rob Benedict just going for it, but it lends another element to the idea of Kripke as author-god. The idea of a fan convention is really cool, because at this point Supernatural conventions had been running for about 4 years, since 2006. It’s definitely a tribute to the fans, but also to their own self importance. So it’s a mixed bag, considering there were plenty of elements in there that show the good side of fandom and fans, but ultimately the Winchesters want nothing to do with it, consider it weird, and threaten Chuck when he says he’ll start releasing books again, which as far as they know is his only source of income. But it’s a fun episode and Dean is a grouchy bitch, so who the holy hell cares?

Season 10 episode “fanfiction” written by my close personal friend Robbie Thompson and directed by Phil Sgriccia is one of the funniest episodes this show has ever done. Not only is it full of metatextual and metanarrative jokes, the entire premise revolves around fanservice, but in like a fun and interesting way, not fanservice like killing the band Kansas so that Dean can listen to “Carry On My Wayward Son” in heaven twice. Twice. One version after another. Like I would watch this musical seven times in theatre, I would buy the soundtrack, I would listen to it on repeat and make all my friends listen to it when they attend my online Jitsi birthday party. This musical is my Hamilton. Top ten episodes of this show for sure. The only way it could be better is if Cas was there. And he deserved to be there. He deserved to watch little dyke Castiel make out with her girlfriend with her cute little wings, after which he and Dean share uncomfortable eye contact. Dean himself is forever coming to terms with the fact that gay people exist, but Cas should get every opportunity he can to hear that it’s super cool and great and awesome to be queer. But really he should be in every episode, all of them, all 300 plus episodes including the ones before angels were introduced. I’m going to commission the guy who edits Paddington into every movie to superimpose Cas standing on the highway into every episode at least once.

“Fan Fiction” starts with a tv script and the words “Supernatural pilot created by Eric Kripke”. This Immediately sets up the idea that it’s toying with narrative. Blah blah blah, some people go missing, they stumble into a scene from their worst nightmares: the school is putting on a musical production of a show inspired by the Supernatural books. It’s a comedy of errors. When people continue to go missing, Sam and Dean have to convince the girls that something supernatural is happening, while retaining their dignity and respect. They reveal that they are the real Sam and Dean, and Dean gives the director Marie a summary of their lives over the last five seasons, but they aren’t taken seriously. Because, like, of course they aren’t. Even when the girls realise that something supernatural is happening, they don’t actually believe that the musical they’ve made and the series of books they’re basing it on are real. Despite how Sam and Dean Winchester were literal fugitives for many years at many different times, and this was on the news, and they were wanted by the FBI, despite how they pretend to be FBI, and no one mentions it??? Did any of the staffwriters do the required reading or just do what I used to do for my 40 plus page readings of Baudrillard and just skim the first sentence of every paragraph? Neat hack for you: paragraphs are set up in a logical order of Topic, Example, Elaboration, Linking sentence. Do you have to read 60 pages of some crusty French dude waxing poetic about how his best friend Pierre wants to shag his wife and making that your problem? Read the first and last sentence of every paragraph. Boom, done. Just cut your work in half. 

The musical highlights a lot of the important moments of the show so far. The brothers have, as Charlie Bradbury says, their “broment,” and as Marie says, their “boy melodrama scene,” while she insinuates that there is a sexual element to their relationship. This show never passed up an opportunity to mention incest. It’s like: mentioning incest 5000 km, not being disgusting 1 km, what a hard decision. Actually, they do have to walk on their knees for 100 miles through the desert repenting. But there are other moments—such as Mary burning on the ceiling, a classic, Castiel waiting for Dean at the side of the highway, and Azazel poisoning Sam. With the help of the high schoolers, Sam and Dean overcome Calliope, the muse and bad guy of the episode, and save the day. What began as their lives reinterpreted and told back to them turns into a story they have some agency over.

In this episode, as opposed to “The Monster At The End Of This Book,” The storytelling has transferred from an alcoholic in a bathrobe into the hands of an overbearing and overachieving teenage girl, and honestly why not. Transformative fiction is by and large run by women, and queer women, so Marie and her stage manager slash Jody Mills’s understudy Maeve are just following in the footsteps of legends. This kind of really succinctly summarises the difference between curative fandom and transformative fandom, the former of which is populated mostly by men, and the latter mostly by women. As defined by LordByronic in 2015, Curative fandom is more like enjoying the text, collecting the merchandise, organising the knowledge — basically Reddit in terms of fandom curation. Transformative fandom is transforming the source text in some way — making fanart, fanfic, mvs, or a musical — basically Tumblr in general, and Archive of our own specifically. Like what do non fandom people even do on Tumblr? It is a complete mystery to me. Whereas Chuck literally writes himself into the narrative he receives through visions, Marie and co have agency and control over the narrative by writing it themselves. 

Chuck does appear in the episode towards the end, his first appearance after five seasons. The theory that he killed those lesbian theatre girls makes me wanna curl up and die, so I don’t subscribe to it. Chuck watched the musical and he liked it and he gave unwarranted notes and then he left, the end.

The Supernatural creative team is explicitly acknowledging the fandom’s efforts by making this episode. They’re writing us in again, with more obsessive fans, but with lethbians this time, which makes it infinitely better. And instead of showing us as potential date rapists, we’re just cool chicks who like to make art. And that’s fucken awesome. 

I just have to note that the characters literally say the word Destiel after Dean sees the actors playing Dean and Cas making out. He storms off and tells Sam to shut the fuck up when Sam makes fun of him, because Dean’s sexuality is NOT threatened he just needs to assert his dominance as a straight hetero man who has NEVER looked at another man’s lips and licked his own. He just… forgets that gay people exist until someone reminds him. BUT THEN, after a rousing speech that is stolen from Rent or Wicked or something, he echoes Marie’s words back, saying “put as much sub into that text as you possibly can.” What does Dean know about subbing, I wonder. Okay I’m suddenly reminded that he did literally go to a kink bar and get hit on by a leather daddy. Oh Dean, the experiences you have as a broad-shouldered, pixie-faced man with cowboy legs. You were born for this role.

Metatron is my favourite villain. As one tumblr user pointed out, he is an evil English literature major, which is just a normal English literature major. The season nine episode “Meta Fiction” written by my main man robbie thompson and directed by thomas j wright, happens within a curious season. Castiel, once again, becomes the leader of a portion of the heavenly host to take down Metatron, and Dean is affected by the Mark Of Cain. Sam was recently possessed by Gadreel, who killed Kevin in Sam’s body and then decided to run off with Metatron. Metatron himself is recruiting angels to join him, in the hopes that he can become the new God. It’s the first introduction of Hannah, who encourages Cas to recruit angels himself to take on Metatron. Also, we get to see Gabriel again, who is always a delight. 

This episode is a lot of fun. Metatron poses questions like, who tells a story and who is the most important person in the telling? Is it the writer? The audience? He starts off staring over his typewriter to address the camera, like a pompous dickhead. No longer content with consuming stories, he’s started to write his own. And they are hubristic ones about becoming God, a better god than Chuck ever was, but to do it he needs to kill a bunch of people and blame it on Cas. So really, he’s actually exactly like Chuck who blamed everything on Lucifer. 

But I think the most apt analogy we can use for this in terms of who is the creator is to think of Metatron as a fanfiction writer. He consumes the media—the Winchester Gospels—and starts to write his own version of events—leading an army to become God and kill Cas. Nevermind that no one has been able to kill Cas in a way that matters or a way that sticks. Which is canon, and what Metatron is trying to do is—well not fanon because it actually does impact the Winchesters’ storyline. It would be like if one of the writers of Supernatural began writing Supernatural fanfiction before they got a job on the show. Which as my generation and the generations coming after me get more comfortable with fanfiction and fandom, is going to be the case for a lot of shows. I think it’s already the case for Riverdale. Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t the woman who wrote the bi Dean essay go to work on Riverdale? Or something? I dunno, I have the post saved in my tumblr likes but that is quagmire of epic proportions that I will easily get lost in if I try to find it. 

Okay let me flex my literary degree. As Englund and Leach say in “Ethnography and the metanarratives of modernity,” “The influential “literary turn,” in which the problems of ethnography were seen as largely textual and their solutions as lying in experimental writing seems to have lost its impetus.” This can be taken to mean, in the context of Supernatural, that while Metatron’s writings seek to forge a new path in history, forgoing fate for a new kind of divine intervention, the problem with Metatron is that he’s too caught up in the textual, too caught up in the writing, to be effectual. And this as we see throughout seasons 9, 10 and 11, has no lasting effect. Cas gets his grace back, Dean survives, and Metatron becomes a powerless human. In this case, the impetus is his grace, which he loses when Cas cuts it out of him, a mirror to Metatron cutting out Cas’s grace. 

However, I realise that the concept of ethnography in Supernatural is a flawed one, ethnography being the observation of another culture: a lot of the angels observe humanity and seem to fit in. However, Cas has to slowly acclimatise to the Winchesters as they tame him, but he never quite fit in—missing cues, not understanding jokes or Dean’s personal space, the scene where he says, “We have a guinea pig? Where?” Show him the guinea pig Sam!!! He wants to see it!!! At most he passes as a human with autism. Cas doesn’t really observe humanity—he observes nature, as seen in season 7 “reading is fundamental” and “survival of the fittest”. Even the human acts he talks about in season 6 “the man who would be king” are from hundreds or thousands of years ago. He certainly doesn’t observe popular culture, which puts him at odds with Dean, who is made up of 90 per cent pop culture references and 10 per cent flannel. Metatron doesn’t seek to blend in with humanity so much as control it, which actually is the most apt example of ethnography for white people in the last—you know, forever. But of course the writers didn’t seek to make this analogy. It is purely by chance, and maybe I’m the only person insane enough to realise it. But probably not. There are a lot of cookies much smarter than me in the Supernatural fandom and they’ve like me have grown up and gone to university and gotten real jobs in the real world and real haircuts. I’m probably the only person to apply Englund and Leach to it though.

And yes, as I read this paper I did need to have one tab open on Google, with the word “define” in the search bar. 

Metatron has a few lines in this that I really like. He says: 

“The universe is made up of stories, not atoms.”

“You’re going to have to follow my script.”

“I’m an entity of my word.”

It’s really obvious, but they’re pushing the idea that Metatron has become an agent of authorship instead of just a consumer of media. He even throws a Supernatural book into his fire — a symbolic act of burning the script and flipping the writer off, much like Cas did to God and the angels in season 5. He’s not a Kripke figure so much as maybe a Gamble, Carver or Dabb figure, in that he usurps Chuck and becomes the author-god. This would be extremely postmodern of him if he didn’t just do exactly what Chuck was doing, except worse somehow. In fact, it’s postmodern of Cas to reject heaven’s narrative and fall for Dean. As one tumblr user points out, Cas really said “What’s fate compared to Dean Winchester?”

Okay this transcript is almost 8000 words already, and I still have two more episodes to review, and more things to say, so I’ll leave you with this. Metatron says to Cas, “Out of all of God’s wind up toys, you’re the only one with any spunk.” Why Cas has captured his attention comes down more than anything to a process of elimination. Most angels fucking suck. They follow the rules of whoever puts themselves in charge, and they either love Cas or hate him, or just plainly wanna fuck him, and there have been few angels who stood out. Balthazar was awesome, even though I hated him the first time I watched season 6. He UNSUNK the Titanic. Legend status. And Gabriel was of course the OG who loves to fuck shit up. But they’re gone at this stage in the narrative, and Cas survives. Cas always survives. He does have spunk. And everyone wants to fuck him.  

Season 11 episode 20 “Don’t Call Me Shurley,” the last episode written by the Christ like figure of Robbie Thompson — are we sensing a theme here? — and directed by my divine enemy Robert Singer, starts with Metatron dumpster diving for food. I’m not even going to bother commenting on this because like… it’s supernatural and it treats complex issues like homelessness and poverty with zero nuance. Like the Winchesters live in poverty but it’s fun and cool because they always scrape by but Metatron lives in poverty and it’s funny. Cas was homeless and it was hard but he needed to do it to atone for his sins, and Metatron is homeless and it’s funny because he brought it on himself by being a murderous dick. Fucking hell. Robbie, come on. The plot focuses on God, also known as Chuck Shurley, making himself known to Metatron and asking for Metatron’s opinion on his memoir. Meanwhile, the Winchesters battle another bout of infectious serial killer fog sent by Amara. At the end of the episode, Chuck heals everyone affected by the fog and reveals himself to Sam and Dean. 

Chuck says that he didn’t foresee Metatron trying to become god, but the idea of Season 15 is that Chuck has been writing the Winchesters’ story all their lives. When Metatron tries, he fails miserably, is locked up in prison, tortured by Dean, then rendered useless as a human and thrown into the world without a safety net. His authorship is reduced to nothing, and he is reduced to dumpster diving for food. He does actually attempt to live his life as someone who records tragedies as they happen and sells the footage to news stations, which is honestly hilarious and amazing and completely unsurprising because Metatron is, at the heart of it, an English Literature major. In true bastard style, he insults Chuck’s work and complains about the bar, but slips into his old role of editor when Chuck asks him to. 

The theory I’m consulting for this uses the term metanarrative in a different way than I am. They consider it an overarching narrative, a grand narrative like religion. Chuck’s biography is in a sense most loyal to Middleton and Walsh’s view of metanarrative: “the universal story of the world from arche to telos, a grand narrative encompassing world history from beginning to end.” Except instead of world history, it’s God’s history, and since God is construed in Supernatural as just some guy with some powers who is as fallible as the next some guy with some powers, his story has biases and agendas.  Okay so in the analysis I’m getting Middleton and Walsh’s quotes from, James K A Smith’s “A little story about metanarratives,” Smith dunks on them pretty bad, but for Supernatural purposes their words ring true. Think of them as the BuckLeming of Lyotard’s postmodern metanarrative analysis: a stopped clock right twice a day. Is anyone except me understanding the sequence of words I’m saying right now. Do I just have the most specific case of brain worms ever found in human history. I’m currently wearing my oversized Keith Haring shirt and dipping pretzels into peanut butter because it’s 3.18 in the morning and the homosexuals got to me. The total claims a comprehensive metanarrative of world history make do indeed, as Middleton and Walsh claim, lead to violence, stay with me here, because Chuck’s legacy is violence, and so is Metatron’s, and in trying to reject the metanarrative, Sam and Dean enact violence. Mostly Dean, because in season 15 he sacrifices his own son twice to defeat Chuck. But that means literally fighting violence with violence. Violence is, after all, all they know. Violence is the lens through which they interact with the world. If the writers wanted to do literally anything else, they could have continued Dean’s natural character progression into someone who eschews the violence that stems from intergeneration trauma — yes I will continue to use the phrase intergenerational trauma whenever I refer to Dean — and becomes a loving father and husband. Sam could eschew violence and start a monster rehabilitation centre with Eileen.

This episode of Holy Hell is me frantically grabbing at straws to make sense of a narrative that actively hates me and wants to kick me to death. But the violence Sam and Dean enact is not at a metanarrative level, because they are not author-gods of their own narrative. In season 15 “Atomic Monsters,” Becky points out that the ending of the Supernatural book series is bad because the brothers die, and then, in a shocking twist of fate, Dean does die, and the narrative is bad. The writers set themselves a goal post to kick through and instead just slammed their heat into the bars. They set up the dartboard and were like, let’s aim the darts at ourselves. Wouldn’t that be fun. Season 15’s writing is so grossly incompetent that I believe every single conspiracy theory that’s come out of the finale since November, because it’s so much more compelling than whatever the fuck happened on the road so far. Carry on? Why yes, I think I will carry on, carry on like a pork chop, screaming at the bars of my enclosure until I crack my voice open like an egg and spill out all my rage and frustration. The world will never know peace again. It’s now 3.29 and I’ve written over 9000 words of this transcript. And I’m not done.

Middleton and Walsh claim that metanarratives are merely social constructions masquerading as universal truths. Which is, exactly, Supernatural. The creators have constructed this elaborate web of narrative that they want to sell us as the be all and end all. They won’t let the actors discuss how they really feel about the finale. They won’t let Misha Collins talk about Destiel. They want us to believe it was good, actually, that Dean, a recovering alcoholic with a 30 year old infant son and a husband who loves him, deserved to die by getting NAILED, while Sam, who spent the last four seasons, the entirety of Andrew Dabb’s run as showrunner, excelling at creating a hunter network and romancing both the queen of hell and his deaf hunter girlfriend, should have lived a normie life with a normie faceless wife. Am I done? Not even close. I started this episode and I’m going to finish it.

When we find out that Chuck is God in the episode of season 11, it turns everything we knew about Chuck on its head. We find out in Season 15 that Chuck has been writing the Winchesters’ story all along, that everything that happened to them is his doing. The one thing he couldn’t control was Cas’s choice to rebel. If we take him at his word, Cas is the only true force of free will in the entire universe, and more specifically, the love that Cas had for Dean which caused him to rebel and fall from heaven. — This theory has holes of course. Why would Lucifer torture Lilith into becoming the first demon if he didn’t have free will? Did Chuck make him do that? And why? So that Chuck could be the hero and Lucifer the bad guy, like Lucifer claimed all along? That’s to say nothing of Adam and Eve, both characters the show introduced in different ways, one as an antagonist and the other as the narrative foil to Dean and Cas’s romance. Thinking about it makes my head hurt, so I’m just not gunna. 

So Chuck was doing the writing all along. And as Becky claims in “Atomic Monsters,” it’s bad writing. The writers explicitly said, the ending Chuck wrote is bad because there’s no Cas and everyone dies, and then they wrote an ending where there is no Cas and everyone dies. So talk about self-fulfilling prophecies. Talk about giant craters in the earth you could see from 800 kilometres away but you still fell into. Meanwhile fan writers have the opportunity to write a million different endings, all of which satisfy at least one person. The fandom is a hydra, prolific and unstoppable, and we’ll keep rewriting the ending a million more times.

And all this is not even talking about the fact that Chuck is a man, Metatron is a man, Sam and Dean and Cas are men, and the writers and directors of the show are, by an overwhelming majority, men. Most of them are white, straight, cis men. Feminist scholarship has done a lot to unpack the damage done by paternalistic approaches to theory, sociology, ethnography, all the -ys, but I propose we go a step further with these men. Kill them. Metanarratively, of course. Amara, the Darkness, God’s sister, had a chance to write her own story without Chuck, after killing everything in the universe, and I think she had the right idea. Knock it all down to build it from the ground up. Billie also had the opportunity to write a narrative, but her folly was, of course, putting any kind of faith in the Winchesters who are also grossly incompetent and often fail up. She is, as all author-gods on this show are, undone by Castiel. The only one with any spunk, the only one who exists outside of his own narrative confines, the only one the author-gods don’t have any control over. The one who died for love, and in dying, gave life. 

The French Mistake

Let’s change the channel. Let’s calm ourselves and cleanse our libras. Let’s commune with nature and chug some sage bongs. 

“The French Mistake” is a song from the Mel Brooks film Blazing Saddles. In the iconic second last scene of the film, as the cowboys fight amongst themselves, the camera pans back to reveal a studio lot and a door through which a chorus of gay dancersingers perform “the French Mistake”. The lyrics go, “Throw out your hands, stick out your tush, hands on your hips, give ‘em a push. You’ll be surprised you’re doing the French Mistake.” 

I’m not sure what went through the heads of the Supernatural creators when they came up with the season 6 episode, “The French Mistake,” written by the love of my life Ben Edlund and directed by some guy Charles Beeson. Just reading the Wikipedia summary is so batshit incomprehensible. In short: Balthazar sends Sam and Dean to an alternate universe where they are the actors Jared Padalecki and Jensen Ackles, who play Sam and Dean on the tv show Supernatural. I don’t think this had ever been done in television history before. The first seven seasons of this show are certifiable. Like this was ten years ago. Think about the things that have happened in the last 10 slutty, slutty years. We have lived through atrocities and upheaval and the entire world stopping to mourn, but also we had twitter throughout that entire time, which makes it infinitely worse.

In this universe, Sam and Dean wear makeup, Cas is played by attractive crying man Misha Collins, and Genevieve Padalecki nee Cortese makes an appearance. Magic doesn’t exist, Serge has good ideas, and the two leads have to act in order to get through the day. Sorry man I do not know how to pronounce your name.

Sidenote: I don’t know if me being attracted aesthetically to Misha Collins is because he’s attractive, because this show has gaslighted me into thinking he’s attractive, or because Castiel’s iconic entrance in 2008 hit my developing mind like a torpedo full of spaghetti and blew my fucking brains all over the place. It’s one of life’s little mysteries and God’s little gifts.

Let’s talk about therapy. More specifically, “Agency and purpose in narrative therapy: questioning the postmodern rejection of metanarrative” by Cameron Lee. In this paper, Lee outlines four key ideas as proposed by Freedman and Combs:

Realities are socially constructed

Realities are constituted through language

Realities are organised and maintained through narrative

And there are no essential truths.

Let’s break this down in the case of this episode. Realities are socially constructed: the reality of Sam and Dean arose from the Bush era. Do I even need to elaborate? From what I understand with my limited Australian perception, and being a child at the time, 9/11 really was a prominent shifting point in the last twenty years. As Americans describe it, sometimes jokingly, it was the last time they were really truly innocent. That means to me that until they saw the repercussions of their government’s actions in funding turf wars throughout the middle east for a good chunk of the 20th Century, they allowed themselves to be hindered by their own ignorance. The threat of terrorism ran rampant throughout the States, spurred on by right wing nationalists and gun-toting NRA supporters, so it’s really no surprise that the show Supernatural started with the premise of killing everything in sight and driving around with only your closest kin and a trunk full of guns. Kripke constructed that reality from the social-political climate of the time, and it has wrought untold horrors on the minds of lesbians who lived through the noughties, in that we are now attracted to Misha Collins.

Number two: Realities are constituted through language. Before a show can become a show, it needs to be a script. It’s written down, typed up, and given to actors who say the lines out loud. In this respect, they are using the language of speech and words to convey meaning. But tv shows are not all about words, and they’re barely about scripts. From what I understand of being raised by television, they are about action, visuals, imagery, and behaviours. All of the work that goes into them—the scripts, the lighting, the audio, the sound mixing, the cameras, the extras, the ADs, the gaffing, the props, the stunts, everything—is about conveying a story through the medium of images. In that way, images are the language. The reality of the show Supernatural, inside the show Supernatural, is constituted through words: the script, the journalists talking to Sam, the makeup artist taking off Dean’s makeup, the conversations between the creators, the tweets Misha sends. But also through imagery: the fish tank in Jensen’s trailer, the model poses on the front cover of the magazine, the opulence of Jared’s house, Misha’s iconic sweater. Words and images are the language that constitutes both of these realities. Okay for real, I feel like I’ve only seen this episode max three times, including when I watched it for research for this episode, but I remember so much about it. 

Number three: realities are organised and maintained through narrative. In this universe of the French Mistake, their lives are structured around two narratives: the internal narrative of the show within the show, in which they are two actors on a tv set; and the episode narrative in which they need to keep the key safe and return to their own universe. This is made difficult by the revelation that magic doesn’t work in this universe, however, they find a way. Before they can get back, though, an avenging angel by the name of Virgil guns down author-god Eric Kripke and tries to kill the Winchesters. However, they are saved by Balthazar and the freeze frame and brought back into their own world, the world of Supernatural the show, not Supernatural the show within the show within the nesting doll. And then that reality is done with, never to be revisited or even mentioned, but with an impact that has lasted longer than the second Bush administration.

And number four: there are no essential truths. This one is a bit tricky because I can’t find what Lee means by essential truths, so I’m just going to interpret that. To me, essential truths means what lies beneath the narratives we tell ourselves. Supernatural was a show that ran for 15 years. Supernatural had actors. Supernatural was showrun by four different writers. In the show within a show, there is nothing, because that ceases to exist for longer than the forty two minute episode “The French Mistake”. And since Supernatural no longer exists except in our computers, it is nothing too. It is only the narratives we tell ourselves to sleep better at night, to wake up in the morning with a smile, to get through the day, to connect with other people, to understand ourselves better. It’s not even the narrative that the showrunners told, because they have no agency over it as soon as it shows up on our screens. The essential truth of the show is lost in the translation from creating to consuming. Who gives the story meaning? The people watching it and the people creating it. We all do. 

Lee says that humans are predisposed to construct narratives in order to make sense of the world. We see this in cultures from all over the world: from cave paintings to vases, from The Dreaming to Beowulf, humans have always constructed stories. The way you think about yourself is a story that you’ve constructed. The way you interact with your loved ones and the furries you rightfully cyberbully on Twitter is influenced by the narratives you tell yourself about them. And these narratives are intricate, expansive, personalised, and can colour our perceptions completely, so that we turn into a different person when we interact with one person as opposed to another. 

Whatever happened in season 6, most of which I want to forget, doesn’t interest me in the way I’m telling myself the writers intended. For me, the entirety of season 6 was based around the premise of Cas being in love with Dean, and the complete impotence of this love. He turns up when Dean calls, he agonises as he watches Dean rake leaves and live his apple pie life with Lisa, and Dean is the person he feels most horribly about betraying. He says, verbatim, to Sam, “Dean and I do share a more profound bond.” And Balthazar says, “You’re confusing me with the other angel, the one in the dirty trenchcoat who’s in love with you.” He says this in season 6, and we couldn’t do a fucken thing about it. 

The song “The French Mistake” shines a light on the hidden scene of gay men performing a gay narrative, in the midst of a scene about the manliest profession you can have: professional horse wrangler, poncho wearer, and rodeo meister, the cowboy. If this isn’t a perfect encapsulation of the lovestory between Dean and Cas, which Ben Edlund has been championing from day fucking one of Misha Collins walking onto that set with his sex hair and chapped lips, then I don’t know what the fuck we’re even doing here. What in the hell else could it possibly mean. The layers to this. The intricacy. The agendas. The subtextual AND blatant queerness. The micro aggressions Crowley aimed at Car in “The Man Who Would Be King,” another Bedlund special. Bed Edlund is a fucking genius. Bed Edlund is cool girl. Ben Edlund is the missing link. Bed Edlund IS wikileaks. Ben Edlund is a cool breeze on a humid summer day. Ben Edlund is the stop loading button on a browser tab. Ben Edlund is the perfect cross between Spotify and Apple Music, in which you can search for good playlists, but without having to be on Spotify. He can take my keys and fuck my wife. You best believe I’m doing an entire episode of Holy Hell on Bedlund’s top five. He is the reason I want to get into staffwriting on a tv show. I saw season 4 episode “On the head of a pin” when my brain was still torpedoed spaghetti mush from the premiere, and it nestled its way deep into my exposed bones, so that when I finally recovered from that, I was a changed person. My god, this transcript is 11,000 words, and I haven’t even finished the Becky section. Which is a good transition.

Oh, Becky. She is an incarnation of how the writers, or at least Kripke, view the fans. Watching season 5 “Sympathy for the Devil” live in 2009 was a whole fucking trip that I as a baby gay was not prepared for. Figuring out my sexuality was a journey that started with the Supernatural fandom and is in some aspects still raging against the dying of the light today. Add to that, this conception of the audience was this, like, personification of the librarian cellist from Juno, but also completely without boundaries, common sense, or shame. It made me wonder about my position in the narrative as a consumer consuming. Is that how Kripke saw me, specifically? Was I like Becky? Did my forays into DeanCasNatural on El Jay dot com make me a fucking loser whose only claim to fame is writing some nasty fanfiction that I’ve since deleted all traces of? Don’t get me wrong, me and my unhinged Casgirl friends loved Becky. I can’t remember if I ever wrote any fanfiction with her in it because I was mostly writing smut, which is extremely Becky coded of me, but I read some and my friends and I would always chat about her when she came up. She was great entertainment value before season 7. But in the eyes of the powers that be, Becky, like the fans themselves, are expendable. First they turned her into a desperate bride wannabe who drugs Sam so that he’ll be with her, then Chuck waves his hand and she disappears. We’re seeing now with regards to Destiel, Cas, and Misha Collins this erasure of them from the narrative. Becky says in season 15 “Atomic Monsters” that the ending Chuck writes is bad because, for one, there’s no Cas, and that’s exactly what’s happening to the text post-finale. It literally makes me insane akin to the throes of mania to think about the layers of this. They literally said, “No Cas = bad” and now Misha isn’t even allowed to talk in his Cassona voice—at least at the time I wrote that—to the detriment of the fans who care about him. It’s the same shit over and over. They introduce something we like, they realise they have no control over how much we like it, and then they pretend they never introduced it in the first place. Season 7, my god. The only reason Gamble brought back Cas was because the ratings were tanking the show. I didn’t even bother watching most of it live, and would just hear from my friends whether Cas was in the episodes or not. And then Sera, dear Sera, had the gall to say it was a Homer’s Odyssey narrative. I’m rusty on Homer aka I’ve never read it but apparently Odysseus goes away, ends up with a wife on an island somewhere, and then comes back to Terabithia like it never happened. How convenient. But since Sera Gamble loves to bury her gays, we can all guess why Cas was written out of the show: Cas being gay is a threat to the toxic heteronormativity spouted by both the show and the characters themselves. In season 15, after Becky gets her life together, has kids, gets married, and starts a business, she is outgrowing the narrative and Chuck kills her. The fans got Destiel Wedding trending on Twitter, and now the creators are acting like he doesn’t exist. New liver, same eagles.

I have to add an adendum: as of this morning, Sunday 11th, don’t ask me what time that is in Americaland, Misha Collins did an online con/Q&A thing and answered a bunch of questions about Cas and Dean, which goes to show that he cannot be silenced. So the narrative wants to be told. It’s continuing well into it’s 16th or 17th season. It’s going to keep happening and they have no recourse to stop it. So fuck you, Supernatural.

I did write the start of a speech about representation but, who the holy hell cares. I also read some disappointing Masters theses that I hope didn’t take them longer to research and write than this episode of a podcast I’m making for funsies took me, considering it’s the same number of pages. Then again I have the last four months and another 8 years of fandom fuelling my obsession, and when I don’t sleep I write, hence the 4,000 words I knocked out in the last 12 hours. 

Some final words. Lyotard defines postmodernism, the age we live in, as an incredulity towards metanarratives. Modernism was obsessed with order and meaning, but postmodernism seeks to disrupt that. Modernists lived within the frame of the narrative of their society, but postmodernists seek to destroy the frame and live within our own self-written contexts. Okay I love postmodernist theory so this has been a real treat for me. Yoghurt, Sam? Postmodernist theory? Could I BE more gay? 

Middleton and Walsh in their analysis of postmodernism claim that biblical faith is grounded in metanarrative, and explore how this intersects with an era that rejects metanarrative. This is one of the fundamental ideas Supernatural is getting at throughout definitely the last season, but other seasons as well. The narratives of Good vs Evil, Michael vs Lucifer, Dean vs Sam, were encoded into the overarching story of the show from season 1, and since then Sam and Dean have sought to break free of them. Sam broke free of John’s narrative, which was the hunting life, and revenge, and this moralistic machismo that they wrapped themselves up in. If they’re killing the evil, then they’re not the evil. That’s the story they told, and the impetus of the show that Sam was sucked back into. But this thread unravelled in later seasons when Dean became friends with Benny and the idea that all supernatural creatures are inherently evil unravelled as well. While they never completely broke free of John’s hold over them, welcoming Jack into their lives meant confronting a bias that had been ingrained in them since Dean was 4 years old and Sam 6 months. In the face of the question, “are all monsters monstrous?” the narrative loosens its control. Even by questioning it, it throws into doubt the overarching narrative of John’s plan, which is usurped at the end of season 2 when they kill Azazel by Dean’s demon deal and a new narrative unfolds. John as author-god is usurped by the actual God in season 4, who has his own narrative that controls the lives of Sam, Dean and Cas. 

Okay like for real, I do actually think the metanarrativity in Supernatural is something that should be studied by someone other than me, unless you wanna pay me for it and then shit yeah. It is extremely cool to introduce a biographical narrative about the fictional narrative it’s in. It’s cool that the characters are constantly calling this narrative into focus by fighting against it, struggling to break free from their textual confines to live a life outside of the external forces that control them. And the thing is? The really real, honest thing? They have. Sam, Dean and Cas have broken free of the narrative that Kripke, Carver, Gamble and Dabb wrote for them. The very fact that the textual confession of love that Cas has for Dean ushered in a resurgence of fans, fandom and activity that has kept the show trending for five months after it ended, is just phenomenal. People have pointed out that fans stopped caring about Game of Thrones as soon as it ended. Despite the hold they had over tv watchers everywhere, their cultural currency has been spent. The opposite is true for Supernatural. Despite how the finale of the show angered and confused people, it gains more momentum every day. More fanworks, more videos, more fics, more art, more ire, more merch is being generated by the fans still. The Supernatural subreddit, which was averaging a few posts a week by season 15, has been incensed by the finale. And yours truly happily traipsed back into the fandom snake pit after 8 years with a smile on my face and a skip in my step ready to pump that dopamine straight into my veins babeeeeeeyyyyy. It’s been WILD. I recently reconnected with one of my mutuals from 2010 and it’s like nothing’s changed. We’re both still unhinged and we both still simp for Supernatural. Even before season 15, I was obsessed with the podcast Ride Or Die, which I started listening to in late 2019, and Supernatural was always in the back of my mind. You just don’t get over your first fandom. Actually, Danny Phantom was my first fandom, and I remember being 12 talking on Danny Phantom forums to people much too old to be the target audience of the show. So I guess that hasn’t left me either. And the fondest memories I have of Supernatural is how the characters have usurped their creators to become mythic, long past the point they were supposed to die a quiet death. The myth weaving that the Supernatural fandom is doing right now is the legacy that will endure. 

References

I got all of these for free from Google Scholar! 

Judith May Fathallah, “I’m A God: The Author and the Writing Fan in Supernatural.” 

James K A Smith, “A Little Story About Metanarratives: Lyotard, Religion and Postmodernism Revisited.” 2001.

Cameron Lee, “Agency and Purpose in Narrative Therapy: Questioning the Postmodern Rejection of Metanarrative.” 2004.

Harri Englund and James Leach, “Ethnography and the Meta Narratives of Modernity.” 2000.

https://uproxx.com/filmdrunk/mel-brooks-explains-french-mistake-blazing-saddles-blu-ray/

[carynsilver]

Favorite Fics: Darcy Edition

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these. Things started going on that hurt my soul, and I just felt like, who cares about some fic recs when people are getting hurt? But… I don’t know. I still find solace and comfort in reading stories, even when things are hard—especially when things are hard. So, I finally felt like maybe it was time for another. If the fic writers out there are giving me escape, warm fuzzies, and enjoyment during these weird times, then they deserve some love directed back at them.

So far, I’ve listed my top 10 favorite Stucky, Drarry, and Stony fics. I love them all, but… that is a lot of dudes. I decided it was time for a little girl power in my fanfic recs. One of my favorite BAMF female characters is Darcy Lewis—one of the best and most under-rated, under-explored characters in the MCU.

I love Darcy as the every-girl who has the moxie and chutzpa to hold her own in a life full of superheroes. The girl tased the God of Thunder because he was freaking her out, for goodness sake! I love her being BFFs with Jane, being Thor’s lightening sister, and creating a found family. I love her living in the tower and caring for all the superheroes and science geniuses like they won’t care for themselves. There’s enough leeway in her backstory for fun twists, too, like being Jewish, or—one of my absolute faves—secretly being the daughter of Tony Stark.

There are a ton of good Darcy fics out there, but these are my top 10. Thank you, writers, for sharing these amazing stories with us!

Casa de Island Avengers by @inkbert

I clicked on this story because of WinterShock (Darcy/Bucky), which is a favorite ship of mine (I feel my love of Bucky has been previously discussed at length, lol), but it has become one of my favorite fics of all time. Not even just in the MCU—if I were listed my top five fanfics ever read, this one is on the list.

The concept is simple—post-Ultron, the Avengers started falling apart as a team, so Steve spearheads the effort to get them all on a two-week vacation to Tony’s private island in a last-ditch bonding effort. Every character (except Thor, but he does get some good screen time) has his or her own point of view for at least a chapter or two. Sometimes, this leads to characters sounding the same, but @inkbert really grounds each character in their own backstory and makes their inner monologues sound unique. Then, so many wacky hijinks ensue—camping, drinking, movie nights, girl bonding, sailing, pranks, and the most competitive game nights and challenges you’ve ever seen.

The ships included are Darcy/Bucky, Steve/Natasha, Pepper/Tony, and Clint/Wanda, but this story isn’t only about the ships. It’s about all these crazy characters bonding—found family at its finest. This is probably my favorite Darcy/Jane BFFs story ever, and the Bruce/Tony science bro connection is classic. The story is fully seated in cannon (up through Ultron and moving to the ccmpound), except no Clint/secret family and Pietro lives. Read it. Read it now! And if you enjoy it, there are several one-shots that follow, including a Wanda-centric one that shouldn’t be missed.

Best Supporting Soulmate by Valeris

I love a good soulmate fic, and this is an excellent one. The first thing your soulmate says to you is written on your skin, and there are both romantic and platonic soulmates. Darcy has Jane as a platonic soulmate, but it’s her other soulmate who made her life crazy before she even met them. What are you supposed to do when your soulmate’s first words to you are to let them die? 

The two primary ships in this fic are Wintershock and Stony, which work well together, but the story delves into a lot more relationships. I don’t love the whole amnesia trope in a Stucky fic because losing all that history and friendship hurts so much, but in a WinterShock fic, I have a real soft spot for Darcy being able to help post-HYDRA Bucky learn how to person again, and she does that in spades in this one. She also cultivates friendships with just about everyone in Avengers Tower and beyond. Darcy/Johnny Storm BFFs are amazing, and the deep friendship Darcy develops with Tony in this story gives me all the feels. This is a great version of BAMF Darcy who can see what the tortured characters need and is able to help them get there. And there is some interesting conflict with the Fantastic Four, as well.

This was one of the first, if not the first, WinterShock stories I ever read. I had been trying TaserHawk, but it wasn’t really my cuppa, and then somehow found this one and got hooked.

Road Trip of Champions by @leftennant

Natasha and Steve are going on a road trip. Steve wants Bucky to come with, but they feel like they need a fourth to make things even. Natasha bribes Darcy into coming with, and over the course of the trip, we get a lovely WinterShock romance. The road trip concept is fun, and Darcy and Bucky have a light enemies to friends to lovers vibe going on. Bucky is recovering, Darcy isn’t going to take anyone’s crap, and Natasha and Steve really just want a little private time along the way. And the bit at the end of the main story when they play paintball—classic and a scene that has stuck in my mind long after reading many other fics. The protective vibe Bucky has for Darcy after all this and how it even affects paintball is adorable. There are other one-shots in this ’verse as well that should not be missed. You might never think of lemons the same again.

Daybreak by @anogete

Anogete has a really good touch with snarky, caretaker Darcy. I love all her WinterShock stories, but this is the one that’s stuck with me the most. The concept of Darcy trying to help dismantle Bucky’s trigger words by creating new memories for each one was so compelling. The therapy aspect did give me pause (a personal thing; it is dealt with as respectfully as possible in the story), but it all works out in the end. The fact that I loved it so much despite a mild personal ping with the concept speaks to how well it’s written, honestly. :-) And, if this one isn’t to your taste, Anogete has plenty of great WinterShock to read, so definitely try one of them instead!

The Run ’Verse by themonkeycabal

Though it eventually becomes a WinterShock story, my favorite thing about this universe is the Tony-Stark-is-Darcy’s-father trope. This is probably my absolute favorite version of that relationship. There is also time travel, and BAMF Peggy Carter. And even though I don’t love the Darcy-becomes-a-Shield-agent thing as much as Darcy the Scientist Wrangler, this story has a great, cannon-compliant reason for why Tony, Clint, etc., weren’t able to come help Steve, Natasha, Sam, and Maria in CA:tWS. There are a ton of stories in this ’verse, and I enjoyed every single one. My favorite, though, is the one where Darcy and Tony go visit Howard’s forgotten secret bunker and have three generation’s-worth of overdue conversations.

A Morbid Taste for Ice by sitehound

This is probably my favorite TaserTricks story, though I haven’t read nearly as much Darcy/Loki as I have other Darcy ships. I think it’s because writing Loki in character and making it believable to me that Darcy would fall in love with him, especially post-Avengers 1, is a fine line. If the fic apologizes too much for Loki’s wrongdoing without enough repentance/reformation, I don’t buy that she would legit be able to fall for him, but, go too far on the redemption and Loki gets OOC.

This story hits all those beats pretty perfectly and combines them with the whole Darcy/Jane/Thor (and now Loki) found family thing, Thor/Loki brother angst, Jane/Darcy BFFs, and a really compelling murder mystery to boot. There is also an interesting subplot with Loki being what basically amounts to a magical mechanic that I found really interesting amidst the snark, romance, and mystery solving. I’m sad this writer only has the one story up because it is so good!

Bygone by @inkbert

This story is Shieldshock (Steve/Darcy), not WinterShock, so even though I do try to only choose one fic per author (mostly), I’m totally fine having two by @inkbert on this list. Besides, this fic is amazing, and it’s not like there are anyone’s rules to follow on these fic rec lists but my own, lol! This is hands down my favorite ShieldShock story ever. 

Jane’s experiment goes awry and sends Darcy into the past—specifically after Bucky left for basic but before he shipped out and Steve got tapped for Project Rebirth. Darcy ends up living with Rebecca and Mrs. Barnes, and she falls head over heels in love with tiny Steve, so much so that they get married despite not knowing what the future holds for her. Then, the night before Steve is going to report to basic, Darcy blips out again, and when she blips back in, Steve is dead. The rest of the story has Darcy blipping her way through time, making friends with Howard, Peggy, and the Howling Commandos. Ultimately, though, it’s her brother/sister relationship with Tony that is the most poignant, especially by the time they catch up to the present again. And Darcy is a complete BAMF the whole time—going on missions, learning to fly anything with wings, doing anything and everything to keep her found family together. This story also gave me a plan for what I would do if I were ever shot back into a timeline like this where I couldn’t sew or cook or make a living—become a typist… genius, Darce!

Their Hearts Said by @anogete

Another Anogete story because I just can’t resist. All her stories are really good, be they WinterShock, ShieldShock, or even her really good Loki/OC fic. I would definitely suggest giving all of them a try.

This ShieldShock story is my favorite post-Infinity War tale. It picks up a few weeks after the snap, with everyone grieving and trying to figure out what to do next. Steve is barely holding it together while the remaining Avengers try to figure out what they can do. After Jane and her family disappear, Darcy heads to Avengers Tower, hoping against hope that maybe Thor knows what’s going on. Darcy and Steve start sleeping together as more of an escape from the awfulness around them than anything else, but as the team works on a plan to save the day and bring everyone back, they develop real feelings for each other. There is also time travel and I really loved the minimalist way she wrote how the day was saved in this. It balanced well with the character stuff. This story is much preferable to End Game—too bad cannon didn’t go like this!

Good Madness by Em_Jaye

Normally, I prefer my Darcy embedded within the MCU cannon. I adore that every girl keeping up with superheroes thing. But, I do enjoy a good AU on occasion, and this is one of my faves. It’s ShieldShock and kid!fic. Darcy runs a bakery that was left to her by her mother (real You’ve Got Mail tones there, but no creepy identity porn), and Steve comes in for treats on occasion. One day, he brings his daughter, and the rest is history. I love the Steve/Darcy romance in this one, and Steve’s daughter is a sweet character. I love the Full House thing Steve has going on co-raising his daughter with Bucky and Sam. And there is a nice Bucky/Natasha subplot and some really good Tony, which I would say more about except that I don’t want to spoil the surprise. My favorite story in the series is the five rules one at the end, so definitely keep going long enough for that. And if you like Em_Jaye’s writing, you should check out The Long Way Around—a Shieldshock, time travel, Endgame fix-it WIP that is excellent, as well.

One Year by @steeleholtingon

This story is WinterShieldShock. OT3s aren’t my favorite trope, but somehow with Bucky/Darcy/Steve, it works. Maybe it’s something about the boys’ history and Darcy dragging them into the future. Kind of what she does for each of them individually in WinterShock and ShieldShock, but with even more oomph. I haven’t read the whole tag, but One Year is my favorite.

Bucky’s Winter Soldier recovery has pushed both Steve and Bucky to the edge. Steve ends up leaving (at Bucky’s demand, but also because the team is afraid he’s going to do some kind of suicide via superhero duty if he doesn’t get his head on straight). The wrinkle—the night before he left, Darcy and Steve had a comforting one-night stand that resulted in two pinks lines on the test. The resulting story takes place one month at a time. Steve tries to piece himself back together and put his feelings for Bucky in the past whilst falling for Darcy over text messages. Bucky, on the other hand, realizes how he fucked it all up and vows to be there for Darcy and Steve’s baby while Steve is gone. Darcy navigates the waters of an unplanned (but wanted) pregnancy while balancing her feelings for both of them. And all the rest of the Avengers, science crew, and other Avengers-adjacent peeps support all three of them through it all. Angst, recovery, and a happy ending. So good!

So, after all that, what are you guys waiting for? Get to reading all this Darcy goodness! :-)

And now I need to figure out what fic rec list to work on next. I have a Stranger Things one (Harringrove and Mileven) almost ready to go, and then I need to decide what to do with the ships and characters that I don’t have a full top ten for. Group them together, perhaps? Bughead and LoVe might be a good combination, lol. And WinterHawk and WinterIron.

[eryiscrye]

12th one for the prompts?

#12-Writer and Editor AU

This AU was both prompted by @abrokencrevice and anon! This idea popped into my head right away. Sorry it took a while to write. Once again... the definition of short has been uh... played with.

Jaime ended the call and immediately threw his phone onto his kitchen island, not caring that it might slide along the marble and topple onto the floor. But luckily it didn’t. Unluckily, it hit a stack of paper and sent sheets flying absolutely everywhere. He would deal with those later. He had T-minus 10 minutes to finish his preparation, T-minus 8 minutes if Brienne was more pissed off with him than her terse tone had implied. 

He pulled on two oven mitts and opened the oven door. Heat billowed out along with the tantalizing smells of spices and garlic and Jaime’s lips curled in delight. He reached into the oven and pulled out the cast iron skillet, filled to the brim and bubbling with chicken, chickpeas, and a harissa sauce made from scratch. Quickly, he slid to his dining room table and set the cast iron skillet onto a marble trivet, which, he had learned several practice sessions ago, were highly necessary when dealing with very hot dishes fresh from the oven. There had been many, many practice sessions. Tyrion and Cersei and Addam and Elia and Catelyn were sick of chicken, chickpeas, and harissa now. But it was all paying off. It had to pay off.

Jaime adjusted the positioning of the large bowl of couscous mixed with lemon, coriander and pomegranate seeds, the bottle of wine, the wine glasses, the cutlery, and the plates then stepped back and nodded. Running back into the kitchen, Jaime shut the oven door, turned it off – a task that he now never forgot after one unfortunate mishap– and grabbed a lighter. 

Running back to the dinning room table, he lit the two candles between the cast iron skillet and the bowl of couscous, relishing in the clean citrus smell they gave off. Brienne loved citrus. She must’ve. She always smelled like citrus. It made his relationship with oranges very complicated.

Lastly, Jaime ran into his office, grabbed a large binder full of paper and a small flash drive shaped like a sword and then ran out again to set the objects precariously on the dining room table where there was still space.

He frowned. The new objects threw the ambiance of the whole set up way off. Jaime picked up the binder and left the flash drive. Now, the damn thing was liable to be knocked onto the ground and lost in his dimly lit dining room, and turning on the lights to go crawling around on the floor looking around for it would definitely throw off the ambiance of the evening. Jaime picked up the flash drive and tucked it back into the binder.

How the hell had he not thought of this? The dumb binder was so fucking integral to his whole plan!

His doorbell began screeching at him.

Jaime looked at his watch and grimaced. She had arrived within 7 minutes. She was definitely pissed off at him. That was also not what he had been going for. He went over to his phone and activated its connection to the building intercom. “Hello,” he said as cheerily as he could while hurriedly trying to gather up all the scattered paper back into a neat pile.

“Let me up Jaime or so help me—“

“Buzzing you in!” he merrily shouted over the rest of her words and heard not only the clack of the building door opening but the stomping of her feet too. Too late Jaime thought that maybe he had gotten the balance of practice sessions and due dates wrong.

It was all by the by now. He was going to make this work.

He had met Brienne over three years ago. She was meant to be the next in a long line of editors whom he would eventually get sick and tired of, the next in a line of editors whom only wanted to ride on the coat tails of a man who had once written award winning best sellers that had meant something, even though he just couldn’t anymore. She was meant to be another editor that would push him to write and publish anything as long as it had his name on it, because as long as it had his name and face on it, it would sell. 

But Brienne had been none of those things. Firstly, she had hated what his novels had become. She had confessed to being an avid fan of the first, and second, and third books as a teen and still as an adult… but then she had become disgusted, as he had, with the rest. She hadn’t even wanted to be in the line of editors vying for him. She had made it clear from the very first day that she was only working with him as a favour to Olenna, and that their relationship was surely set to implode. 

The joke was on both of them though. Through the natural chemistry of their dynamic, Jaime had been angry – no – passionate enough about her and the way that she dismantled him, goaded him, drove him, and inspired him, that he had once again released something that meant something, although the book had taken years before it had won anything and then subsequently become a best seller. But that was it. The moment that spark was back, she was his for forever. Or in truth, he was hers. 

The rest was just inevitable.

The sound of fists on his door echoed into his flat. “Jaime Lannister! You better have that first draft for me or I am going to rip your—“

Jaime threw open the front door and waved the binder and flash drive at Brienne, “Have it right here!” He interrupted snarkily and then his mouth went dry as a wave of citrus hit him. 

“Why in all names do you have a printed version? Are you being all old again? We’ve discussed this!” Brienne raved madly, and then, “Have you decided to adopt the vampire life style? Why are there no lights on in your flat?” Brienne asked with a furrowed brow.

Jaime just simply continued to gape. Was this how she had gotten here in 7 minutes? Because she hadn’t even bothered to put on real clothes? Not real clothes being a complete misnomer. Brienne was fully dressed, just dressed in a way that he had never seen her dressed before. 

As his editor, he had mostly seen her in clean-cut pantsuits, plain blouses, and just typical, absurdly conservative work attire. She was never anything but professional for their conferences, book signings, dull company meetings, and even when she came barreling into his apartment to wrestle the next draft from him about ten minutes before they were meant to be due to her. Which was about two days before they were usually due to the publisher. She really gave him too much slack. But he was charming like that.

However, the Brienne before him now… well. She was wearing a big, baggy, blue sweater that hung off one shoulder – showing him that she was either wearing a strapless bra or not wearing one at all -, soft cotton shorts that barely reached mid-thigh – highlighting the extreme length of her very freckled legs –, her hair was a soft bird’s nest around her head – whereas usually it was in a utilitarian bun-, and the fucking cutest wire frame classes were haphazardly perched on the crook of her nose. He didn’t even know that she wore glasses. 

She looked bloody adorable and Jaime was not ready for the assault on his senses. 

Brienne waved a hand in front of his face, “Jaime? Have you started getting migraines? Is that why your flat is so dark? You could have told me, I would have convinced the publishing company to extend your deadline.”

And she would have. If he told her he was having any real problems, and not well… just being the annoying person he inherently was, she would do everything in her power to help him. It was this kind of strong-willed caring that made him—

“I’m okay,” Jaime managed to rasp out, “Please come in.”

Brienne tipped her head curiously, “I can just take your draft if that’s it,” she pointed at the binder and flash drive in his hands, “You can take the rest of the night to relax and I’ll get out of your hair—“

“No!” Jaime managed to shout out, “I…” Ah… right. Now he remembered what he had forgotten to rehearse. He had spent so much time perfecting the meal he had planned to cook for them that he had never quite gotten to the part about how to actually ask her if she wanted to eat it with him. No wonder every single one of his fucking siblings and friends seemed to be in on the same joke. They all knew this moment had gone right over his head. He was going to kill them all.

At that moment, Brienne’s phone chimed several times and she peeked at it, obviously intending to just take a quick look before giving him back her full attention, but then she did a double take and went through the whole process of unlocking her phone to take in the full contents of whatever was sent to her. 

“Um…” Brienne murmured as her cheeks went splotchy pink. How in all names was she getting cuter? Then, oddly, she held her phone out to him, “Jaime. What is she talking about?”

Jaime’s Friend Elia: He’s trying to invite you in for dinner. Please say yes and end his misery

Jaime’s Friend Elia: End all of our misery. I can’t eat any more couscous

Jaime’s Friend Elia: Sorry that was Addam

Jaime’s Friend Elia: AND ALSO MAKE SURE TO READ CHAPTER 12 WHILE YOUR STILL AT HIS PLACE!!! HE’S BETTER AT WRITING THAN ARTICULATING HIS FEELINGS

Jaime’s Friend Elia: Just read the damn title

Jaime’s Friend Elia: And we don’t mean this for editorial purposes Brienne

Jaime’s friend Elia: Sorry that was Tyrion then Cersei then Catelyn. I’m locking my phone now. Just say yes

Jaime blinked as he read the messages, and then his eye twitched. He threw a scathing glare toward the apartment across the hall – Elia’s apartment – and wondered how many people had their ear pressed to the door on the other side. 

Brienne stood on her tippy toes, which meant that she was now near a head taller than him, to get a better look into his place. “Are those candles? Jaime, why do you have candles lit?”

Jaime swore he heard snickering and couldn’t stand it anymore. He grabbed her forearm and pulled her into his flat, tossing one last glare at Elia’s peephole. He slammed his door shut. 

Brienne, meanwhile, had used the momentum he had given her to progress deeper into his apartment and into his dining room – where the only source of light was flickering – and he found her just standing at the threshold. When he came to her side, she looked over at him. “What is this Jaime?” she asked in what sounded like a desperate whisper.

Jaime sighed and rubbed the back of his head, “I was going to ask you if you wanted to have dinner with me, but I’m just realizing I never even asked if you’ve already had dinner.”

“I haven’t had dinner yet,” Brienne murmured as she looked back at the set up and then back at him. Her eyes scanned his whole body, going from head to toe. He had dressed up for the occasion, in a white, tailored dress shirt – the sleeves still rolled up to his elbows from when he was cooking – and dark gray, wool slacks. His effort looked silly beside her extremely casual attire. “Is this… a writer and editor dinner, Jaime? Like a ‘sorry, I left this draft until the last possible minute’ dinner?”

Jaime shook his head and couldn’t help but grin at her. She was so sweet and oblivious. Apparently everyone else knew. “I think Catelyn told you that it isn’t.”

Her eyes turned back to the table. It was so gentle and affectionate, the small “Oh” that wooshed from her lips. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the awfully romantic looking set up. “What’s the title of your new book? You’ve refused to tell me for months now.”

He opened the binder to the first page. Printed on it were the words: ‘I Dreamed of Blue’. He didn’t know if he was happy with it. But he didn’t think any words would be able to encapsulate the entirety of his heart and soul.

He watched Brienne swallow nervously, but also shift closer to him. His heart bloomed. “What happens in chapter 12?”

Jaime’s fingers tapped nervously as she slowly met his gaze. Gods, the ways her eyes sparkled. He wanted to kiss her. “The main characters finally tell each other how they feel.”

[searchingwardrobes]

The Early Leaf’s a Flower: 8/11

I’m so excited to share this chapter with you! The wardrobe will finally work its magic again! But . . . well . . . we do have three more chapters to go . . . For those of you who read the original, this contains a pivotal scene from that version, though with some changes. Changes I feel make it even better. I hope ya’ll think so too!

Much thanks as always to the mods of the csrt event at @captainswanbigbang​. Also thanks to @optomisticgirl​​ and @shippingtheswann​ for their beta skills. I especially needed both your help with the battle scene in this, for which I am immensely grateful!

Summary: She saw eyes that were the blue of the forget me not peering at her through the cracked door of the wardrobe. He saw hair as gold as the buttercups. Why does the wardrobe keep bringing them back to one another, if fate keeps tearing them apart? Or maybe fate has her reasons …

Rating: M for eventual sexy times, violence, canonical character death, and attempted rape

Trigger warnings: vague references to child abuse (physical and sexual), violence, and positive Millian

Words: About 4k in this chapter

** Complete and updated every Monday** Also on Ao3

Emma: Age 23

Jackie is in her seventies, or at least looks like she’s in her seventies, and her house is at least a hundred years old. But those are the only two similarities either the woman or the house share with Emma’s beloved Martha. Where Martha’s house was old and a little worse for wear, it was still well loved and kept clean and tidy. Jackie’s house is only a few steps above being condemned, and as for cleanliness, well, Emma almost chokes on the stench. But after weeks on the road in her bug, it’s all Emma can afford.

Jackie isn’t in much better shape than her house, her face drawn and scowling, and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Where Martha had been soft and gentle, Jackie is all sharp lines and harsh edges. Her voice is rough as sandpaper, her words like vinegar. There definitely is no little box of Bible verses in this woman’s kitchen.

The room Emma is renting is in slightly better shape than the rest of the house; the previous renter had at least known what Pine-Sol was. It’s about as small as her room at Martha’s when she was ten, yet it does have a tiny bathroom attached and the fireplace actually works. In one corner is crammed a miniscule table and chair, and in the other –

Is a wardrobe.

Emma drops her duffel on the scuffed hardwood as her jaw almost comes unhinged. There’s no mistaking it this time: It’s the same one she had in her room at ten and sixteen. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Seriously? She berates herself, not for the first time, for her decision to come back to Maine, even if Florida had been a massive mistake. After saving up all that money at Granny’s, she foolishly wasted two years in Tallahassee. She still kicks herself for thinking Neal would actually find her. What did she think this was? A rom-com? It isn’t. Her life is no Hallmark movie, no fairy tale. She glances at the wardrobe.

Even if a dashing slave/cabin boy had come to her through an enchanted wardrobe.

She sighs and pauses before unzipping her duffel, then decides to just slide the bag under the bed. It isn’t quite as large or ornate as her bed at Martha’s, but it’s still a four-poster with ample room underneath.

She purposely ignores the wardrobe the rest of the evening, refusing to give it even a glance as she cooks up a supper of ramen noodles with her hot plate. She stares at the noodles in her bowl, the desire to look over in the opposite corner stronger than she would care to admit. Why did she even come back to Maine? Oh right, because there are people in a town called Storybrooke who said she could come back if Tallahassee didn’t work out. Too bad she needs to earn more money before she can get the rest of the way there. And in the meantime, this wardrobe is mocking her.

She stays in the shower longer than necessary, despite the layers of scum on the avocado colored subway tiles. She comes out in nothing but a towel, grasping it tight with one hand as she fishes in her duffel with the other. Normally, alone in her room, she’d just walk around naked. But she can’t help remembering those blue eyes she saw watching her as a girl. She chuckles wryly at herself and ceases searching her bag. She stands up straight, pushing her wet hair from her eyes, and drills her gaze into the wardrobe. With a huff she stomps over and flings the door open.

A handful of empty wire hangers swing and clang together from the post inside. That’s it. Empty. Emma laughs at herself as she shuts the door. She lets her towel drop to the floor as she returns to her duffel. With two hands, she finds her pajama pants and tank top quickly and slips into them. She’s just crawled into bed and is reaching over to flip off the bedside lamp when she hears a squeak. She pauses, her hand hovering in midair between the bed and the lamp. She turns her head slowly towards the wardrobe.

The door suddenly swings open.

“Emma? I’ve tried this wardrobe a hundred times . . . ”

Her mouth falls open at the sight of the person on the other side. She eases slowly from the bed in shock and steps closer.

“Killian?” she questions softly, wrapping her arms around the post of the four-poster bed. The same blue eyes as always stare back at her, but he has changed so much. Those eyes are now rimmed with dark kohl, and his face has a hardened edge that is brand new. His hair is the same dark shade, but instead of the shoulder length and the boyish lock of hair falling in his eyes, it is now a bit shorter and messy in a dangerous sort of way. Instead of a nightshirt, he wears tight, black leather pants and a long black leather coat over a black shirt and red vest. The buttons of his shirt are undone almost to his navel, revealing thick, dark hair on a hardened, muscular chest. The naïve, hopeful boy she had known has obviously grown into a world-weary man.

And then there’s the hook. A large, shiny steel hook where his left hand used to be.

The harshness of his face softens as he takes in the sight of her, and when he speaks, the roguish smile he gives her and the cocky arch of his brow seem slightly forced. Like a long-practiced act he’s performing for the first time in her presence.

“Actually, love, people have taken to calling me by my more colorful moniker: Hook.” His face falls even as he brandishes the intimidating appendage. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again, lass. It’s been so long.”

Emma shrugs, the corner of her mouth hitching up. “Only seven years. Give or take.”

“Yet so much has happened since then,” he tells her in a voice heavy with almost unbearable sadness.

“For me too,” she admits in barely more than a whisper.

They search one another’s eyes for a silent heartbeat. “I hate to hear that, love,” he finally says, “though I hope the terrors here are less frightening than those in Neverland.”

Emma’s mind reels. He’s been in Neverland. He’s dressed like a pirate. He has a hook. When she speaks, it’s almost hesitant. “You mean . . . you’re Captain Hook?”

His eyes light up and a look of pride fills his face. His voice is full of bravado when he speaks. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me.”

Emma suppresses a laugh. “Well, there’s a book. And movie. Several movies, actually.”

He cocks his head for a moment as he searches her face, a look of slight confusion upon his own. Then some sort of realization seems to wash over him, and he deflates his posturing. “The portrayal was far from flattering, I see. I – I’ll leave you.”

“Wait!” Emma cries out even as he turns to go. Without thinking, she reaches out and grabs his hook to stop him. When he turns, he looks in surprise at where her fingers curve around the steel. So he’s . . . Captain Hook. Is that so much harder to believe than having a friend that walks through an enchanted wardrobe? She smiles up at him. “Stay.”

He seems almost transfixed as she pulls him out of the wardrobe and towards the bed. She sits and gently tugs him down with her, her hand still clutching his hook. It doesn’t scare her, didn’t for one second. And it’s hard to explain, but holding it seems . . . right. Comforting, even. She sets it in her lap and squeezes it as she gazes into his face.

“Tell me what’s happened since I saw you last,” she encourages, as she would to a long lost friend. Because that’s what he is. The only one she has or has ever had, come to think of it.

He clears his throat, still staring at his hook in her lap. “I’m afraid there’s an awful lot to tell.” The slightly embarrassed chuckle and ear scratch that he gives her reveals the boy still inside him.

Emma shifts closer, “Just the highlights, then. It’s not like I have anything important to do.”

So he begins to talk. The accented voice she has always loved rolls over her like a warm embrace, but the story breaks her heart. He tells her about losing his brother Liam and why he became a pirate. His voice breaks as he describes the elder Jones dying in his arms, and Emma tugs his arm up and over her shoulder. A tear tracks down his cheek as he tells her about Milah, about watching Pan crush her heart and being helpless to stop it. He turns his face away as he speaks of the choices he has made, many of them dark, in his pursuit of revenge against Pan. Emma leans closer and rests her head on his shoulder to let him know it doesn’t change anything.

“I’ve been talking on and on about nothing but myself,” he tells her, his lips brushing against the crown of her head. “That’s bad form, love. What about your life? Less tragic than mine, I hope.”

Emma lifts her head to look into his eyes, so intensely blue as they study her. “I’ve had my own share of tragedy.” She lets out a shaky breath and then tells him about Neal and jail, and then . . . she speaks for the first time about the baby she gave away. Confesses for the first time out loud about how giving him up tore her heart in two.

Killian holds her tighter as the tears break free. She turns in his embrace, fisting her hands in his shirt and sobbing into his shoulder. When her tears are spent, there is a dark, wet spot on his shirt. She laughs sardonically as she wipes at it.

“Look what I’ve done to your shirt.”

“Tis nothing, love.”

Emma suddenly realizes that both her hands are splayed against his chest, and she can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. She lifts her head and sees his face so close to hers. Her eyes flicker from his bright eyes to his lips, and her thoughts tumble backwards in time to their first kiss when his lips were so soft and welcoming, and how the feel of them on hers made her heart soar. They both lean towards each other, and then their lips are brushing. They sort of melt against one another as they deepen the kiss, and it’s simultaneously just like when they were sixteen and vastly different. The softness, the tenderness, and the heart swelling rush are all still there. But there’s fire and passion wrought of pain and loss that sparks and sets them both on fire.

What comes next happens in a sort of haze, as if Killian is a drug she can’t resist. Hands and lips feverishly exploring, and clothes peeled back and cast aside with a mixture of frenzy and reverence. When Emma removes his brace, he stiffens and closes his eyes in shame. She lifts his left arm and runs her fingers across the scars there, then kisses it tenderly. He tells her around an obvious lump in his throat that no one has seen or touched it since Milah. She presses it to her breast and pulls him close for a hungry kiss. She wants him to know he isn’t disabled or broken, not to her.

Then they’re falling as they come together, Killian practically worshipping every inch of her as if she’s an angel he doesn’t quite deserve. And Emma is almost overwhelmed with the intensity of it, and she wonders why she ever thought she loved Neal.

Because it was never like this.

They are still breathing heavily, yet sated and slightly drowsy in each other’s arms when the light pours out of the open door of the wardrobe. Emma cups Killian’s face and runs her thumb along the scar on his cheek.

“Emma.” His voice is almost a groan. “For years, I told myself that if I ever found my way back here, I would stay. With you.”

He’s searching her face, and the look in his eyes is begging her to understand. “But you can’t, can you?” she whispers.

Killian brushes her lips against hers, feather light. “I just received an urgent message from some friends. We were making haste to Neverland when I saw a light in the wardrobe. I have to help them if I can.”

Emma grasps his shoulders tight even as she nods in understanding. He presses his forehead to hers, his eyes closed, and they breathe one another in for just one more heartbeat. Then he slips from the bed and begins to gather his clothes. As he steps into his leather pants, the light of the moon sends a shaft of light across his back, illuminating the criss-cross pattern of scars she had traced earlier with her fingers. She remembers the trembling slave boy of ten, and the hesitantly hopeful cabin boy of sixteen, and she wonders if the scars were there even then.

Killian finishes dressing with a click of his hook into his brace. The sound of it echoes in the quiet room, and she sees his jaw tense with shame. Giving him her body clearly wasn’t enough to wash that away, and it breaks her heart.

“Emma,” he says, voice thick with emotion, “I’m not the boy you once knew. I know I wasn’t worthy to share your bed tonight, but know one thing.” He lifts his gaze finally to hers, and the moonlight brightens them. They are swimming with more emotion than anyone has ever bestowed upon her. “I have always loved you. That has never changed.”

She sits up, clutching the sheets to her bare chest as she watches him walk to the wardrobe. She wants to tell him she loves him too, but she can’t get the words past her throat. He steps into the wardrobe, and a slight panic seizes her that she can’t speak. He turns to look at her, giving her a tender smile.

“Can I come back tomorrow night?”

Her heart soars at his question, tears filling her eyes. “Yes.”

He gives a simple nod, pulls the wardrobe closed, and the light is gone. He is gone. A strangled sound comes from Emma’s throat as she curls in on herself. Every time she and Killian have spent a night together, her world comes crashing down. First Martha’s stroke, then being betrayed by what she thought was her family.

Whatever tomorrow brings, she doubts it will be Killian.

**************************************

When Killian comes back through the wardrobe, the early light of dawn is just beginning to spill through the windows of his cabin. He sinks to his bunk, his heart still struggling to recover from the night he had shared with Emma. He can still see that otherworldly light seeping through the cracks of the wardrobe door, and he’s tempted to go back through and simply stay with Emma. He clenches his jaw as he reaches over with his hook and pierces the small slip of paper that had arrived via bird from Tink and Tiger Lily less than twenty four hours ago.

Pan has him.

Three simple words that he can’t ignore. So he lets the light fade away, rises to his feet, and strides above deck, crushing the missive in his hand.

“What is our position, Starkey?” he cries to his first mate.

“We’ll be making landfall in less than half an hour, sir.”

Killian nods as he joins the other young man at the captain’s wheel. Starkey’s gaze keeps cutting his way, but Killian is in no mood to talk. His emotions are a tumult of golden hair, light green eyes, and heated skin mixed in with the fear of reaching the island too late. Somehow, for reasons he can’t fathom, his night with Emma feels intertwined with the boy he has to save. Has to. He tells himself this overwhelming urge comes from his own memories of a shattered childhood, but somehow he knows it is deeper than that. His nerve endings feel exposed, brushing up against a mystery just out of reach.

When they anchor the ship in the cove near Mermaid’s Lagoon, Hawkins tells him in hushed tones that the island is much too quiet. It has nothing to do with the empty lagoon or the stillness of the dark waters nearest to the shore. The mermaids abandoned this place long ago, when magic first began to die. Tink speaks dreamily of their songs, but it’s a pleasure that has never reached his ears.

No, this quiet is filled with a heavier foreboding. Hook normally visits the home beneath the ground on his own, not wanting to expose Wendy to his uncouth crew, but this time he takes those he trusts most along with him: Starkey, Hawkins, and Slightly. Mason begs to come along, but there’s too much unknown to risk it.

They find the place just as quiet as the rest of the island. Wendy’s sewing basket is sitting abandoned by the hearth, the fireplace cold. Hook frowns when he sees a tiny cup sitting upon the kitchen table, filled to the brim with a brown liquid. He shakes his head.

“Wendy always makes sure Michael takes his medicine.”

It’s awful stuff, and the boy pitches a fit every time, but the concoction brewed by Tiger Lily is a supposed inoculation for dreamshade. Killian’s skeptical of the home remedy - it’s never made a bit of difference for his crew - but it makes Wendy feel better to make her brother take it.

Yet here it sits.

Starkey pulls a dagger from his belt. “Something strange is afoot, Cap’n.”

“Aye.”

“Their brother John came for them.”

They spin at the sound, weapons aloft, but it is only Tiger Lily. Killian deflates and re-sheaths his sword.

“Brother?”

“Half brother,” Tiger Lily sighs, depositing a quiver of arrows upon the table and rolling her shoulders. “He’s already a man. A man who made a deal with Pan, apparently. You weren’t the only one searching for the boy, Hook.”

“You don’t mean -”

“Yes, Pan has him. I’ve tracked them to Skull Rock. Tink is there keeping watch, but I’m not sure what we can do.”

“And Wendy and Michael -”

“Gone. I don’t know how, but Pan gave John an antidote for the water of Rainbow Falls as well as passage to another realm.”

“Home,” Killian whispers, “a land without magic, Wendy said.”

Tiger Lily nods. “John was a desperate man, Killian. He didn’t want to turn the child over; had grown attached to him even, but Wendy is 15 now, and . . . “

She trails off, her shoulders hunched. She isn’t like Tink with chatter spilling out of her. Tiger Lily is clearly shaken. Killian sinks onto one of the kitchen chairs and rubs his hand over his face.

“He wanted to save his sister and brother, I get that,” Killian fumes “but turning over a tiny lad that way . . . “ He slams his fist into the table in frustration.

“We must attack, Captain,” Hawkins says grimly, “before Pan kills the boy.”

Killian looks at the three determined men before him. He knows they’re right. Emma, he thinks to himself, please understand if I don’t make it back to you.

**************************************

“Pan has to do the ritual here,” Tiger Lily whispers from their hiding place in Skull Rock. “This is the heart of Neverland. All the island’s magic originates here.”

Killian peers over the rock with Tiger Lily at his side. The child stands trembling with Pan beside him. An enormous hourglass looms over them both, the sand within like gold dust. Whatever it is measuring, time is almost up.

“I’ve never seen that hourglass before,” Killian says to Tiger Lily.

“Pan’s had a protection spell around it until recently. It measures Pan’s boyhood. He will never grow up, but he isn’t immortal.”

He isn’t immortal. A slow smile fills Killian’s face. “Pan is the reason magic is dying in Neverland.”

Tiger Lily’s gaze meets his, her brown eyes widening brightly. “Of course! Peter Pan’s magic is unnatural; it consumes. Get rid of Pan -”

“Restore Neverland to glory,” Killian finishes for her.

Killian looks back at the child once again, yet another source of magic for Peter Pan to consume for his own “play.” Even from this place he can hear the boy’s weeping. The Lost Boys surround him and their leader, weapons forming a tight circle that will be difficult to penetrate. Nevertheless, Killian takes note of one important detail.

“They are in an offensive position to keep the boy in,” he whispers. “Not defensive to keep attackers out.”

“We still need a plan,” the fairy whispers back.

He smirks at Tiger Lily. “What do you think I have a crew for?”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t mean to tell me you’ll risk that child for a full on assault?”

“Hey,” he gives her a wink, ‘trust me for once.”

He slips away, further into the cave, and he bites back a chuckle at the way Tiger Lily is grumbling. His crew has used these caves often to store bits of treasure for a rainy day, so he’s familiar with its labyrinth of tunnels. He hurries along one with light, quiet steps. It leads him to a precipice just over where Pan is giving a rousing speech to his Lost Boys.

Killian is surprised that the child isn’t restrained in any way, but he’s so small, and his eyes so large with fright, that it’s likely unnecessary. Killian eases his way to the very edge of the precipice, lying flat on his stomach so he’s hidden from sight.

Pan is saying something about saving Neverland’s magic, grasping the trembling boy by the arm. Killian thinks back to Mason and then Michael and the lack of a mark that saved them from this cruel rite. He can’t see it from here, but he assumes that this child does bear the mark.

Killian knows that time is short. He scans the large main cavern of Skull Rock, his eyes finding the members of his crew. All are in position, so he takes a deep breath before calling out:

“Flee! Flee!”

He adjusts the timbre of his voice, deepening it ominously. The Lost Boys freeze and Pan narrows his eyes as he drops the little boy’s arm. Now that he has their attention, he continues.

“You heard me. Flee, I tell you! The spirit of Skull Rock has spoken!”

To his right, still crouched behind the rock where he left her, Tiger Lily is glaring at him. She makes gestures with her hands that clearly say what the hell are you doing? He tosses her a wink which says Hey, it’s me! Which she ought to be used to by now, really. Below them, his words have had the desired effect on the Lost Boys.

“It’s a ghost!”

“A ghost who wants revenge!”

“This place is haunted!”

“Quiet, you idiots!” Peter shouts. “Someone’s here alright, but it’s not a ghost.”

“I am the ghost of vengeance,” Killian cries out again in a deepened voice.

He’s enjoying this far too much, truth be told. Peter’s face can’t seem to settle on anger or fear, and Killian’s lips curl into a grin. The imp pulls out his dagger as he inches closer to the stone walls of the cave, and the Lost Boys gather at his back. The pixie dust is too scarce now for the demon boy to take flight, a fact that Killian relishes.

In the shadows, Killian spies Hawkins taking advantage of Pan’s distraction. He grabs the little boy, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle any cries. Mason is at his back, and the two teenagers hurry the child to a waiting rowboat, Tink at the oars.

Once the youngest members of his crew have succeeded in rescuing the lad, Killian slinks back down the tunnel to join the rest of the pirates. Tiger Lily scowls at him as she follows.

“So you were never going to clue me into your plan?” she whispers.

“What would be the fun in that?” he quips back under his breath.

Peter calls out into the dark recesses of Skull Rock, “Ghost, demon, or man, whoever you are, make yourself known!”

Hook’s lips curl up into a satisfying smirk. The noose has been tightened; his crew has The Lost Boy’s surrounded.

“Boo!” he shouts, arching one brow mockingly.

The look on Pan’s face when he turns and sees a crew of pirate’s behind him, armed to the teeth, is one that Killian Jones will never forget. His crew falls upon the Lost Boys, but Hook keeps his eyes locked on Peter Pan. Hook isn’t sure if it’s cowardice or desperation, but Pan runs away from the battle towards the hourglass. Then a look of confusion washes over Peter’s face, and Killian grins knowing exactly what his enemy has just realized.

“Looking for something?” he shouts over the din, swinging his hook to dispatch the Lost Boys who are in his way.

“Where is the boy?” Pan shrieks in a blind rage. He lunges at Hook, but his form

is sluggish.

“Gone,” Killian snarls.

“It’s you or me this time, Hook!” Pan bellows as he launches himself at Killian.

Hook’s cutlass flies from his hand; by all accounts the boy has taken him completely by surprise. Never has Peter Pan fought more like a demon than he does now, scratching and biting and kicking. Killian rolls with him, slashing occasionally with his hook enough to draw blood. Peter’s rage is an almost palpable thing, and though Hook could succumb to his own in equal measure, he holds himself back.

Instead, he laughs. The sound sends Pan over the edge and he begins to choke the pirate. Still, the man grins.

“What’s so funny?” Pan demands, fury making those two red spots appear in his eyes.

“This is,” another voice answers, and Pan loosens his grip on his enemy’s throat to follow the source of it. Tiger Lily stands before the hourglass, Killian’s cutlass in her hands. She swings the weapon at the glass with all of her strength.

“Nooo!!” Pan screeches.

The hour glass shatters, the remaining sand pouring out upon the ground. Peter Pan curls in on himself, screaming in agony. Hook feels not an ounce of compassion, however, and he looms over his enemy with a snarl upon his lips.

“You didn’t really think I would drop my weapon so easily, did you?”

Pan doesn’t answer. He throws his head back, clawing at his skin as he continues to scream. The battle between the pirates and the Lost Boys has ceased, and everyone looks on in horror as the boy who never grows up shrivels and wrinkles before their eyes, his bones weakening and contorting. With one final wail, his face seems to melt, then his entire body turns to dust.

For a moment, there is an eerie silence. Former enemies glance at one another, unsure what to do next. Then a violent wind rushes through skull rock, picking up the ashes that were once Peter Pan. A dark shadow flies in behind it, and the ashes whirl it, faster and faster and faster. The vortex sends everyone to their knees, shielding their eyes from the dust and wind. Then there’s a bright pulse of light that sends them all sprawling on their backs.

Killian’s head collides with the rocky floor and pain shoots across his forehead, his focus blurring at the edges. He thinks he sees a flurry of purple and green - wings? He blinks, but then his vision begins to dim as someone calls his name.

Emma, I’m sorry. It’s the last thought he has before he succumbs to the darkness.

Tagging: @snowbellewells​​  @kmomof4​​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​ @teamhook​​ @bethacaciakay​​ @let-it-raines​​ @welllpthisishappening​​ @wellhellotragic​​ @winterbaby89​​ @xhookswenchx​​ @courtorderedcake​​ @branlovestowrite​​ @hollyethecurious​​ @vvbooklady1256​​ @profdanglaisstuff​​ @carpedzem​​ @ekr032-blog-blog​​ @jennjenn615​​ @tiganasummertree​​ @lfh1226-linda​​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​ @spartanguard​​ @shireness-says​​ @scientificapricot​​​ @stahlop​​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​​ @superchocovian​​​ @sherlockianwhovian​​​ @snidgetsafan​​​ @ohmakemeahercules​​​ @thislassishooked​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​ @nikkiemms​​​@delirious-latenight-laughs​

[brokenbuttonsmusic]

Howard Tate: A Philadelphia Soul Resurrection

This post is a near- transcript of the Broken Buttons: Buried Treasure Music podcast (episode 1, side B). Here you’ll find the narration from the segment featuring the great Philadelphia soul singer Howard Tate, along with links, videos, photos and references for the episode.

Listen to the full episode on Spotify, Anchor or Mixcloud.

Music history is packed with bands and artists that had the talent, the songs and even the fully realized recordings to make it big, only to be passed over. Some miss their window, or worse, some get their big break, but somehow  self-destruct or fail to capitalize on it. It’s the reason why I decided to do this show. There is so much overlooked and under appreciated music out there to be found and enjoyed.

This next artist doesn’t quite hit any of those scenarios exactly though. Howard Tate got his break and made it happen. Howard Tate hit big and he hit fast. Tate said he came home from work one day and a big limousine was sitting in front of his door. 

“You gotta get in here right away. You gotta get a suit. You’re playing with Marvin Gaye tomorrow night.”

Between 1966 and 1970 Howard Tate had six top 40 R&B singles. And then he disappeared. Plunging into obscurity, almost as quickly as he soared within sight of the summit. Tate never completely crossed over. While he regularly appeared on the R&B charts, the highest he ever placed on the Pop charts was #63. 

Let’s start our dive into Tate, by hearing his highest charting single. One of three top 20 R&B hits in his catalog. This is Ain’t Nobody Home by Howard Tate. 

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Ain’t Nobody Home by Howard Tate.

Here’s what the Rough Guide to Soul & R&B has to say about that recording and the chemistry of the whole crew who made it happen.

“With a groove laid down by keyboardist Richard Tee, guitarist Cornell Dupree, bassist Chuck Rainey and drummer Herb Lovell, the production of Ain’t Nobody Home by Jerry Ragovoy both borrowed from and influenced the music coming from Memphis and Muscle Shoals, and set the precedent for Atlantic’s first recordings with Aretha Franklin. While the music was great, however, it was Tate’s vocals that made the record. Sounding like a less overwrought Percy Sledge, Tate’s simultaneously Northern and Southern phrasing was impeccable, and economical use of his falsetto made it all the more effective.”

Tate had the voice, which many compared to Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye. He also had a distinctive gospel-blues delivery that sticks with you for days. But the tunes came from somewhere else.

Before his quick ascent, Tate was singing in a group with Garnet Mimms. Mimms was the original singer of the Janis Joplin hit,  Cry Baby. He also introduced Howard to record producer Jerry Ragovoy, who co-wrote Cry Baby. Ragovoy is known for writing Time is On My Side for the Rolling Stones and another Joplin hit, Piece of My Heart. Clearly Janis liked the songwriting of Jerry Ragovoy. In fact, she also performed this Ragovoy composition that you’ve probably come across at one time or another.

That’s Janis Joplin singing Get It While You Can from her massive second album Pearl in 1971. What you might not know is that Get it While you Can was originally performed by Howard Tate, five years earlier in 1966.

Ragovoy was taken with Tate’s voice and began recording him as a solo artist for Verve Records. Ragovoy’s memorable, punchy Northern soul production paired with Tate’s soulful blues phrasing was a perfect match.

Here’s Howard Tate’s version, the original version, of the Jerry Ragovoy penned Get It While You Can.

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That was Howard Tate with Get It While You Can from the 1966 album of the same name.

American rock critic Robert Christgau had this to say about Tate and his collaboration with Jerry Ragovoy.

“Tate is a blues-drenched Macon native who had the desire to head north and sounds it every time he gooses a lament with one of the trademark keens that signify the escape he never achieved. He brought out the best in soul pro Jerry Ragovoy, who made Tate's records jump instead of arranging them into submission, and gave him lyrics with some wit to them besides. In return, Ragovoy brought out the best in Tate.”

Despite the magical team up on early singles and a debut album, Tate recorded his second album without Ragovoy, instead working with Lloyd Price and Johnny Nash. Released in 1969, Howard Tate’s Reaction is more uptown soul than the grittier southern soul of its predecessor, but it’s another recognition worthy collection of performances.

Ragovoy and Tate reunited for 1972’s eponymous Howard Tate. This time an Atlantic release. Critics knock this album as being a notch below Ragovoy’s best songwriting, but I think it’s a worthy piece of Tate’s catalog. Tate sounds great, as always, and there are a couple of really explosive, interesting covers. The Band’s Jemima Surrender and this one.

Bob Dylan’s Girl From the North Country. Listen to this voice.

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Howard Tate covering Bob Dylan’s Girl From the North County from 1972.

After recording a handful of additional songs—one single for Epic and a few for his own label—Tate retired from the music business. Frustrated with his lack of crossover, but downright bitter about how little he was paid for his successes, which again, included 3 top 20 R&B hits—he quit. Disappeared, really.

But not everyone was ready to forget. And while his name would fade from memories over the coming decades, Howard Tate’s impact was undeniable.

One of Tate’s heroes, BB King, covered Ain’t Nobody Home. So did Bonnie Raitt.

Ry Cooder and Grand Funk covered Look At Granny Run Run

Jimi Hendrix covered Stop

Foghat covered Eight Days on the Road and so did the one and only queen if soul.

And not everyone forgot. Tate’s old partner, record producer and chief songwriter Jerry Ragovoy made many attempts to track down his old friend over the years. He contacted old business associates and got them in on the search. They all came up empty.

A New Jersey DJ named Phil Casden had developed somewhat of an obsession with Tate’s whereabouts. Casden hosted a weekly radio show, spinning soul, blues and R&B and had taken to asking his listeners for any information about the missing (by this time) cult soul legend.

Even Verve, Tate’s old record company, had given up trying to track down the long retired crooner. The 1995 CD reissue of Tate’s Verve sessions included liner notes that flat out said: Howard Tate is probably dead.

''It wasn't sufficient to leave a story like that open-ended,'' Mr. Casden said. ''I had to find out: 'Is the guy alive? Is he dead?' There had to be something more than, 'He just rode off into the sunset.' ''

In 2001 the mystery was solved. Ron Kennedy, singer of Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes recognized Tate at a grocery store and the old pals played catch up after nearly 30 years. They exchanged numbers. Kennedy put the New Jersey DJ, Casden, in touch with Tate. Casden enthusiastically announced the good news to his listeners and the soul fanatics across the internet. Howard Tate was alive! He even put Tate in touch with a lawyer to help him recoup past royalties from his reissues.

Apparently Tate had quite a loyal following overseas. Eventually, a British journalist reached out to Tate’s old partner-producer Jerry Ragovoy for a reaction. The only problem was, Ragovoy didn’t have a reaction to give because he didn’t know Tate had been found. Ragovoy was elated at the news. After reconnecting with his long lost friend and confirming he was doing well, the next thing on his mind: could Howard Tate still sing?

Before we answer that, let’s answer this: where had Tate been all those years after walking away from the music?

After becoming resentful and disheartened by his missing paydays, Tate decided to go missing himself. He didn’t intentionally go into hiding, he just bailed on the industry that he felt wronged had him.

He worked as a securities dealer with Prudential for a while and then darkness hit. He lost his 13-year-old daughter in a house fire. In 1981, after 20 years, his marriage fell apart. Soon after, Tate unraveled too. He tumbled into drug addiction and lost everything. He lived on the streets for years, struggling to get by and feed his habit. Finally, in the mid 90s, he started to climb out of the hole. He cleaned up and found god. He became a minister and dedicated his life to helping the poor and homeless.

And that brings us up to the moment of his big reunion with Jerry Ragovoy and loyal fans awareness that Howard Tate was alive and well after all those years. But now more than your die hard R&B/soul enthusiasts were interested.

But did he still have that voice? Could Howard still sing?

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Uh, yeah. Jerry Ragovoy was stunned at how strong Tate sounded after decades of being out of the game. And he was REALLY out of the game. Howard claims he never sang a note all those years. Not until Jerry approached him about recording a comeback album and got him into the studio. Tate also says he had no clue that Janis, B.B., Jimi, Ry or any of the others had ever covered his songs or took an interest in his music.

Howard and Jerry recorded a new album in 2003. It’s called Rediscovered. And remember that Elvis Costello quote from the intro to this episode? Elvis called Tate the missing link between Jackie Wilson and Al Green. Tate asked Costello to write a song for his new album and he agreed. 

Let’s here that now. From his comeback album, Rediscovered, more than 3 decades in the making, here’s Howard Tate with Either Side of the Same Town, written by Elvis Costello.

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That was Either Side of the Same Town from Howard Tate’s first album after 30 hears away from the music business. But not his last.

Tate had quite the victory lap. He made numerous tv, radio and festival appearances in the ten years after his reemergence. He recorded two more studio full lengths and a live album. On December 2nd, 2011, Tate passed away of complications of multiple myeloma and leukemia.

With a superb first act and a spectacular resurrection that led to the near doubling of his recorded output, there’s plenty of Tate music to check out and enjoy.

Other sources for this segment are listed below.

I referenced several NPR features in this episode, including the obituary they did for Tate. 

Deep Southern Soul - This blog did a great post on Howard Tate. Lots of other good stuff here, but they recently announced they are closing up.

Gadfly Online - Another nice write up on Tate and his back story.

New Jersey new feature - The clip of Howard talking is from this segment. They did a feature on Tate’s rediscovery.

Trunkworthy - Post about Tate and his comeback. This site digs into music, movies and TV you might have missed. They also did a post about the Elvis Costello song featured in this episode. Elvis’ version is on The Delivery Man album. 

New York Times Obituary for Howard Tate

The Guardian Obituary for Howard Tate

Billboard Magazine, July 26, 2003 - Article about Howard’s return after 30 years.

[juneiswriting]

Open Heart: Second Year, Chapter 8, Ethan Diamond Scene Rewrite

Author’s note: I love the new banters and dialogues I added, hope you will also enjoy them! And this chapter is really good! I also wrote a chapter commentary if you are interested in it (LINK)

Summary: This is a rewrite of Open Heart: Second Year, Chapter 8, Ethan diamond scene

Caution: In this version, I stick closer to Ethan’s back story from book 1, ie, his relationship with his parent is worse than PB made it to be in book 2.  

In the cheers of friends and peers, Ethan smiled at Ariel, her home-run secured their win. He was happy for the win. Sure he would love to beat Tobias in every way possible, and straightly after he stole a patient? Even better. But there was still something he wasn’t ready to face, leaving him half-hearted the whole day. He decided to head home early since he already spent a precious day in a softball match. He shook his head to himself, when Ariel came earlier, he couldn’t say no to her. This girl really made it hard to focus on work, his mind drifted to the few journals he was planning to finish by the end of the day. He walked to the lockers to gather his stuff when he saw Ariel also there. Finally the mvp of the day was alone, it was only appropriate to congratulate her, right?

‘So? Was that worth dragging me down here?’ He raised an eyebrow, asking her.

‘I regret nothing! I came to mess up Mass Kenmore, and I definitely achieved that! Did you see how defeated Tobias looked. I’m calling it a win!.’ Her grin reached her eyes. 

He loved to see her smile, she always brightened the day, but with what’s on his mind, he could barely give a wry smile. At once he found her searching his eyes. Her smile faltered a bit, her eyes soft with concern. She could always catch the tiniest details when it came to him, it was no different this time. He swallowed, hoping she wouldn't ask too much. He wasn’t sure where he was ready to think through what happened the last few days, let alone talking about it.

‘I got the feeling your head wasn’t really in it tonight.’ She gently asked.

‘It’s softball. My head was never going to be in it. And I didn’t even need that to win over Tobias.’ He smirked, hoping Ariel would take his answer.

Her brows creased, her hand lightly brushed against his. The small spark in the touch sent a shiver down his spine, his eyes widened slightly. 

‘I know it’s more than that. Talk to me, Ethan.’

He sighed, of course Ariel wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. She was always the stubborn one, never gave up and would go as far as humanly possible for people she cared about. His eyes met hers, seeing the yearning in her eyes. His gaze softened, maybe he would need someone to talk to, and Ariel would be the one he could trust. Seeing she went the length to stalk that woman with him, he should let Ariel know.

‘Not here.’ He whispered, making sure only she could hear him. The last thing he needed was getting their interaction any more attention than needed to be.

‘Then where?’ She asked, with the same whispering volume. Ethan blinked, he hadn’t thought about it yet, he simply knew the softball field wasn’t the right place for his personal issues. The gears in his head turned quickly.

‘I suppose you could come home with me. I have a new recipe I’ve been looking for an excuse to try.’ He shrugged, trying to play it off as something usual.

‘You cook?’ Ariel’s mouth wide-open staring at him. It made him laugh.

‘I do. Often. I find it very meditative, actually. It always helps me get my thoughts in order.’

‘Sure, let’s go! I can’t wait to get out of this cheap uniform.’ She winked. He saw what her was going for and smiled in return.

They got into his car and started the engine. Intending to keep the main conversation for later, Ariel decided to break the silence with some small talk.

‘Thank you for joining the team last minute. I know you would rather stay in your office.’ She smiled at him.

‘I have no problem putting MassKenmore in its place.’ He smirked.

‘Really? After being an attending for years in Edenbrook, this is finally the year for you to do that?’ She teased him, and he rolled his eyes. He couldn’t refuse her, but he could keep the real reason he joined from her.

‘Do you play softball often?’ He asked. He spent most of his time at work, putting patients as priority, barely sparing enough time for gym sessions to stay healthy, so that he could keep at his A-game.

‘Not really. But I enjoy watching softball games. You know? I have something called live and I know how to relax, not like some doctor!’ Ethan shot her a look and a wry smile, she ignored him and continued, ‘I guess some observational learning helped. And practicing the night before the match helped.’ She smiled.

‘With… your friends?’ He asked. He would love to spend more time with her, but that’s probably not the best choice for both of them.

‘Yes, the other two of ‘the boys’, Dr greene and Aveiro.’ She laughed again at ‘the boys’, appreciating Bryce’s humor. 

‘I saw you with Dr. Aurora Emery earlier, what were you talking about?’ He remembered Terrance, the Mass Kenmore doctor that made him step in their argument, he frowned. He also remembered the mention of Throne, he almost forgot about him. If that Terrance dared to touch Ariel, of course he was going to punch him in the face, it’s not like he never punched someone before.

‘I… It was nothing, just some minor things.’ She averted his gaze, and he wasn’t letting this go, he stayed silent, until Ariel spoke again.

‘Tobias Carrick said Aurora told him about Stephanie. I am just trying to make things clear with her. But somehow…’ She trailed off. He sighed, it wasn’t a surprise, given how Tobias tried hard to beat him. But he couldn’t help the fact he got the higher GPA and being that good in his job, Tobias could get jealous all he wanted.

‘Aurora told me she was proposing for their hospital to also solicit research funding and didn’t expect Carrick to directly steal a patient from us. I think she is above all the stealing thing. But I shouldn’t have told her about Stephenie at all.’ Ariel sighed, her shoulder slumped.

‘We’ll beat them next time. Don’t blame it on yourself, it’s not your fault. I’m sure we will win whatever comes up next. Even if we don't, some resident is going to come up with a surprising plan for it.’ He smirked.

‘Yeah, and some attending is going to be mad over it.’ She chuckled, looking much happier now.

Soon, they arrived at Ethan's house, they freshened up. He pulled the curtains to the glittering bay, not wasting the view that cost him a fortune.

‘So what’s this recipe you’ve been dying to try?’ She asked.

‘Georgian Stuffed Chicken.’

‘On a random weeknight?’ She looked surprised.

‘Correct. Come over here.’ He shrugged, who cared what day it was, as long as he got the food he wanted.

He went into the kitchen, taking out the chicken and pushed it to Ariel.

‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ Her jaw dropped. He sets a bowl of butter beside the chicken, ‘Can’t believe you are also a rookie in cooking. Get massaging.’ He smiled, teasing her.

She awkwardly scooped up some butter and rubbed it on the chicken. 

‘C’mon, not only do I have to push you to be a better doctor, I also need to push you to be a better chef?’ It was now Ariel’s turn to roll her eyes. He continued, ‘You’ll have to do better than that. Rub it right in. Full coverage.’

‘Ethan, how long have you been a secret chef?’ She asked, still mending the chicken.

‘For as long as I remembered.’

‘As in… you had an Easy-Bake Oven?’

‘As in, my dad liked to cook, and he let me help him with all the easy parts as soon as I was old enough.’ Thinking about his dad dampened his mood, but Ariel was too busy with the chicken to notice.

‘That’s… painfully adorable. Did little Ethan have a special apron? Or a little chef’s hat?’ She asked with a soft smile, so soft that it melted Ethan’s glare, ‘No.’ he looked away from her, went on preparing the food, and continued, ‘My dad worked a lot. He took on extra shifts. The kind of thing single parents have to do to keep the lights on. One way I could help was making dinner sometimes when he was exhausted.’ His face solunm. 

‘That’s pretty sweet. I guess you got good at it.’ Ariel smiled. Ethan eyed her with amusement in his eyes, she could always see the silver lining. 

‘I make it my business to get good at everything.’ He smirked.

‘Really? How about let’s make pancakes next time? Of course you are also great at them?’ Ariel looked at him, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, Ethan shot her a glare. He was certain his dad told her that, the single thing he wasn’t good at, and Ariel knew about it. He cleared his throat, ‘Is the chicken ready?’

Ariel quickly finished up with the butter as he fiddled with the rice, ‘Something is missing.’ He commented, after smelling it.

‘Did you check the recipe?’ Ariel asked.

‘Recipes always tend to the safe side, flavor-wise. What would you add?’ He wasn’t sure about Ariel’s preference, and opted to let her make the choice. She quickly picked peppers.

‘I should have known you’d want to add more heat’ He smiled, chopping the peppers.

‘It’s not the only kind of heat I’d like to add…’ She seemed to be standing closer to Ethan now, speaking with a deep voice, while blinking innocently to him. He snapped his head to her, looking her in the eyes, an intense longing built in him, they held the gaze for a while, until he sucked in a deep breath and turned back to the cutting board.

‘You make it hard to stick to my intentions, Ariel.’ He tried hard to pull his mind back to cooking.

‘Good, I already made it my business. Also you are the one that started it.’ She smirked.

Soon they were almost done with the cooking procedures and got a moment of rest, leaning on the stool. ‘So… are we going to talk about whatever’s got you so…’ Ariel asked with a gentle and caring voice.

He sighed, slightly hesitant, ‘I suppose I did promise you an explanation… The thing is… I’ve been avoiding my father.’

‘But why? It sounded like you and him have a good relationship now.’ She frowned.

‘I can’t stop thinking about what you and I talked about in the car the day we followed that mother. I always thought that Dad and I are doing well reconnecting, for two people with not much in common and after a long while not on talking terms. But I’ve come to realize that I never tried to get closer to him. I couldn’t truly understand him, the same thing that stopped me from talking to him long ago.’ He said, his face unreadable.

‘Because he still loves your mom.’ He nodded soberly to Ariel.

‘That kind of unconditional love… I could never comprehend it.’ He sighed, staring at the floor.

‘He loves you unconditionally too.’

He shook his head slowly, ‘Everything in this world is conditional, Ariel. Everything.My dad, he never pushes anyone. He never challenges anyone. He never demands anything of anybody. What that woman did to us, it’s like it didn’t matter.’ He took a small pause, gritting his teeth, ‘And I needed it to matter. I need what I do to matter.’ 

‘I take it that’s not how your relationship with Dr. Banerji was.’ She asked.

‘The opposite. Naveen challenged me every single day. Still does. If I ever came up short of what I was capable of, he let me know.’ He remembered when he misdiagnosed a patient before he was an attending, that in itself was embarrassing enough, but getting chewed out by Naveen afterwards was even more embarrassing. He swore not to let that happen again, he would never let Naveen down again.

‘And you haven’t talked to your dad about any of this.’ Ariel’s brows furrowed.

‘I have no idea how I’d start that conversation.’

‘So you are avoiding him all together?’

He turned to add ingredients to the pot, sighing heavily, ‘Yes.’

‘You can’t avoid things when it gets hard, Ethan…’ Before Ariel could finish, there’s a knock at the door, Ethan freezed. 

‘Just how long have you been ignoring him? Long enough for him to show up unannounced to make sure you are still alive?’

‘... I’ll have to answer that.’ His face fell and he turned to the door.

He opened the door, seeing his dad outside, with a big smile on his face. ‘Hi dad.’

‘Thank goodness you’re here. I was starting to worry about you.’ He patted Ethan’s shoulder,

‘I’m sorry dad, I’ve been…’ but his dad cut him off, ‘Busy, as usual. Don’t worry, I understand.’

They stepped into the apartment, and his dad saw Ariel, ‘Oh. But I see you have company… Hello again, Dr. Wright.’ He looked surprised.

‘Don’t mind me, Mr Ramsey, we’re making more food than two people should ever eat.’ She said, with a sweet smile.

‘If I know my son at all, he was planning to eat the leftovers for his next few lunches.’ He chuckled.

Ariel’s eyes widened, ‘Is that why I hardly ever see you in the cafeteria?’

His dad laughed, looking at Ethan, ‘What did you used to call it? The tenth circle of hell?’

‘Something like that. Stay for dinner, Dad. There’ll be plenty.’ He shrugged, gesturing his dad to take a seat on the couch.

‘As long as I’m not imposing.’ He giggled, looking between the two.

‘You are not.’ Ariel smiled.

Ethan prepared the final steps of the chicken, when his dad cleared his throat and asked, ‘So what exactly have you been busy with these past couple weeks?’

‘Work. Same as usual.’ He blurted out.

‘... I see.’ He nodded thoughtfully, ‘It’s just that, until recently, you always had time to answer my calls.’ He looked upset.

An uncomfortable silence fell as Ethan failed to answer, he looked around nervously, he met Ariel’s eyes, she gave him a meaningful look. He shook his head, he wasn’t ready for the talk and he had no idea what to say. Ariel frowned at him and mouthed, ‘talk to him.’

‘Am I missing something?’ His dad asked, confused. Ariel shot Ethan a pointed look, he sighed, taking in a deep breath and said, ‘Dad… I have to talk to you about something.’ He turned to Ariel, asking her to handle the chicken, who quickly agreed and disappeared into the kitchen.

‘’What’s that about, son?’ He laid his hand on Ethan’s shoulder gently, leaning closer. Ethan slowly repeated what he told Ariel earlier.

‘I always knew you were still angry with her, but I thought after we started talking again, you weren’t angry at me anymore.’

‘I just don’t understand how you can still love her after everything she did to us. And… I think it’s putting a distance between us again, it feels like every time I tried to reconnect with you, it pulled us away.’ Ethan sighed.

‘Love is complicated, Ethan. I thought you’d know that by now…’ He slowly said.

Ethan looked up, wanting to say something, but instead saw Ariel going towards the front door. ‘Ariel? Where are you going?’

‘Home. I think you two need some privacy.’ She smiled.

‘But the chicken…’ Ethan frowned, he felt bad having her help with cooking, but not having a taste of it. He was hoping she would like the recipe. He was hoping to spend a bit more time with her, now that he got a somewhat legit reason and a quite professional one.

‘Just bring me some tomorrow. I’ll be looking forward to it! So I don’t have to go to the cafeteria.’ Her smile was so sweet that it melted him. He looked back at his dad, then looked at Ariel, he nodded gratefully.

‘Wait here, Dad. Ariel, I’ll walk you out.’

Slowly they walked out of his apartment, ‘Thank you for giving me the push.’ He said.

‘I guess sometimes I can be the one pushing you to be the best person you can be.’ She smirked, teasing him, he smiled. He knew she was right, she always brought out the side of him that’s very different from who he thought he was, even though it was sometimes scary for him.

‘I guess I really needed that.’ He whispered, not sure whether he wanted her to hear this.

‘Can you go home alright?’ He asked, arriving at the entrance of the apartment building.

‘Sure, I’ll call a car.’ She pulled out her phone, before she started up the app, Ethan laid a hand on her shoulder, turning her towards him. He pulled her close, cupping her cheek with one hand tenderly. His voice was low and filled with longing. ‘Thank you. I couldn’t do that on my own.’

‘Ethan…’ She leaned closer. In a moment, his lips met hers, his arm slipping around her, pulling her closer to him. She kissed him back fiercely, desperately… The kiss set a fire in him, he had been wanting this for so long, yet he held back all the time, trying hard to convince himself otherwise. He was going out of breath from the intensity of the kiss, but he had no problem suffocating himself over this. Finally, Ariel pulled away, she looked into his eyes. 

‘Ethan… what does this mean?’ She asked, her eyes vulnerable.

‘I don’t know.’ He struggled to maintain eye contact with her. He didn’t think that far. All he knew was he needed her, she was the one he could trust, the one he could rely on and the one who would support him. He kissed her again, softly, tenderly, savoring the touch of her soft lips, the passion and the spark. Finally he pulled away, ‘We’ll talk about it later.’ He nodded with determination. She nodded, staying in his arms for another long, luscious moment and finally went on her way calling a car. He slowly walked back to the entrance.

Soon her car arrived, he was standing just inside the entrance, making sure he saw her get into the car and leave. He made his way back to his apartment, taking a deep breath before he went in, he got this and he would see it to the end, now that Ariel already helped him with the beginning.

That night, he told his dad all he felt about him, the arguments they had before slowly faded into the background. The burden on Ethan’s lifted, finally he could breath in front of his Dad. While they were still reluctant in talking about the woman, at least they were making progress within themselves.

After the dinner and some tidying up, Ethan drove his dad back to where he was staying. Afterwards, he headed back to the kitchen, preparing his lunch for tomorrow, and another portion for Ariel. 

When he thought of Ariel, he couldn’t stifle his smile. He looked around the kitchen, imagining what it could be, or would be, cooking with her, spending more time with her.

[flawless-fallible-complex]

January Learning Journal - 1

2021′s Theme: Perfection  Part 1 - From My Daily Reflections Journal 

Psychology - Dealing with Others:  1. Be more patient with others - How do I do that? A blog post suggested that I 1) make myself wait; 2) stop doing things that are less important; 3) be mindful of the things making you impatient; 4) take a deep breath >> Maybe these tips work, but I’ve noticed that diverting my attention also works - because I do not realize that I am waiting for something anymore.  2. Do not argue or fight with others - Most of the time, you can’t change somebody else’s opinions. Even if you do, why does it matter that this person is smarter? He/she won’t even appreciate you for it. It’s completely a waste of your own time.  3. Do not stay with a person if you don’t want to - This is very obvious from another person’s perspective, but it was not clear to me at all when I was dating Frank. Our relationship was like hell - we fought all the time. Living with him brought a lot of conflict. >> Moving out takes courage, but it’s worth it - peace saves your time. >> This time, going back to Shanghai, I need to 1. mail things back home; 2. stay in Nanjing for a while; 3. look for a new Airbnb to live when coming back; 4. stay out in a café/library as long as possible; You are everything you need.  4. Do not believe that you know how the other person thinks - Honestly, you aren’t even sure what you think half of the time. Do not just guess what the other person meant based on his or her behavior. Ask, communicate, smile. Do not be afraid. 

Psychology - Habits: 1. Risk-taking behavior - I chose to take on a ranked game on Jan. 1st, when I could’ve chosen a matched game, which I could exit at any point. As a result, I became very dizzy because of playing the game on the taxi. It’s bizarre that I made such a choice when I knew it was not going to end well. >> Therefore, I need to make “a man of caution” a habit. >> What does that mean? Think about possible risks and things that could go wrong before planning your day, week, or even month. Be honest with yourself.  2. Play less game/social medias, Read more news - It’s fairly easy for me to give up games when I started interning - a change of environment is important - it’s like going to a rehab. >> Therefore, set up an environment where I could absorb news better - playing the news as background music when I eat + read more successful people’s habits (Warren Buffett’s daily habit of reading five newspaper) 3. Be flexible with your habits - yes, you have 30+ habits to complete each day, but you don’t have to do all of it in full length; remember to be flexible with your plans - the point is to repeat! 4. Do not ignore the things you don’t understand - if you don’t understand something, take some notes; you need to remember what you don’t know and try to solve it later; if you keep ignoring, you will never grow.  5. Do not own an opinion before you have the majority of facts - Like Charlie Munger said, if you can’t answer possible oppositions, you can’t really defend your own opinions; practice reverse thinking, what would a person who’s against my opinion say? Don’t jump into conclusion just to show off your intellect.

Psychology - Personal Finances: 1. If you’re buying a lot of things (more than 3), ask yourself if you really need that many items - Sometimes you may need them for an upgrade, but most of the time you’re just in consumerism’s trap. Ask yourself if it’s really necessary. 

Physiology - Health: 1. Do not indulge myself in sleep - sometimes sleeping more feels more horrible than sleeping less or feeling sleepy >> Do something energizing to wake myself up - jump up and down, exercising, drink some water, read some celebrities news, watch videos - the last two are more addicting than energizing.  2. Stomach Sickness - Do not eat raw food in China (cook it longer in the hotpot); Do not eat food that’s very spicy; Do not eat too much (Eating less is better than eating more); Do not drink too much alcohol - maybe just pretend drinking alcohol.  3. UTI - I’ve gotten UTI multiple times in the past. I’ve finally cured it this time - taking the medicine up to ten days really cleared the things up; remember to always wash yourself and the person who you’re sleeping with - before and after sex; drink a lot of water everyday 

Work-Related:  1. Set up some routines at your workplace - Do not just work, work, work - you’re not Rihanna. For example, when you arrive at the office, fill up your water bottle; after lunch, go to the bathroom to put more lipstick on, have some eye drop; rest and get up to walk a bit every hour or two.  2. Focus on your task wastes less energy than browsing on the internet - this is a hard lesson to learn - when I actually focus and try to enjoy my work, I feel less tired at the end of the day.   3. Do no complain about anyone or any work - 1. the person would probably know; 2. you don’t know the full story. If you do have to complain, complain to your friends, or your mother, do not complain to your coworkers.  4. Always triple-check things before you submit - if you feel that you’re rushing towards the finish line, please calm down and check everything; try to divert your attention before checking so that you’re more calm.  5. Do not let laziness (browsing the internet) become a habit - It’s easy to escape from what we really want to accomplish, but it’s not what we desire in the long-term. Remember why you came to work/intern in the first place; take a hard look on yourself to see if you’ve really grown.  6. Do not go the hard way, go the smart way - Your boss does not care how much time you spend on each task; he or she only cares about the results >> therefore, you should be proud that you spend minimal time on a task instead of maximal time.  7. Keep your habits even if it seems like a waste of time - When you’re really tired of work, and you’re in emotional distress, restore your habits to retrieve some balance and sanity in your life. It may sound like a waste of time in your head, but that’s what brings back energy (You can always do the 2-min version of your habits). 

Love, Natalie