#although it's very oblique

[zmediaoutlet]

this follows 'a vessel'

Sam cleans up. The wasted, half-used spell components go into the burn box. The turned-over chair picked up, and the shattered glass swept. The angel banishment sigil comes off the wall in the library pretty easily with borax and he drops the sponge in the bucket of swirled-red dirty water and could vomit. One last sweep and he finds two red drops, drying dark in the center of his research table. He takes a deep breath, chemical and stinging-clean. The spot comes off easily, too. There are a lot of good tricks they’ve learned for cleaning up blood.

The shower room’s empty. He strips the stolen sailor uniform and leaves it in a pile in the corner. The water comes down hot and he gives himself the space of twenty even breaths, in and out, to stand there and think nothing at all. Steam in his lungs. The pressure like needles at the back of his neck, only safe because it’s just water. When that’s done he washes his hair and soaps his body and gets the red rime out from under his fingernails, and when that’s done, when he’s toweling off in the bright quiet, it’s not—better isn’t the word. But the base he’s operating from isn’t as awful. That counts for something.

When he opens his bedroom door Deanna’s sitting on the edge of his mattress. “Thought you’d decided to run off to the navy,” she says.

She’s in what counts for her as full pajamas: those washed-to-death blue flannel pants, a black shirt of Sam’s she stole years ago. She has to roll the sleeves back over her wrists. There’s a glass of whiskey in her hand but it isn’t empty, and she didn’t bring the bottle for refills. She runs one thumb over the rim of the crystal and smiles very briefly at Sam’s face and then looks down at her hands.

Sam wishes he’d brought something with him to the shower. If it were another day she’d be making a crack about his towel. He sits beside her, carefully, and for lack of a glass he folds his hands between his knees. The bunker air cool on his shoulders.

A sigh. She stretches her legs out, toes pointed. Mostly unpainted these days, small and neat. Her hand turns over on her thigh and she seems to be looking at her palm, and then she sets her curled fist on Sam’s thigh instead. The smallest weight through the terrycloth.

“The sub went down?” she says. Sam nods and she nods, too, slower. “You try to save it?”

Delphine’s hands reaching into the case for the Hand of God. Red lights strobing all around and her eyes steady on Sam’s, sure, while a wildfire of grace roared through the dark ocean. “I think it didn’t make a difference whether I was there or not,” Sam says. He turns his head and Deanna’s biting her lip. The pressure in his chest feels like it’ll put him on the floor. “I wish I’d been here.”

Her eyes close. “I don’t know if that would’ve made a difference, either.”

Not said cruelly and it’s probably true. Some dumb male instinct claws at the underside of his heart, anyway.

The lump of wood is inert, now. He’ll wrap it in cloth and put it in a spelled cedar case in the archives and mark it down in the ledgers. Even if it ended up being pointless, except inasmuch as it made a mask fall to the floor.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. Says, “Can I ask?”

Her toes scrunch against the concrete, then relax. Her fist still on his thigh, her eyes still closed. Face smooth and serene except for the bruise coming up on her cheek. From what exactly Sam doesn’t know; he’s been imagining it for the past two hours.

“Are you hurt?” he says, in the quiet. “More than…” Her head tips down and he licks his lips even though his mouth feels dry. “I just—I know he—when he—”

Her hand grips his thigh through the towel. “Sammy,” she says, interrupting, and he cuts off the stupid stumbling, his face hot. “Hey.”

“Sorry,” he says, and she shakes her head, and then shakes his leg gently, too. A weird deep pulse of what he’s got plenty of experience to recognize as shame goes through him as a wave, from the pit of his stomach to his chest to the hair on the back of his neck, and then he breathes it out and just feels cold. He takes her hand in one of his and she lets him, their fingers lacing together on top of his leg. Her fingers are cold, too.

“It’s not like it’s the first time,” she says, after a few seconds.

Almost like she’s trying to make him feel better. There are a lot of things he thinks to say but he’s got a lot of practice not saying things, especially when they’re all jostling for first place. She’s walking around and talking and not dead. There have been worse times. He knows there are others he doesn’t know about and probably never will. But this—he knows this one. His first and only. Not the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, not even the worst by those particular hands, but nothing he’d ever wanted to share with his sister. Thought they’d been spared this one thing.

“If it helps,” she says, when he’s been quiet too long, “it wasn’t—about me. He was screwing with Cas and he wanted to hurt you. Just collateral damage.”

“How would that help,” Sam says, before he can stop himself, and Deanna sighs and says, “I don’t know, Sam,” and pulls at their linked hands but Sam doesn’t let her go, instinct making his fingers tighten. He feels like an ass immediately but Deanna doesn’t tug away. Instead her body turns in, toward his. Her weight tipping and her temple coming down to his bare shoulder. She’s warm, her knee bumping his. Their hands vaguely sweaty now, together. He tucks her hair back behind her ear, thick and barely-damp from her own shower, and her face turns in toward his chest, her lips against his skin although she doesn’t kiss.

All the things he wishes hadn’t happened in their lives make a list that’d be near uncountable. This is pretty near the top. If wishes were horses—but they never have been, and never will. He runs his thumb over hers, careful where the nail tore. “What do you want me to do?” he says.

“Nothing,” she says. Then she takes a deep quick breath, almost like she got hit, and pulls her hand out of his and sits up and drags her fingers over her eyes, pressing hard into the sockets like it hurts. Then drops her hands, and looks out into the dim of the room, and presses her lips together very tightly in a white severe line, and then—blows out, slow, her shoulders sinking as she does, and then turns her head and looks at him in this way that’s just—tired, but only like at the end of a long day, when they’ve been through the wringer and a lot’s gone wrong but they’re still here, together, and despite everything the sun’s going to come up anyway.

“Put on some boxers,” Deanna says. One corner of her mouth turns up. “Exhibitionist. Then I want to sleep. I want you here. And you’re not allowed to bitch about cold toes.”

Sam truly doesn’t know how she does it. “Wouldn’t have to if you’d just wear socks,” he manages.

Her nose wrinkles. “Just accept your role as the human radiator, okay,” she says, and then drains her whiskey in one swallow and puts the empty glass on the bedside table. She turns back the blankets and climbs in while Sam obediently goes to his chest of drawers, and finds clean boxer-briefs, and Deanna watches him with her head propped on her fist while he drops the towel, tugs on underwear, goes to the sink and drinks a cupful of cold water and then refills the cup and brings it to her. She drinks it down, and he puts the empty next to the whiskey tumbler, and then he climbs in and pulls up the blankets and she folds herself in against his chest, her head under his chin and her arm around his waist and her toes freezing, always, against his skin. Reliable as gravity.

He presses his lips against the top of her head. Her breath shudders, once, and then she squirms in closer and lays still. His back’s to the door and he knows he won’t sleep but that doesn’t matter. It’s like that night, all those years ago, before they went to Detroit. His arm around his sister and his mind full of the devil. Knowing that he’d do anything to stop him from hurting her; knowing that to stop that was almost impossible; knowing that even if it were impossible, with the last ounce of strength he had he’d still try. What else is there to do.

[e-dubbc11]

Still?

Photos are not mine. They are courtesy of Pinterest/Google.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F! Hunter Reader

Warnings: Swear words, mentions of guns and gunshot wounds, smexy imagination (f! Receiving oral), mentions of death, a few tears, smooches, alludes to sex

Word Count: 3.9K-ish

Summary: After a run in with a shapeshifter and the local police, you end up with a bullet wound that you can’t patch up yourself. You call your best friend that you haven’t seen in a couple of years and that you’ve been in love with since you were kids

A/N: Spoilers for anyone that’s never watched the show, or watched past season 5. This takes place a couple of years after the apocalypse and Sam goes into the cage with Lucifer and Dean shows up at Lisa’s door.

As always, thank you for reading!  I appreciate it so much and comments, reblogs are welcome and encouraged. Don’t be shy to tell me your favorite part. 💕💕 💕

Your escape hadn’t been easy but you managed to get away and with only one bullet wound courtesy of the local police. Of course they didn’t believe you when you told them that the “person” they were tracking wasn’t you, it was only someone who looked exactly like you.

The shifter would have to wait, you needed this bullet out of your oblique muscle now but you weren’t going to be able to get it out by yourself and there was no way you could go to a hospital with your face plastered all over the news.

But you were alone without anyone to call. Well, that’s not exactly true, there was one person you could call but you did not want to see him. However, what other choice did you have?

After checking into a motel outside of town (they probably hadn’t seen the news yet), you texted him.

You awake? I need your help.

It was late so you were surprised to see the three dots immediately appear underneath your message.

On my way. Text me your location.

You gave him the address of the motel and he wrote back that he was about 40 minutes away so all you could do was sit and wait.

The sky had been in a vengeful mood all day and finally after a particularly loud crack of thunder, the sky split in half and you could hear the rain hammering against the roof and pelting the hoods of the cars outside your door.

Hoping it wouldn’t impede his arrival time, the incessant rainstorm dumped buckets of rain leaving massive puddles in the parking lot and the runoff water sounded like a waterfall falling into the storm drain.

After you sent the text, he was all you could think about…Dean Winchester. He was your childhood friend, fellow hunter and the man who’s had your heart ever since you were kids…although he didn’t know it.

**********

You met Dean, his brother Sam, and their father John when you were 12. Dean was 14 and Sam was 10. You and your mother were crashing at Bobby’s for a couple of days after a particularly draining hunt for a vampire nest.

The only familiar voice coming from downstairs was Bobby’s, but there were also three others so you decided to investigate while your mother was still sleeping off your first big kill.

Creeping down the stairs, you tried to make as little noise as possible and as you peered around the corner, the cutest boy you had ever seen was directly in your line of sight.

He was wearing a brown leather jacket, had light brown hair, eyes the color of summer grass, and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose. Immediately, your heart started beating faster and you felt flutters in your stomach. You were smitten.

Suddenly, the stairs creaked underneath your feet, they all turned and saw you standing there staring at all of them with a nervous smile on your face. Your heart was beating even faster now, heat rushed to your cheeks, and the palms of your hands became very warm.

You remembered you had just gotten out of bed after a long nap so you nervously and absentmindedly started to smooth your hair and adjust your clothes while averting your gaze from Dean to your Henley shirt and jeans.

“Well look who’s awake. C’mere, sweetie, I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.” Said Bobby.

Feeling your knees beginning to shake, you slowly walked over to them, and stopped next to Bobby. Your eyes darted back and forth from Bobby back to the Winchesters as you gave them a slight smile and wave.

“Y/n, these are the Winchesters. That’s John, Dean and Sam. Y/n and her mother are resting here for a couple of days after a vamp hunt.” Bobby stated.

Dean looked a little surprised to know that you were a hunter too but learned quickly after a few hunts together that your mother taught you well. Also, after meeting your mother, she and John went on to have a brief relationship. Sometimes, they left the three of you behind to go off on their own hunts so you got to know Dean and Sam very well.

It was just nice to have friends in a “profession” where you normally worked alone.

You helped them anytime they needed you to and they would do the same for you. The three of you had been through a lot together, losing the only parents you had left, helping them track down the yellow-eyed demon that killed their mother, and trying to help Sam get Dean out of the pit of hell.

As you grew into adults and while on hunts, there were plenty of shared motel rooms, literally being in tight spaces, listening to the water run while he was in the shower, wondering if there were eyes on the other side of the door as you changed clothes…your sexual feelings for Dean were growing stronger too and you had gathered up the courage to maybe finally tell him.

But then it all vanished like air from a popped balloon.

You weren’t there when it happened, you were off on a hunt of your own but Bobby told you about Sam getting locked in the cage with Lucifer. Knowing that Dean must be devastated, you tried to call but there was no answer. And the next time you called, a woman answered which prompted you to quickly hang up.

“I didn’t want this for ya, kid.” Bobby had said, trying to console you.

Fresh sobs escaped from your throat. “Why didn’t he come to me, Bobby?!! He’s my best friend and he went to someone else?! She doesn’t know him like I do! She doesn’t know the life!” You cried.

Bobby was like a father figure to you and he tried, he really did but he didn’t know what to do to try and make it better.

“I know, kiddo. I know.” Bobby said softly. “I got somethin’ to tell ya, though. We need your help.”

Confused by the term “we”, you swiped the tears away from your cheeks and heard the front door open. Sam walked in and they both explained everything that was going on, how they’re purposely leaving Dean out of it because he was happy living a normal life which just made you sad but you agreed to help hunt down a powerful group of djinn that was after the boys for killing one of their own awhile back.

They were closing in on Dean. They stalked him, caused him to hallucinate, see things that weren’t there which is when Sam and Bobby decided to pull Dean back into it and that was when you had to walk away. He was already on your mind all day every day but you couldn’t see him again. It hurt too much, he hurt you too much.

But the brothers were back together again, you were saving people and hunting things by yourself which probably wasn’t a great idea but you’ve hunted alone since your mother’s passing. Now, you’re stuck outside of a shit town and waiting for the best friend you haven’t seen in over two years to come and help you.

What were you going to say to him?

Well, you had about 20 minutes left to try and figure it out.

**********

You could hear the low growl of the Impala and as it grew closer, the growl became a rumble before it stopped completely when Dean turned off the engine. The room was completely quiet; you didn’t have the tv or the radio on as you sat at the kitchen table carefully listening to the drumming of the rain up above you and trying not to wince at the pain in your side from the bullet. Then you heard the signature door squeak as it slammed shut, followed by five loud raps against the motel room door.

“Sweetheart, are you in there? Open up!” Shouted Dean over the rain.

“Sweetheart?” You whispered to yourself. “He has a lot of damn nerve!”

Turning to face the door, you yelled out, “IT’S OPEN!”

Dean stormed through the door.

“Are you nuts?!!” He yelled, coldly.

“Jury’s out on that one, Winchester. Lock the door behind ya, will ya?” You replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

He glared at you. “Leavin’ the door unlocked, y/n…seriously, what is wrong with you?!”

You closed your eyes, shrugged and frowned in his direction.

“Alright…show me what happened. I heard your name all over the news…shapeshifter?” Asked Dean.

You nodded and showed him the wound on your back, right on the love handle.

“You sure the bullet didn’t come out?” Dean asked.

“Uh yeah, I think I would have noticed if I had another hole in front, Dean!!” You yelled through gritted teeth.

“Well you don’t have to yell at me! I’m here aren’t I? Actually, I’m surprised you texted me, Sam busy or somethin’?” He asked with a sly smile on his face.

“You know he’s working on something else so don’t play dumb with me Dean Winchester!” You hissed.

He was frustrating you to no end and he’s been there for five minutes.

“Get this bullet out of me now before I bleed out all over this floor!” You said.

Dean pointed toward the bathroom.

“Ok, ok, get in the bathroom, hands on the counter but before you do that, you’re gonna have to inch your pants down a little.” He said.

Caught off guard, you stumbled over your words.

“U-uh…y-you want m-me to do what?”

“Just inch them down a little bit; they’re just gonna be in the way if you leave them in place.” He said.

Dean set up everything he needed to extract the bullet on the counter. The only anesthetic he had with him was alcohol which took away only a fraction of the pain whether you were drinking it or pouring it on the wound.

The look on your face could have scalded paint off of the walls and your voice was tight with anger as you weaved a web of profanities so obscene, you would have probably made a sailor blush. Dean had finally managed to get the bullet out intact, stop the bleeding, and put a bandage on the wound.

“Thank you.” You said sheepishly as if you didn’t just spend an hour cursing his very existence.

Another sly smile stretched across his lips as he finally replied, “You’re welcome, sweetheart. You have some sweats or somethin’? Jeans are gonna be too harsh to rub against the wound.”

You did have some in your bag that was on one of the beds.

“They’re in my bag. I’ll get them.” You said starting to walk out of the bathroom.

He held his hands out in front of you, “Whoa, no…I’ll get them, just stay right here.” He said.

With your hand resting on the counter, you tried to take the weight off of your left side while Dean ran out to the other room to get your sweatpants. The bullet wound was really quite painful.

He set the sweats on the counter, inched closer to you and reached for the waistband of your jeans.

“Hey, hey…what are you doin’? I can do it myself, ya know.” You said in a scolding tone.

He folded his arms across his chest and with narrowed eyes, and asked with a smirk “Oh really? Ok, well I’ll be right on the other side of that door. Call me when you need my help because you will.”

He tapped you gently on the nose.

Scoffing at him, you tried your best to get your jeans off and put your sweatpants on but the pain was just too much. You were definitely going to need his help.

Softly, you called out to him.

“Deeeeeean?”

You could feel him smiling on the other side of the door.

“Yessssssss? You need some help in there or somethin’?” He asked in a semi-taunting voice.

Deflated, you replied, “Yes please.”

Dean slowly opened the door with a wide smile on his face, walked toward you and once again reached for the waistband on your jeans. Gently, he inched them down your thighs, all the way to your ankles before he had you rest your hands on his shoulders so he could take them off completely. If he only knew what this was doing to you.

He was eye level with your core, looking up at you through his long lashes with those beautiful green eyes of his and all you could think about was what it would be like to have his face buried in between your thighs, tasting you, and tongue fucking you until you see stars.

“I still can’t believe you fight monsters in a thong.” He chuckled.

Heat rose to your cheeks as you replied, “Oh my god, not the time! This is SO not the time for that!”

He laughed at you again as he gently pulled the sweatpants up, being careful not to touch your bullet wound, until he was gazing down at you fondly with a slight smirk on his face.

“Come on. I’ll help you to the bed.” He said.

After easing you down onto the bed, Dean started to gather everything he brought inside with him to bring out to the car.

You caught yourself staring at him. Actually, it was more like staring AND clenching. You’ve been in love with Dean Winchester since you were 12 years old and he’s never even tried to kiss you but you’ve wanted him to every single time you have been in the same room with him. He was all you had ever wanted.

As he continued to gather his things and clean up, you finally asked him with a hitch in your voice, “Why?”

“Why what, y/n?” He replied, still shoving things into his bag.

Tears stung the back of your eyes as you answered.

“Why did you go to her and not me after Sam went into the cage?! WHY?!” You asked. “I thought we were best friends, Dean!”

Stunned, Dean knew you weren’t going to let him leave without giving you an answer but the dejected look on his face told you he knew he made a huge mistake cutting you out like he did.

“I-I don’t know, y/n. I really don’t know. I got in the car and I started to dial your number but I stopped myself because I didn’t want you to see me like that! I didn’t want you to see me broken and hollow, ok?!” He said.

“So you went to someone who doesn’t even know you like I do? Doesn’t know the life? Doesn’t know that this life took the people that we loved the most in this world away from us?!! What kind of comfort could she have been to you?!!” You yelled. “Oh wait, nevermind. I actually know the answer to that one.”

“HEY! That is NOT fair!” Dean growled back.

“Oh you wanna talk about fair?! I called, texted, called again…one of those times, SHE answered your phone and I gave up after that. But you didn’t bother to call me back, EVER!! How fuckin’ fair is that, Dean?!” You sobbed with tears streaking down your cheeks.

You could see it in his eyes how angry and hurt he was. Dean’s lips were pulled tight in a straight line and the muscles in his forearms immediately tensed before tightly clenching his fists. He was trying his hardest not to snap back like you knew he wanted to.

Dean then shakily placed his hands on the back of a kitchen chair, leaned forward, and stared down at the floor for a minute before bringing his gaze back up to you.

“Look y/n, I guess I went to Lisa to feel better about myself knowing that I could protect her and Ben, to make up for not being able to protect Sam. You’ve never needed me to protect you, even when we were kids so I just went to them instead where I knew I could be of some use.” Said Dean.

Fighting back your tears but failing miserably, you replied, “When have you ever not been useful, Dean? All I wanted was to comfort my friend, my BEST friend, help you figure out how to get Sam out of the cage…something! But you didn’t give me that chance, did you.”

With his eyes shut tight, Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a low growl. You knew the last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt you but it was too late for that. Over two years had passed since you had seen him last but not a day had gone by where you didn’t think of him, miss him, or not love him. You thought maybe those feelings for Dean would eventually go away, but they never did and they never will.

You were young and it was a childhood crush, it should have gone away but those feelings for him just became stronger as the years passed so when Bobby told you Dean was with someone else it felt as though someone was crushing your heart inside your chest.

That dull ache would never go away and it became a sharp pain as soon as he barged into your room tonight. Seeing him again brought all of those feelings back to the surface, made your entire body tingle, and you wanted him more now than ever before.

The only people that knew your true feelings for Dean were Bobby and your mother. She knew from the minute she met the Winchesters that you had eyes for Dean.

Bobby only found out after he told you about Lisa but you made him promise not to say anything which he had kept tight to his chest until his passing. But you were unsure if Dean had any idea about your feelings for him.

“When have you ever NEEDED my help, y/n?!” Dean asked in a raised tone.

You replied, “NEEDED? Never, I’ve never NEEDED your help or anyone else’s help but I’ll always WANT it! I’ll always want…”

A lump formed in your throat as you finished your sentence.

“You…I’ll always want you, Dean.” You said with trembling lips.

“Say that again.” Said Dean.

Your heart lurched into your throat as you tried to get your words out again. With a deep inhale and a forceful exhale, you told him again.

“I always want you, Dean. I always have.” You finally said.

You could practically see the words bouncing around inside his head like in a pinball machine.

“This is gonna sound really cheesy but I’m tipsy from those shots of whiskey so here goes nothin’…I have never wanted, nor will I ever want, anyone else except you, Dean Winchester. I’ve been in love with you since I was 12 years old, no matter how many times I’ve tried to push it away, no matter how many times I told myself it was ‘just a crush’, and I even told myself that you’d probably never love me back. I still love you!” You said with conviction through tears and a slight nervous chuckle.

“Son of a bitch…I need to sit down.” He said, pressing his palm to his forehead and planting himself in one of the kitchen chairs.

You started to get up off of the bed.

“Lemme get you some wa—“ You started to say.

Dean held out his hand to stop you.

“No! Don’t you dare get up. You’re the one with the bullet wound and I’m just a clueless asshat apparently.” He said.

That made you laugh.

Cutting through the awkward silence, Dean said, “I really can’t explain what it was, what I felt but something happened to me every time I saw you smile, every time you laughed, or hugged me, and even when you poked fun at me. I knew that I never wanted to NOT hear your voice, feel the extra squeeze at the end of your hugs, or see your eyes light up when I walk through the door. Even when you’re pissed at me like earlier tonight, your eyes never lie, you’re STILL happy to see me.”

“Dean…” You started to say but he cut you off again.

“I think that’s why I could never really be in love with Lisa because I was already in love with…you.” Dean said in a low gravelly tone.

His words made your stomach drop, those words that you never thought you would hear other than the love you shared between friends, but he was in love with you too which made your heart soar.

You wanted to go to him so you tried to stand up but again he stopped you.

“Whoa! What did I tell you about getting up, huh? Just stay there. Now what do you need? I’ll get it.” He asked.

“I need you to kiss me, Dean.” You replied in barely more than a whisper.

He stood up, slowly walked over to the bed and gently helped you up to standing.

“You ok?” He asked softly.

You nodded as he titled your chin up so you were looking up into his green eyes. With his hands cupping your cheeks, he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to yours. Dean’s tongue swept your lower lip before parting them and pressing it against your teeth wanting desperately to tangle with yours.

He pulled you flush against him as your arms snaked around his neck and he continued to kiss you hungrily while the ache between your thighs felt like it was going to explode.

Great…what a time to be wounded and in pain.

Dean loved to hear his name fall from your lips over and over again as he kissed up and down your neck and you loved to say it like a favorite song you had memorized all of the words to. You let your fingers glide through his hair as his lips collided with yours again and he whispered again and again how beautiful you were.

You always wondered what this would be like, to have his lips on yours, his calloused hands touching your body, caressing your face, telling you that he loved you and it was everything you hoped it would be; it was the best kiss of your life.

He accidentally got too close to your wound as he moved his hand to your lower back.

“Ow, ow, ow.” You said wincing in pain.

He apologized profusely.

“Oooh shit! I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry…for everything.” He said as he gently brushed your cheeks with his knuckles.

You gave him a warm smile and replied, “It’s ok, I still love you, Dean.”

He kissed you again, his lips were soft and tasted like dark roast coffee; you never wanted him to stop.

“Still?” He asked with a wink.

You winked back. “Still.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.” He said, kissing the tip of your nose. “I always will.”

“Always?” You asked, biting back a smile.

Dean licked his lips before kissing you again.

“Always.” He said with a sly smile. “I’m taking you back to the bunker with me and when you’re all healed up? Plan on not leaving my room for at least a couple of days. I’m gonna show you how much I love you, over and over, and over again.” He purred in your ear.

Heat rose to your cheeks, you felt delightful sparks run down your back, and choked on the lump in your throat.

“Well…until then, can you just kiss me over and over and over again?” You asked.

He replied with a warm smile, “I think I can do that, baby.”

Tag List: @munsonownsmyass @gijos @vaguekayla @stoneyggirl2

Others that might enjoy: @k-marzolf @jvanilly @fluffyprettykitty @deans-spinster-witch @imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend

[neil-gaiman]

I'm asking you because you seem likely to have known: did Gene Wolfe ever read M. John Harrison? I know that Harrison read the Book of the New Sun, but I'm curious to know whether Wolfe read Viriconium, and if so what his opinion was. Two more diametrically opposite writers I can't imagine.

I don't know. Although I'd be surprised if he hadn't.

It's odd hearing you describe them as diametrically opposed. I think Mike and Gene are (were) very similar writers. Both of them are wordsmiths who care deeply about the words and the resonances of what they are making, and who build stories obliquely.

[johannestevans]

Peace in the New World

Short fiction. Moshe and Yosl discuss life after work. 

2k, rated T. Two Jews talking over tea in late 19th century USA. Bonding over poverty, philosophy, old trauma, that sort of thing. 

CW for mentions of past abuse, although oblique. Adapted from a TweetFic. 

On Patreon / / On Medium.

---

Yosl worked these days down by the docks – he was a very big man, muscular, with very strong hands, and he looks like a dockworker. He never looked out of place amongst them when Moshe saw him at the dockside or walking with the other big, burly men about the streets.

When they’d taken him on as a lodger, he’d been a little nervous of him, had thought he might be brash or a lush, but Sprintze had said that that some of the other dockworkers’ wives spoke well of him, that he was kind, respectful, and Sprintze’s judgement was always good.

He’d still scarcely been able to believe it the first evening he’d come home from his own work and seen him sitting at the table in their small living room, working so delicately with his big hands. He had been the son of a bookbinder, had worked alongside him in his shop before coming to America, and he took on little jobs here and there.

With a lot of time dedicated to his craft and a great care taken with his pens, he wrote out astonishingly beautiful calligraphy on good cardstock, and it took Moshe’s breath away sometimes to glance over at the work he was doing, the art he was creating.

He wrote out fine wedding invitations or little decorative cards, wrote out poems or sections of the Torah, and alongside the fine and lovely lettering, he could draw small etchings, would occasionally add in elements of gold or silver filigree, or splashes of colour.

“Do you miss it?” Moshe asked one evening.

They had been sitting in companionable silence for a little over an hour, Esther already laid down to sleep – she’d been struggling with bad dreams of late, and Sprintze was in with her, perhaps reading or sewing if she wasn’t asleep herself, no matter that it was so early.

“Miss what?” Yosl asked without looking up from his work.

“What it was like,” Moshe said. “The Old Country. You had different work there, work like this, creating beauty. You didn’t have to live as a lodger.”

“No, I lived in a sprawling library from one hill to the other,” said Moshe dryly, and Yosl laughed, looking down into his evening drink and shaking his head.

“I’m not disparaging your work at the docks, I’m sorry if it—”

“No, it’s not disparaging,” Yosl said. “This is fine, educated work, more respectable than hauling cargo at the docks – but work there’s little call for here in America, not enough to fund a man’s life or account for a family. Why shouldn’t I miss the comfort or respect my old life might have offered me?”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes,” Yosl said. “But my father dying, I could not stand it, to live there, in the grief, in the shadows he left behind him. I respect the things he taught me, the skills he carried with me – I carry on his legacy when I do these little things here and there – but to step into his shoes, to take on the whole shop for myself? For people to think of the sign as being my name, and not his?” He shook his sadly, setting aside his pen. “I could not stand it. The Sefer Hasidism warns us against wearing the shoes of the dead – would I not be filling his shoes, to take his place? His memory haunted me, not as an unclean or cruel spirit, but just as so much grief.”

Moshe exhaled, leaning forward and looking at the other man properly as he rested his hands on his belly. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” Yosl said, giving him a small, sad smile. “It’s good for a man to speak on his grief to another, I think – my father was a great man, principled, studied. It is that I loved him so much that I could not stand to live in the shadow of his loss. And in any case, as a practical concern, the time a bookbinder can make a living even in Poland, I feel that time is soon at an end.”

“Perhaps,” Moshe said. “It’s beautiful work, what you do, but slow, old. There is not much care for that here in America.”

“No,” Yosl said. “The New World, they call it, but it’s not just here, is it? The whole world is changing – evolving, developing. The old ways, too slow, too old-fashioned, too high-strung, too buttoned-up.”

“People are impatient, demand more speed, more haste, more rush. Why not more beauty?” Moshe asked, and Yosl chuckled.

“One for the rabbi, I think, not for me,” he said, and Moshe laughed as well. “Your father, does he live?”

“No, but we had a great deal of forewarning before his death, he’d been a very ill man,” Moshe murmured, rubbing his knuckles through his beard. “It doesn’t make the loss of him easier to bear, I feel the emptiness he left behind sometimes, the shadow of him, as you say, but at least it wasn’t sudden. We had time to grieve him while he was alive, I suppose you might say – and to share in it with him, which I think brought a little solace.” He felt a twinge of old guilt, as he did from time to time. “Does that sound awful, involving a man in our grief for him?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Yosl said. “What is grief but love at its end? How can it be anything but a privilege to share in it?”

“You’re a very soothing man, you know,” said Moshe. “As good as Reb Levinson.”

“But my mouth doesn’t dimple when I smile like his does,” Yosl pointed out, and they both laughed, taking care to keep it quiet so that the sound didn’t carry.

As Yosl picked up his card and blotted it, setting it aside to dry, Moshe said, “Sprintze said you’ve been teaching Esther. I wanted to thank you.”

“No need for that,” said Yosl. “She’s a good student, a good learner.”

“She’s a girl,” Moshe said, and he watched the shrug of Yosl’s broad shoulders, watched his expression scarcely change at all. “Why teach her? What do you think she’ll do with it, what you teach her?”

It was an experimental question, a test of sorts, and Moshe wondered if Yosl knew that Moshe was testing him, if he was pressing on him. If he did, he showed no sign of it.

“Whatever she wants,” the bookbinder answered simply. “I didn’t make the word, I was only taught it – now, I teach it. What she does with it is her own business. Argue scripture with her husband, if she wishes – teach their children.”

“A lot of men wouldn’t think to waste time teaching another man’s daughter this sort of thing,” Moshe said. “They dismiss a little girl with no thought at all.”

“I’m just one man, not a mean of them,” said Yosl, and it made Moshe laugh again, although he took care to muffle the sound with his sleeve. Yosl’s cheeks didn’t dimple when he smiled, but his eyes crinkled in a very pleasant way.

“You been to the marriage broker?”

“No,” said Yosl. “Why, want rid of me?”

“We need a lodger’s rent – and you have the money for it, but I don’t know what you got it for a wife.”

“Too true.”

“But you don’t want one?”

“I don’t have the money, you said.”

“Still.”

Yosl said, after a few more seconds of quiet, “I could be a husband, I think, but not a father. And I wouldn’t deny a woman motherhood.”

“You teach my girl – but you couldn’t father your own?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“My father…” Yosl began, and then stopped, breathing in very slowly. “He was a bad man.”

“But you said—”

“Principled, studied, a great man, all of those things, yes. I grieve him, I do, but he was not a good man. Your father, you said, was loving, mine was… Mine was not.”

Moshe reached out and touched the other man, squeezed his shoulder, and he didn’t comment on the slight mistiness of Yosl’s eyes. Half-jokingly, he asked, “What happened to honour thy father, eh?”

“I honoured my mother,” Yosl said. “Half the job is enough for me.”

“They must love you at the docks.”

“They do, in fact.”

“Esther loves you too,” Moshe said, smiling. “Sprintze says you dote on her.”

Tension showed in Yosl’s thickly corded neck, in his shoulders, and as Moshe walked past him to rinse out his cup, Yosl turned his head to look back at him. “Moshe,” he said. “Are you angry?”

“Angry?” Moshe repeated. “By God, no. You think I’m angry? My daughter has a mother and father to love her – now another to teach her, and a smarter man than me.”

“I’m just the lodger.”

“The lodger who dotes on my daughter and repaired the stove for my wife before I came home from work.”

“Sprintze’s a dutiful wife.”

“She is, and a very good one.”

“I mean nothing untoward.”

“I know you don’t – she says you don’t look at her.”

“I do.”

“No.”

Yosl didn’t seem to know what to say to that. His brow was furrowed, his expression serious. Moshe and Sprintze had talked a little more about this in private, on nights when Yosl was out overnight.

“He did something awful to you, your father,” Moshe said.

“Things, multiple, yes.”

“Things that would make you…” He didn’t know what words to use. He and Sprintze could use certain words amongst themselves, but even then, he wouldn’t use them elsewhere.

Moshe is hardly the most pious of men, but he’d asked the rabbi’s son for advice on the subject – Reb Levinson himself was too old, would never have known how to approach it no matter his nice dimples, but his son was wise enough.

“Things that would make you unable to be a husband,” Moshe said. “To, er… fulfil your duties.”

Yosl’s expression softened, and he exhaled. “Not in the way I suspect you’re imagining,” he said quietly, with a glance toward the door, but there had been no sound from where Sprintze and Esther were settled in bed. “But yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s a shameful thing.”

“I don’t see the shame in it. You love, you teach, you write. You honour your father no matter his sins, his cruelties toward you.”

“How would you know shame, Moshe? What have you got to be ashamed of?”

“I’m poor, ain’t I?”

“Pah. Only in money.”

Moshe grinned at him, and Yosl smiled back. He wasn’t a big drinker, but when Moshe took down two glasses from the shelf instead of one, he didn’t make his customary protest. He took the glass as offered and stared down into it, at the strong spirit Moshe poured within.

“L’chaim,” Moshe said.

“I’d say l’chaim and v’l’vracha,” Yosl said, “but I feel pretty blessed.”

“What, we’re rich enough to be turning down blessings now?”

“We?” Yosl repeated wryly, but he smiled as he clinked their glasses together, and they knocked them back as one. “You should take one in for Sprintze,” he said – Moshe’s hand was already on the bottle, and they had to stifle their laughter to keep from waking up the whole building when their gazes met.

* * *

Sprintze took the glass when Moshe stepped into their bedroom, and she held it in her lap as she watched him undress, easing off his clothes. She had been sewing, Moshe supposed – her needlework was now set aside, but the lantern was still lit, albeit dimmed.

“That man is a blessing, you know,” Moshe said.

“I’ve been saying, haven’t I?” she responded softly. “L’chaim,” she murmured, and drained the glass, setting it beside her sewing.

Moshe leaned over Esther’s sleeping form to kiss her on the head before climbing into bed beside his wife, banding an arm around her belly.

“We should get a bigger bed,” Sprintze murmured.

“You don’t want a bigger apartment first?”

“You didn’t say no.”

“S’pose I didn’t,” said Moshe. “He’s gonna be working all night. He was picking up another card to start on when I came in here.”

“Whichever of us wakes up in the night first, tell him to bed down,” she said.

Moshe couldn’t see her well in the dark as she turned off the lantern, but he could brush their noses together, and he kissed her lips, stroking his thumb over her cheek.

“Deal,” he murmured. “But if I tell him and he argues—”

“I’ll come out and whip you both,” she finished, and Moshe muffled his laugh this time against her neck.

FIN.

[leiascully]

This 'Field Where I Died' exchange has always bothered me, where Mulder says, 'If early in the four years we've been working together an event occurred that suggested, or somebody told you, that we'd been friends together in other lifetimes, always... wouldn't it have changed some of the ways we looked at one another? And Scully says, 'Even if I knew for certain, I wouldn't change a day.' Then she says well, except for that flukeman thing. That's nice and all, but I always felt like she was answering a different question. He was asking her about them, about who they were to each other, not whether she had any regrets. I always felt disappointed in her answer, like she dodged the question. Thoughts?

I feel like that's kind of essential to their relationship, and one of the things we love so much about it. Everything is oblique or shrouded in shadow. They talk directly about so many things, but so rarely about what there is between them. Each time one of them opens up, the other one has to deflect in some way. Their love is too bright to look at directly. To discuss it is to open the ark of their covenant with each other. They're not sure they'll survive. Even her serious answer has to be tempered with a joke. But I do think you're right - she's not answering about their potential multiple lifetimes. She's skating past that assertion and just answering about the last four years. I honestly think that question is something of an apology on Mulder's part, because he was kind of a jerk to her at first. He's saying I didn't know. I couldn't know. And she's telling him It's all right. You couldn't know. There are so few moments that she doesn't show her trust in him - even in Wetwired, you can feel her fighting against the idea that he's betrayed her. They've pledged allegiance to each other.

I think the kindest interpretation of this odd moment in this odd episode, which in its attempt to set up a different soulmate for Mulder ends up reaffirming his connection with Scully, is that it's both of them feeling a little bit of a sense of relief that the depth of their connection makes sense. If they've known each other for lifetimes, the mud and the rain and the quiet hotel room in Oregon make sense. Her willingness to confront other government officials and possibly shoot them to get him back in their second case together makes sense (although the timeline of Deep Throat does not, haha). His devastation over her abduction makes sense. The fact that she shot him, drove across the country to save him, and learned an ancient but living language on his behalf makes sense. All the things their families didn't or don't understand about what they mean to each other are easier to brush aside if there are centuries of companionship and love behind it. They're not being foolish or codependent or toxic or whatever. They're deeply and intricately linked together by circumstances beyond their control. Meeting each other was coming home.

Also they're both very pretty in this episode thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

[i-just-want-to-destroy]

the last chapter for walking study in demonology was CRAZYYY im so happy you updated. im so curious about what your thought process in writing it and if youre willing to share?? you dont have to if you dont want to btw! but in any case thank u so muchhh

hey thank you! appreciate it

okay super long answer below

honestly this one was difficult. idk if its bc its been a while since i write fics from scratch so i might have forgotten how difficult the whole thing is, but this one was tough. ch 8 wasnt from scratch tho cos i had the drafts since like 2022 or smthg lol

ik the formatting is non conventional in ch 8 and i was aware that itd be hard to read for some people. but i do think abt the readers often when i write.. mainly not what the readers want in terms of storyline (altho ofc i consider this too sometimes lol) but what the reading experience will be like for them.

i.e consider if id written the chapter in a linear, traditional way and narrated the confrontation between 1-A and LoV (or even other wackier “Villains” like godzilla and invading aliens or whatever). the truth is, although def easier to read, that version will be very boring.

(i know bc i tried and scrapped those versions.)

(im sure a better writer can write it interestingly but i am not a better writer.)

the thing w writing these traditional fight scenes is tht im sure — im 1000% positive in fact — that the readers have read it before. there r literally thousands and thousands of bnha fics out there with great fight scenes, on top of the actual manga, where youve read these characters fight their assorted villains. why would i make you read that again, esp when i know i cant do it better? i already know the readers r just gonna skim the chapter if thats the case. ive been a reader, ik what fic fatigue is like — esp with bnha when everythings been rehashed infinity times in infinity different ways.

same thing also applies with even the “metaness” of the fic itself.

i dont want the fic to come off like its talking down to readers, whom i believe alrdy have the instinctual knowledge of what the fic is trying to do. im willing to bet tht the readers have read something similar to this before, like multiverses n time loop n meta stuff, also cosmic horror. i still end up narrating some things even though often i feel im being too explanatory. i jst feel like the readers will know what im talking abt by virtue of their familiarity to the tropes involved.

therefore the least i can do is serve it in an interesting way, aka the fuckass formatting. like although the tropes im doing r done so many times before, at the very least i cld let the readers hopefully have fun by piecing it together puzzle-style with the fragmented formats — so its more of an experience thing rather than jst a lore dump. i dont like lore dumps, they can be condescending.

demonology def doesnt succeed in avoiding that however. in fact its fallen to that exact trap. ch 4 and 6, those r very lore-dumpy. i tried to make it fun w the humor dialogue style but its not perfect. i know tht by ch 8 that tricks alrdy old, and the readers have all the puzzle pieces at this point anyway so itd be even more repetitive than it alrdy is. even so i still feel im being too explanatory esp with the emotional arcs but thats a skill issue on my part

overall i feel demon can be more oblique and “elegant” in its mechanics.

but anyway, it IS crack… it was never meant to promise intelligence, least of all eloquence lmfao. its never meant to be taken seriously.

of course, at this point u can tell that i actually am taking it pretty seriously LOL. i never meant to write meta fiction. i have some gripes w it, namely that i feel meta fiction is used by weaker writers as a storytelling crutch n it can come off as lazy — demon is guilty of this too. but now that i end up writing meta fiction, i might as well fucking commit and try to push it as crazy as i can. if its not gonna be good, at least it can be interesting, or weird.

blah blah im yapping. point is, ik the end product might look very “random” and pastiche as if i was jst doing whatever i wanted … which, true … but it went thru a lot of trials and errors until this final version. you would not believe the amount of time ive rewritten this chapter, due to all those ^ considerations.

however i always knew i was going to start ch8 with the classic mary sue “fanfiction” — that segment was written a long time ago like in 2022/2023?? and mostly stayed unedited since, unlike the rest of the fic which i stripped and repainted and restripped again lol

ok thanks for reading abt my wack anime crack fic writing process that, again, shld not be taken seriously. i will admit however that i do put a lot of effort n heart into it so i cannot pretend i am aloof and disaffected. id be lying if i say its been easy. i consider it a miracle i updated at all. i keep saying its not meant to be taken serious but if i managed to make it even a little bit meaningful, id be very happy.

ah also. bnha ending actually forced me to scrap a lot of things too. but it kinda ends up for the better, maybe.

[lavellenchanted]

I've been thinking about that beach scene recently I can't tell if it is just Aerith being cute and romantic when she tells cloud he'll meet her future self one day and love her or if there's more to that line... she's lost her memories of what is to come by this point but given the everything going on in these games that line feels very pointed to me 🤔 Like another Aerith is talking through her in some way (there's a few moments that feel like that tbh but I also am maybe overthinking it haha)

Everything about this game is design to make you overthink it, to be honest!

I think that line is intended to work on multiple levels from a Doylist perspective. For players that know the OG storyline is does read as partly tragic foreshadowing of what we assume is coming, but I think it's also meant to be a bit of a hint for the player that there is a future Aerith to meet and that the story might not play out quite the way we think - especially since it also calls back to Aerith's resolution in Remake, where the devs described her as an Aerith from the future (and of course that's the Aerith we then meet in the Dream Date and possibly also at the Edge of Creation).

In terms of what Aerith herself knows, it's trickier. Although she's lost her memories, she still recalls enough to know that she did have them in the first place. Red's also lost his memories but knows that Aerith's in danger, so I don't think it's unreasonable to assume that she's also aware of that to some extent and is possibly giving herself a pep talk in that moment and trying to be positive and convince herself she'll be okay.

That said, while I don't know that I think omni!Aerith is speaking through her, as such, I do think it is possible that Rebirth Aerith has retained enough of her memories at this point to know that she may not survive but that there is another version of her out there who might and she's making an oblique reference to that.

But in the main, I think she's trying to lighten the mood of the conversation and be cute and flirty with Cloud, since that is, after all, one of her favourite things to do!

[timberwind]

High obliquity (axial tilt) worlds are really very strange. The ice caps of terrestrial planets with substantial water inventories creep down from their high polar latitudes as you increase tilt, blanketing more and more of the surface in ice sheets right up until you reach a tipping point found somewhere around forty to fifty degrees. There, due to the way sunlight is distributed across the planet seasonally - like a sunbather turning over just twice a year - the ice caps suddenly migrate into a new configuration, hot polar summers driving the formation of an ice belt around the equator. We know Earth likely can't enter such a state (although a few papers claim otherwise) - the tidal influence of the Moon, coming in at just over one percent of the Earth's mass, is thought to damp down the spin-orbit resonances that drive axial wobble.

But then there's Mars with its two pebble-like asteroid-moons, axial tilt relatively free to wander compared to the Earth. From <20 to >50 degrees it lurches around on, as far as we can tell, a timescale of hundreds of kiloyears to a few megayears - really surprisingly short in geological time. Interestingly, there's evidence* in the paper above that those periods of higher 30-50+ degree obliquity have, taken cumulatively over the whole post-Noachian history of Mars, lasted for up to a billion years. It'd have been interesting if we got to see Mars during these relative ice ages, a Mars almost more white than red, or a Mars with its lowlands bisected by a great wall of ice... The (orographic?) snow west of the four big Tharsis volcanoes in the high-obliquity present-atmosphere model (bottom right) below is kind of fun I think.

Also kind of interesting that so much snow piles up on the high-altitude uplands in scenarios with more Earthlike atmospheric pressures (if not compositions), mostly independent of obliquity. Seems fairly plausible that you'd get a similar kind of scenario when terraforming Mars or Marslike exoplanets, ending up with deeply glaciated highlands feeding glacial rivers down into lakes and seas in the more temperate lowlands. It does things just a little more difficult though - ice is more reflective than dirt, and all that increased sunlight bounced back into space means you'd need to ramp up the heat you inject into the climate as you get into the pressure ranges where polar ice can sublimate into the atmosphere and fall as snow or risk atmospheric collapse... realistically of course you're doing that anyway with your soletta mirrors and all that. Food for thought, though.

(*)The paper looks for a specific kind of crater that probably only forms when a meteor strikes an ice sheet, and finds a fair chunk of them down in the midlatitudes and equatorial regions.

[hhimring]

I kept the secret but what is becoming of us?

The ongoing @russingon-week encouraged me to write a little bit of a stalled WIP about Maedhros in East Beleriand, a scene in which Maedhros dreams about Fingon.

Mods, I'm not sure whether you would regard this piece as sufficiently Russingon-centric for the event. (The series this is part of is definitely Maedhros/Fingon.) If not, thank you anyway for running the week and giving me the impetus to try and write the scene!

Maedhros, in the early days of Himring, has just been confronted with his inability to confess to the kinslaying at Alqualonde. His instinctive reaction was denial, especially because to confess would implicate Fingon and others and not only himself. He also feels he lost control of himself, during this scene. While he is reflecting on this, he falls asleep and dreams of Fingon.

They had not agreed to keep what had happened at Alqualonde a secret from the Sindar, not in so many words, thought Maedhros. If they had managed to reach such an agreement, somebody might perhaps have broken it already. But all the tensions between them seemed to have prevented them from even discussing it—even before Fingolfin and his followers had arrived, they had avoided the subject amongst themselves, and afterwards, it became virtually unmentionable. He had managed to have diplomatic discussions with Fingolfin on very fraught subjects, but there was just no way he could have raised how he had dragged his son into a Kinslaying, however unplanned.

He remembered the scene only too clearly, of course; the terrible memories that came after had not blurred the edges: the heady rush of relief and gratitude, the rising horror…

You are here? You are here! Oh no, you are here!

And Fingon’s face almost mirroring those emotions: flushed and open one moment, painfully withdrawing, shutting down the next.

It had been so dark there. It was tempting to delude oneself that this—and all the rest, too—was no more than a nightmare bred by darkness. But they all knew better.

Fingon and he had not managed to discuss it between them, then or later; the few oblique references they had exchanged could not amount to discussion and had led nowhere, really.

And, so, the conflict between the Noldor had kept the secret better than an agreement would have. It was impossible to speak about their own transgressions, without implicating and betraying others that had not consented to such a revelation. And they could not face another betrayal.

His own observations about the Sindar he encountered, compared to the Falmari, kept shifting: they were not as different, as he had supposed at first, merely by not being of Aman or under Treelight. He was able to see shared Telerin traits more clearly, as he got to know them better, but also became more aware of the impact of different cultures with a long history behind them—at least here in the North. In the South, there seemed to be more people who still remembered Olwe and the others from before.

But it was not only about what the Sindar might think or how they might react, although that was an important political consideration, of course. As recent events showed, it was about what the past, not dealt with, was doing to them themselves.

Maedhros, thinking about these things, drifted off into uneasy sleep. In his dream, as he sometimes did, he instinctively reached out to Fingon and, this night, it seemed as if Fingon was there, although his presence remained hazy and ill-defined, even in the dream.

‘I did not betray you, this time,’ said Maedhros to him. ‘I kept the secret. But what is becoming of us?’

Dream-Fingon had no answers for him. He seemed unable to speak at all, but neither did his presence withdraw or fade away, remaining with him until daybreak.

Maedhros awoke with none of his questions resolved, but nevertheless warmed and comforted by his dream—less ashamed and more hopeful.

[unearthlytraveller]

Babylon 5 Rewatch: The Quality of Mercy

This is technically a filler episode. Of course, that's a B5 filler where so many things get set up to pay off later; more than I remembered. I joke about some of them below, but by no means all! Indeed, the only thing I really remembered about this episode before I put it on was the alien healing device bits, and some rather cringy dialogue and performances. Which does do the episode some disservice; while far, far from the show's best, it does have some good moments.

Best serious scene is undoubtedly the bit with Talia and Garibaldi, after she scanned the killer. On this rewatch, I've often felt underwhelmed by Andrea Thompson's performances, but this was a great one; really sells the emotion.

The judicial subplot in general gives me mixed feelings. On the one hand, there's a certain amount of blunt force exposition on how things work; but I do find those questions interesting, and it's thankfully quite brief. Garibaldi's desire for blood is understandable, but troubling for one in the position of power he has; but he doesn't act on his feelings, which I guess is the important point.

Londo and Lennier's story gives us some much needed levity. Anyone who's seen this episode will remember Londo using his "appendage" to cheat at cards. But I quite enjoyed the way he browbeat Lennier at the start of the episode; it's a good mix of Londo's more manipulative side, with the funnier and lighter person he is in season 1.

Ivanova has only two appearances, I think, but they're both great. The scene in the free clinic with Franklin helps strengthen both characters. Both show how they are, in Ivanova's words, willing to bend the rules when needed. I like how the scene ends; with Franklin basically daring her to help out, she looks at him... and gets to work.

Her final scene, telling Garibaldi about the Londo/Lennier plot, is very light by comparison; but I just love the look of glee that Claudia Christian gives Ivanova.

Some quick thoughts and observations (and oblique spoilers for future episodes, be warned!).

Oh look, some random Centauri bureaucrat. I'm sure we'll never see him again.

What a funny joke about Minbari reacting badly to alcohol! I'm sure that will never come up again.

I think this is the first time we see Franklin's success with the ladies? Although, I remember someone who took part in the rewatch at the beginning who liked to call him "Doctor Handsome".

And Franklin learns that using Stims to get more doctoring done can lead to addiction and mistakes. I'm sure that's a valuable lesson he'll take to heart.

The CCG card for this episode is the healing device itself; generally too difficult and situation to use.

Finally, looking at the calendar I see that back in 1994, people had to wait all the way until October for the last episode of the sesaon! Bugger that; I'm going to watch Chrysalis next week.

[santoschristos]

“Holy, holy, holy.”

The Beauty of the Seraphim

“The Seraphim are all eyes — they can perceive true beauty.”

I believe this is a quote from Kathleen Norris; however, don’t quote me on that. In any event, it is a curious and fascinating statement.

The seraphim are the highest order of angels in the pseudo-Dionysian hierarchic scheme, and in the Jewish tradition, also. They surround the throne of Glory and utter the Trisagion incessantly: “Holy, holy, holy.”

According to one tradition, they are the angels of love, and light, and of fire. III Enoch states that their number is limited to 4: “corresponding to the 4 winds of the world.” And in Enoch II they are described as having four faces and six wings, as in Isaiah chapter 6.

Some scholars maintain that the only Old Testament reference to the seraphim is in Isaiah 6. Although others assert that Numbers 21:6, the “fiery serpents,” could refer to the seraphim. And ostensibly, they are not even directly referred to in the New Testament autograph, except perhaps obliquely in Rev. 4:8.

Their prince has been named variously as Seraphiel, Jehoel, Metatron, Michael, and Satan himself, before he fell, of course. However, that cannot be, as Satan is described as a mere cherub, that is, having only four wings.

By some, the seraphim are equated with the ophanim, which may be rendered either ‘wheels,’ or ‘many-eyed ones.’ And since they are all eyes, they can perceive true beauty. At least, that’s what is implied. Is this true? And to what do the “eyes” refer?

The reference to the “eyes” of the seraphim is found in Revelation 4:8, which reads: “And the four Zoa had each of them respectively, six wings; around and within they are full of eyes.”

And there is another oblique reference to the “eyes” in Ezekiel 1:18: “Their rims were high and awesome, and all four rims were full of eyes all around.” And it must be noted, that the “eyes” in this passage appear to be within the wheels of the Chariot of Adonai; so this may not refer to the seraphim at all.

Very few commentators will discuss the “eyes” of Revelation 4:8. So let’s look at the angelic hierarchy: the First, and the foremost, is Adonai eloheinu as the commander in chief of all the angelic armies. The next level down in the hierarchy is composed of the archangels who command individual armies. And from there, to the General Staff, who make the angelic army function. And they worship, too.

Ah, worship! To know and understand how to worship.

The KJV puts it this way: “And round about the throne were four and twenty seats; and upon the seats, I saw four and twenty elders sitting, clothed in white raiment, and they had on their heads crowns of gold.” Rev. 4:6

‘And’ is the conjunctive use of the conjunction kai, which means ’also.’ And with it, is the adverb of place, kuklothen; and it is used as an improper preposition with the noun thronos: “also around the throne.” The ellipsis demands the repetition of the verb ‘I saw,’ be inserted; and the direct object is composed of three words, all of which are the objects of the verb. “And around the throne I saw….” Eikosai, twenty; and with it the accusative of tessares: twenty-four additional thrones. And these thrones are reserved for the angelic general staff.

These angels have authority in the heavens during the periods of the Church Age, the Tribulation and the Millennium. These angels have achieved great status — wisdom of a spiritual type.

From this, perhaps, another form of beauty is organization. For organization allows the efficient use of many elements: time, space, money, materiel, etc. Organization relieves pressure and stress. And these twenty-four angelic staff officers are well organized. Their job is to apply correct information and data to any situation.

“And upon the thrones…” then the present passive participle of kathemai: they were sitting. And people who sit, think. Correct action must be supported by thought. Thus, these twenty-four angels are thinking, not doing. Indeed, they are just being. They know they are loved. They realize and acknowledge Who and What God is. They acknowledge pure, radical Love as beauty nonpareil. --Randall Radic Aug 21, 2023

[vraisetzen]

💮 onmyōji (2023) review 💮

it took me longer than expected to finish this highly-anticipated adaptation, but boy am i glad i completed it!

first up, i just wanna say i have only read a few chapters of the stories by yumemakura baku, and and only seen snippets of the 2001 movie. i've not seen the sequel, nor the chinese adaptations (and certainly not played the games). that said, i am very familiar with onmyodo and its place and significance in japanese history and culture, since there are overlaps between it and taoism, buddhism, and east asian divination in general.

with that in mind, i was pleasantly surprised at how the anime eased viewers into the philosophies behind onmyodo, particularly with the concept of curses, the birth of demons, and rituals; everything was explained very clearly, with hiromasa as a stand-in for the audience, although i did wish that the show dwelled more on the supernatural aspects during the first few episodic arcs.

likewise, i enjoyed the relationship between seimei and hiromasa; and here is where the stans could fill me in, because i was very certain that the 2001 movies weren't as fruity as the anime. but still, the message was received, and i was very pleased with how their relationship was depicted – hiromasa being soft and very attuned with his emotions was a very heian gentlemanly trait to have, so it didn't feel out of place at all.

personally, i think the final arc could have explored more of hiromasa's death on seimei, but i think that short scene (barely a few seconds!) of seimei cradling hiromasa's sword was molto bene.

in terms of animation, i found it satisfactory; clearly a higher budget would have done the special effects more justice, but given that the onmyoji were more priests and academicians than jujutsu kaisen sorcerers, the relatively modest show of their abilities made sense. i will say, there were key frames in episode 4, especially with certain profiles and oblique angles, that looked rough.

the final three episode were beautifully animated though! and i adored the ending theme and animation!

also, this is just me being a mardy bum, but i think this would've worked better as a spring/summer anime than a fall/winter one, given the gorgeous floral motifs (although the cold seasons have always evoked intense fujo feels inside of me haha).

in all, as with ooku: the inner chambers, which aired a few months ago, i will not be object to a second season of this show – namikawa daisuke and asanuma shintaro did splendidly as seimei and hiromasa, and i would certainly love to see the other stories animated!

[lookingatacupoftea]

Do you like ineffable parents? Do you ever need a palette cleanser from the wonderful but angsty and dark fic this fandom produces? Or cheering up from the state of the world?

Then take a peek at ⭐ Born of Starlight ⭐ by @esthermitchell-author! This is a s3 and beyond fic. The emphasis here is on learning to give and receive love, and the ineffables develop into being very loving in this story both toward each other and among their growing family and friend group. There is a Mature-rated version where the sexy times are more obliquely referenced, although the heat is there for sure, and an Explicit version.

The real star here is actual babygirl Jemima Crowley-Fell, a charmer who shares both good and slightly more shades-of-grey traits with her parents and is surely destined for great things. @esthermitchell-author is working on a sequel so there are more Jemmy adventures planned.

Born of Starlight (M version): https://archiveofourown.org/works/52159429

Born of Starlight (E version): https://archiveofourown.org/works/55699651

[algernoninwonderland]

While Utena is about a lot of things (a school trapped in a time loop, how much Anthy and Nanami simultaneously hate and want to make out with each other, Touga making bad decisions, Shiori) it is primarily about Utena rapier fighting people who are misogynists in more oblique ways.

I don’t think it’s nearly as simple as that, or even accurate (although it makes for a few efficient and snappy-sounding clauses), but I really want to address your latter point. In the grand scheme of things, these fights are play duels, they’re staged, as is made evident by the directing and writing decisions made in the show, and also, just in case it wasn’t obvious, by having episode 38 spell it out through Akio’s mouth. I think it’s very significant that Akio’s defeat doesn’t come from him losing the duel game. So while RGU certainly has lots of things to say about misogyny and it would be foolish to deny that, saying that it is primarily about Utena fighting misogynists is a bit too easy and reductive.

RGU’s representation of gender and gender dynamics cannot simply be summed up as “girlprince beats up misogynists to teach them a lesson” although it definitely sees the patriarchy as this inherently misogynistic structure that only brings suffering and gendered violence. But that’s not merely it. Rather, I think the sheer richness of that representation and the many ways of reading it (even in reductive terms) is one of the many things making Utena such a fantastic show that continues to be discussed to this day.

Also, I really agree with just “Shiori”. “Shiori” as a statement just hits the nail on the head.

[antigonewinchester]

assorted thoughts on that Cut article...

It is, imo, very juicy bait for the audience (outrage gets clicks, baby) so I'm somewhat skeptical as to how much the author actually believes what she's writing vs. what she's exaggerating for effect. But maybe that's me being optimistic. Her framework falls squarely w/in a very common heteropessimistic attitude about women's relationships to men.

Call me naive but the idea of a woman's youth (and implicitly beauty, although of course they're not the same) as a form of power is so hollow. Even as a power, it's a very fickle one. Sexual attraction is an incredibly powerful force but men aren't magically compelled by it, and there's nothing to stop a man from treating a woman very badly even if he does want to sleep with her. And youth fades eventually--and for everyone, not just women.

Despite being (mostly) a hetero woman, the standard framework of heterosexual dating has always felt strange to me; articles like this one remind me of it. The whole idea about women having to "fix" men is so condescending (and yet I remember a few oblique references in this vein from the bridal party I recently attended, so it is a real thing!). Are some men in their 20's immature? Yes. Are some women in their 20's also immature? Yes. And age doesn't necessarily mean maturity, either. It's not like men being 'bad' at laundry is some innate character flaw; it just means they never learned certain skills. Women don't innately grow up knowing how to do laundry or pick out couches.

She frames relationships thru an economic lens, of tallying up potential 'flaws' and only wanting to 'invest' in relationships where she doesn't have to give 'too much' that so misses the... poetry of love: loving someone not in spite of but because of their flaws and foibles, or affection as something not to be traded but freely given. Aren't relationships more than the sum of their parts?

Beyond the marriage question, how the writer equates a good life with material wealth was very sad to me. I certainly understand wanting to have enough money to live comfortably, and even more to live well, but is traveling around the world & eating fancy food & drinking good wine really the best pleasures life has to offer?

[gamesception]

lets read rgu, chapter 27

So here we are, the last chapter of the Utena Manga. The story finished in chapter 25, so this is another retcon side story slotting in an element from the show that didn't make it into the manga's main arc. This time it's Souji Mikage and Mamiya Chida of the Black Rose Arc. There was... a lot going on with that arc. All the character arcs of the various black rose duelists, the way they interacted with and advanced the arcs of the student council members, the kind of oblique, still not fully revealing anything hints at the greater machinations of the plot & Akio's hand on things, the idea that there's /way/ more going on with Anthy than even the first arc let on, and of course Souji & Mamiya's own characters and interactions - this last being the only bit that a single manga chapter's likely to be able to touch on, and even that I'm a bit skeptical of.

Because what's going on with Souji and Mamiya is kind of very gay, in a way that I'm just not confident will make the translation. I could talk more about Souji's repressed homosexuality thinly masked by compulsory heterosexuality posing as Pure Logic (tm), but I'd just be echoing C-Puff's excellent post that you can read for yourself (link).

Will this Mamiya also turn out to be Anthy in the end? In which case, this statement that they hate Utena and Anthy stands out. Sure it could just be read as manipulating Souji, but otherwise, I mean sure hating herself for letting Akio control and manipulate her, sure, but also maybe resenting Utena who does so much to protect her while being seemingly oblivious to what she actually needs help from? Or forcing her to confront the experience of friendship that she doesn't think she deserves, or making her face the idea of hope when she had been sheltered from having to care by the hopelessness of her situation?

Anyway, Souji kicks things off by inviting Utena to a Lecture at the Nemuro Memorial Hall, location of anime's dark therapy elevator that makes you worse. Utena talks to Miki about it, and Miki confirms that the basic backstory here is the same as in the anime.

Come on Utena, I know you're dense sometimes, but that's clearly Souji, you just talked to him earlier today. I know it's weird that he's still alive and on campus decades after he died in that fire, but you've seen at least 3 weirder things than that by this point.

And you Miki! You have even less excuse.

Anyway, Anthy goes missing around the same time, and Utena follows a Convenient Hunch (tm) to look for her in the Memorial building, where Souji is waiting for her.

Good on you, Utena.

But if Utena's not vulnerable to mental manipulations, bad therapies, or forbidden secrets then that doesn't leave much for Souji to apply his signature computer-like brain to, so we just kind of skip straight to the dueling part. No, not in the arena, right here in the Memorial Building. Anthy's already there and dressed for the occasion, presumably because Mamiya is Anthy like in the show.

But this isn't any old Rose Duel.

Was it ever spelled out in so many words that the difference between regular rose seal duels and black rose seal duels was that the black duelists were there to kill Anthy rather than possess her? Like that was clearly Mikage's goal, but still. Although... in the manga it was eventually revealed that the point of even the regular duels was for Anthy to die and the winner to replace her as Rose Bride themselves, so there's not really much of a difference here after all?

I like how this panel has like a drape that could be Mamiya standing in his own Rose Bride dress, but it's also pretty clear that Utena and Anthy don't see him there.

Unfortunately Manga Souji/Nemuro doesn't really have time to really establish the more complex relationship between him and Mamiya, so instead Manga Nemuro's core motivation is more about guilt for the students killed in the fire, and Mamiya is just one of those students - one he thinks he can save/revive if he defeats Utena and claims the power of Dios.

Manga Mamiya even always looked similar to Anthy, Souji isn't remembering him wrong, and Anthy isn't magically posing in his place after all. Which makes all the wondering about what Mamiya meant when he said he hated Utena and Anthy kind of wasted space, since it was just Nemuro projecting.

So anyway Utena wins the duel and the Memorial Building starts to collapse, and Mikage decides to stay behind with his memory of Mamiya while Utena and Anthy escape.

The manga version works in sort of a special Halloween Episode spooky ghost story sort of way, but it didn't really have the time to get into all the things that made the anime versions of Mikage and Mamiya so compelling, let alone the wider impact of the Black Rose arc as a whole. I enjoyed the chapter, but I'm left feeling more or less the same as I did about the bonus Ruka chapter - it was nice to see a manga version of these characters from the anime, but without the time or the framwork to fully dig into them it was probably a good call to leave them as side stories outside of the manga's more contained main plot.