#and like I’m just afraid of being disappointed because historically no one really puts in an effort for me

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

Carpe Diem - Chapter 3

Pairing: Sketchbook (Kaisa/Johanna)

Summary: Carpe diem: one of the five latim mottos of the arcadist, or neoclassical movement. Literally translates to "seize the day"

Picking up where Locus Amoenus left off, this fic follows the lives of Kaisa and Johanna for a couple weeks as their feelings grow and develop.

Notes: Sorry but infodumping/letting someone infodump to you are the ultimate love languages

Read it on ao3 or read the first installment on this verse or read the second installment on this verse

A recurring theme that they noticed on the stalls was that they were mostly decorated and selling a couple of products related to Halloween already, never mind that they were still in September.

Another recurring thing that didn’t escape Johanna, was how excited Kaisa got whenever they passed by stalls that displayed such things. Whenever they walked by a particularly interesting Halloween decoration, or an artist who had selected some “creepy” or darker products to put in front of their stall, Kaisa gasped just loud enough for Johanna to hear, and very subtly bounced up and down on her heels. Very subtly, in a way that she was sure she only had noticed because she was walking oh-so-close to her. It didn’t really surprise her that Kaisa hadn’t been expecting her to pick up on it, because clearly the girl had been underestimating how closely Johanna paid attention to her.

Not that she hadn’t been doing that from day one, that is.

“You really like Halloween, don’t you?”

Kaisa turned to her with wide eyes when she asked it, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“Yeah, kind of. It’s silly though.”

“New rule!” Johanna’s sudden chirp made Kitty look at her like she’d grown a second head. “You’re absolutely not allowed to hold back on what makes you happy, or to feel bad for it. Let’s try this again. You really like Halloween, don’t you?”

Kaisa could only look down at her feet, hoping the black and purple hair that fell over her face covered the way she was absolutely failing to hold back a smile, uselessly biting at the inside of her lips to try to stop them from stretching.

“I really do. I was really obsessed with witches when I was younger, and Tildy always fueled my passions. She gave me every book on every subject I asked for, and an obsession with witches melted into an obsession with Halloween, which became one with the historical roots of the holiday and the Celtic people. Honestly, it’s one of the reasons why I chose to major in History as well as English.”

Success, Johanna thought, looking down at Kaisa who was now displaying the most adorable smile on her lips. She’d always been somewhat aware of the height difference between them, but like this she could see very clearly that Kitty was at least a full ten centimetres shorter.

“That sounds so fun!” As she assured, Johanna wondered how many other interests Kaisa had that would make her sound so alive when she spoke about them. It was kind of sad to know that they were all most likely being neglected, though. With how furiously Kaisa focused on college, Johanna doubted that left her much time to learn about anything that wasn’t related to her lectures. If she had any say in it, though, she’d make sure Kaisa spent as much time engaging with the things that made her happy as possible. “Do you have plans for this Halloween? We could spend it together, if you’d like.”

The look Kaisa gave her was shimmering at first, before being clouded by disappointment. “I’m afraid I have. Tildy forces Frida to go trick-or-treating every year, and makes me go with her. It’s one of her many strategies to force us to have a night of rest from studying. I already promised I’d be doing it. Frida wants us to dress like characters from a cartoon she likes.”

Even though Johanna smiled as Kaisa answered it, bemused at the image of two workaholics being forcibly kicked out of their home to ask for candy (Kaisa’s mother sounded more charming by the minute), Kaisa didn’t feel content about completely turning down her invitation. It was something she’d very much like to do, and she’d hate it for Johanna to get the wrong idea.

“We could do something the day before, though!” She rushed to assure her, terrified that Golden might think she’d been giving an excuse. “Or the day after. Even if it’s not Halloween related, I’d just love to hang out-”

Johanna gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, sensing her distress. “I’d love it too! I’m sure we’ll think of something nice. What characters are you and your sister dressing as?”

It was hard for Kaisa to even contain her sigh of relief when she understood that Johanna really didn’t feel like she was being brushed off. “Amity and Lilith, from The Owl House. Do you know it?”

They kept on walking, Johanna’s brow furrowed in thought. “Isn’t that the gay rights cartoon? I think I saw it on twitter.”

“Yeah, you’re probably thinking of the right one. Frida hasn’t said anything about liking girls or boys yet. I think she’s still very young to have that figured out. But I’m willing to bet that Tildy has some sort of magical filter that she uses when making adoptions that miraculously points her to the lesbians, honestly.”

Johanna was glad she hadn’t been drinking anything. If she had, she certainly would have choked on it and it would have spilled through her nostrils, and it would not have been a pretty sight.

“Gosh, I need to meet your family.” Johanna said through her laughter, happy to see that Kaisa had joined her in on it. “Radical change in topic, but I am starving. Want to grab a bite?”

“Sure!”

Funny, Johanna thought. Even her single worded answers sounded more full of life now.

They skimmed through the next stalls, since most of the food ones were deeper into the market, and only stopped for one that caught Kaisa’s attention. It sold small, handmade perfumed candles, and anyone that passed by the two of them while they were there would have thought they were clinically insane with the way they frantically picked candles of each available scent to smell it, discussing which were the best ones. While they came to the consensus that the coffee bean and vanilla one was the champion, Johanna for the most part was drawn to the wildflowers and tea scented ones, while Kaisa didn’t relinquish her opinion that the apple and cinnamon candle was special. Johanna left empty handed out of pure self control (the tons of unburned candles in her bedside table’s drawer would certainly not appreciate it if she brought home another one just to abandon it), but Kaisa purchased both their favourite candle and the one that smelled like apple pie.

Once more food vendors began popping up, their nostrils were assaulted with the scent of every kind of food you could imagine, which honestly felt like karma for so desperately smelling everything on the candle stall. One of the first stalls had a large metal bowl at its centre, and bags of powder of many colours around it, and there was a child walking away from it with an enormous blue and purple cloud on a stick.

“Cotton candy!” Johanna exclaimed when she spotted it. “Would you like it?”

Kaisa scrunched her nose. “Not really. It’s so… sticky. The texture isn’t really my jam, I guess. But you go ahead and get it! I’d love to see you try and eat that, it’s bigger than your head.”

Showing her friend her tongue, she tugged her hand to invite her to continue walking. “Nah, that’s okay. I’m not too fond of the taste, I just think it’s fun to eat it.”

“Once again, I won’t be the one to stop you.”

“No, but you’ll be the one to take pictures of me with cotton candy stuck in my hair and blackmail me with them later.”

“Fair enough.”

They took a while to look at all of the available options, paying close attention to the other market attendees who walked past them holding any sort of food so as to make an informed decision. The ultimate winner was a stall frying beignets and sprinkling confectioner’s sugar on top. If the smell of deep-fried pastry alone wasn’t enough to draw them in, the look of utter pleasure in the faces of those who they saw eating them certainly was.

Their paying time took three times longer than it should, a result of both of them arguing about how they should be the one to pay for the other while the shopkeeper looked absolutely unamused. In the end, Kaisa won and paid for them both with the argument that Johanna had already driven them here, which meant that Johanna was already plotting every sort of plan to pay for their next meal.

At the centre of the square, a couple of benches were positioned around what would be a bonfire as soon as night fell, and they took a seat on an empty one. As they bit into their beignets, neither contained the hums of delight at the sweet, warm explosion in their mouths.

After a few bites in silence, because that was definitely the kind of food that was too good to talk while eating, Johanna gasped and reached into one of the bags she had acquired while in the market.

“You know what would taste great with this?” Before Kaisa could even think of an answer, she took her jar of honey from the bag and opened it. She offered it to Kaisa first, who dipped her pastry only just enough so that her next bite would taste of honey, and then promptly poured such an obscene amount of it on hers that it began to spill and drip down her fingers.

“Hm, this is so good.” Johanna moaned. While Kaisa was sure that she wasn’t tasting the honey as much as Golden, she would admit that it gave the beignet a delicious depth of flavour.

And then she looked at Johanna and completely lost all rational train of thought.

Her eyes were closed in appreciation and her head was leaning slightly back as she chewed. What captured her attention, however, was the drop of honey that had caught on the corner of her lip, and was painfully slowly making its way down to her chin.

If a human could blue-screen, Kaisa imagined that this was it.

What was the appropriate reaction to this? Probably telling her about it and giving her one of her own napkins, since Johanna would probably already be needing hers to clean her hands. Was this what her mind was telling her to do, though? Absolutely not, because the only thing her damn brain was working for at the moment was providing her with a very vivid imagery of how nice it would be to kiss that drop of honey away from her face and into her own mouth.

With her face most definitely red at the appalling thought and her hands suddenly clammy, Kaisa wished it wasn’t weird to shake your head violently in a public space (what? At least she’d get the feeling of shaking that thought far away from her) and acted on what was probably the middle ground between those two options.

Reaching up with one of her spare napkins, she allowed her hand to float just in front of Johanna’s face.

“May I?” She asked when Johanna opened back her eyelids and looked at the offer with open curiosity. At her nod, she wiped the honey away.

“Thanks.” If Johanna’s voice was several octaves higher, Kaisa didn’t comment on it. It wasn’t like she had the credit to do that, anyway. “This is… really good.”

“Yeah.” Kaisa bit into her food again with gusto, willing her mind to allow her to forget that moment of insanity. It wasn’t creepy if she hadn’t done anything inappropriate, right?

They finished eating and without even communicating seemed to agree on just sitting there with each other for a while. Johanna extended her legs in front of herself while Kaisa sat with one knee bent and foot close to her skirt, and the other leg extended towards Johanna.

“It just occurred to me that I do not, in fact, know much about the historical roots of Halloween.” The wind played with Johanna’s curls, making her bangs swing softly from side to side.

Kaisa snorted. “Are you sure you want to go there? Get me started and it’ll be hard to get me to stop, you know.”

“I’d love to go there, actually.” She smiled. “Anything you’d like to teach me, I’m all ears.”

Sighing contently was the only thing Kaisa could think to do, really. How long had it been since anyone other than Tildy and Frida had been ‘all ears’ to her? Not only to her interests, but to anything at all? Had that ever even happened?

“Well, you see, it is generally agreed that the Celts had three harvest festivals…”

Johanna wasn’t sure how long they spent there. She didn’t care, either. All that she knew is that she’d gotten this girl who she had spent months wondering if she even knew how to speak to give her a full lecture about a topic she was passionate about. She’d never even known she had the slightest interest in druids or roman cultural assimilation or the issue with the typical definition of a “celt”, but watching the muscles in Kaisa’s face move and hearing the pitches of her voice which were apparently unlocked when she was excited made Johanna decide that that was one of the coolest topics in the world, actually. She’d be sure to check out a book on it next time she was in the library, so she could actually hold a conversation with Kaisa next time she talked about it.

At one point, Kaisa stopped talking and looked around them, letting out a chuckle.

“We have to stop meeting like this.” She quipped, but Johanna didn’t understand it. The haze of tranquillity that had come over her when Kaisa had begun her monologue still lingered, and she struggled to pay attention to anything else.

“Hm?”

Kaisa pointed to the sky by means of explanation, and to Johanna’s surprise, it was no longer blue, but somehow orange, pink and purple at the same time. Hadn’t they arrived just past three o’clock, she wondered with startlement.

“It looks so pretty from here.” Johanna marvelled. Even those masterful watercolours they had seen paled in comparison to the real thing.

Kaisa’s gaze wandered back and forth from the sky to Johanna’s face, struggling to decide which was the better view. “It really does.”

They drank in the moment greedily, knowing it was impossible to drown on such a beautiful thing (and that if it were, they would go down gladly). The sounds were softer now that night was falling and most people had left, the colours were shifting as the sun bid goodnight and a market worker worked to light the bonfire in front of them. This time, unlike the garden, Johanna didn’t have to teach her how to appreciate the moment. She wouldn’t let this one go for anything.

The flames rose up in front of them, filling the autumn air with their warmth, and Johanna extended her hands towards them gladly.

“I disagree, you know.” She said, looking at Kaisa mischievously. “I don’t think we should stop meeting like this. I wouldn’t change this for anything at all.”

Neither would I, Kaisa thought, worried at this feeling that was settling in her chest even though it felt like it was too big to fit in it, worried about her carefully selected priorities that all seemed irrelevant in the face of all this peace. Neither would I.

[1ove1anguage]

shout out to all my ladies who have multiple mental breakdowns in the days leading up to their birthday

[not-delicious-milk]

untangle

pairing | itadori yuuji x fushiguro megumi

content | fluff, light angst, humor. birthday fic for the birthday boy. yuuji has adhd and i will die on that hill

word count | 1.7k

form | oneshot

originally posted | 23 december 2020

author's note | yes i wrote this because i got back into knitting. i know i’m a day late for fushi’s birthday but shh. anyway itafushi brainrot

Itadori hyperfixates on knitting. Shenanigans ensue. 

It started out innocent enough. 

Gojou had decided to treat them to shopping in the city, something that excited Kugisaki and Itadori beyond reason. Fushiguro thought that those two would probably faint from excitement if their sensei ever indulged them in a trip to Roppongi, as he'd promised them so many months ago, even though he knew fully well it was little more than a tourist trap.

Then they passed by a fabric store, and Itadori had stopped cold in his tracks at the sight of the multicolored yarns in the window. Peeking over a teetering pile of bags and boxes he was holding for Kugisaki, Itadori drew so close to the window his breath misted up the glass.

"What is it, Itadori?" Kugisaki huffed. She turned around and barely suppressed a laugh when she saw him staring. "Are you a grandmother now? Come on, I still need to pick up new stockings."

"No, it's just—" Itadori glanced back at her, wide eyed. "You know, my grandfather taught me to knit once, when I was really little. I hadn't given it much thought since…" His sentence trailed off. "Anyway, it's getting colder now, right? Plus Christmas is coming up. Maybe I should pick it up again."

Fushiguro shrugged. "As long as you don't go crazy. Like that time with the stamps."

"Listen — those were limited edition stamps—"

"And the historical romance movies."

"How did you — come on, Pride and Prejudice is a classic—"

"And the bullet journals?"

"I didn't even get that many of those! Gojou-sensei was the one who recommended those to keep track of stuff."

"You had to empty one of your manga shelves just to store all the stationary you bought!"

"Okay, I get it!" Itadori held up one of his hands in a gesture of surrender, nearly dropping Kugisaki's things in the process. "In and out. All I want to do is look."

But that was not all he wanted to do. Itadori wanted to touch the yarn, and then he was ogling the seasonal colors, and then he was flipping through pattern books, and then he was discussing different wool blends with the lady working there, and then he was picking out bamboo circular knitting needles, and then he was ordering cones of yarn in different colors, and by the time they staggered out of the fabric store, Fushiguro was ready to collapse. 

The way home was just as bad, if not worse. Itadori talked Gojou's ear off the whole time about different stitches he wanted to try and projects he was going to start. "Oh, by the way, Fushiguro!"

Fushiguro turned at the mention of his name. "What is it?"

"Would you prefer a scarf or a hat? I picked out this blue acrylic-wool blend to match your eyes, but I'm not sure which one you would prefer."

Fushiguro blinked at him. "A— a scarf, I guess."

Itadori gave him a thumbs up and then went right back to talking a mile a minute. Fushiguro wasn't sure if he should be paying attention or not. He glanced at Kugisaki, who was in a world of her own looking at the souvenirs and new accessories she had bought with Gojou's credit card. 

Gojou himself seemed only mildly interested in what Itadori was saying. He seemed to be thinking of something else, but he did seem to be making an effort to show his student that he was listening.

Fushiguro sighed. He really was hopeless. "Itadori, tell me about the patterns you want to try."

Itadori turned to him, and Fushiguro let himself take in the radiant glow of his eyes for one selfish moment, before training his gaze on the floor of the train.

(Was it too much to ask for him to stop being so bright all the time?)

The excitement could barely keep its way out of Itadori's voice as he described the different ways to knit a sock, and Fushiguro smiled a little, careful not to let Gojou see it. He would never let him live it down. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

"Fushigurooooooooooooooo!"

He doesn't have to yell. The walls are so thin between our rooms anyway. "What?" he called back, a little quieter. 

"I need your help! Come here!"

Fushiguro sighed and closed the book he'd been reading. It was a hefty tome on marine biology he'd picked up the week before. And in that week, Itadori had probably knit enough to clothe a small country. 

Well, that was an exaggeration. But he really had been spending all his time working on some project or another, and Fushiguro was mentally counting down until his inevitable burnout. 

He opened the door to Itadori's room and poked his head inside. "What— oh."

Itadori grinned sheepishly at him. He was in the middle of a pile of tangled yarn, probably partially tangled in it himself, seated on the floor. "Um, I could use another pair of hands."

Fushiguro sighed for as long as he could, feigning annoyance. 

(He really didn't mind.) 

"Thanks, man." Itadori wriggled his way out of his multicolored bonds and started picking at the strands. "I promise it's not as bad as it looks." What it looked was pretty bad.

"I just forgot to organize them when I was done with a color. I had just been putting them in a bin under my bed."

Really? Not a blender?

Fushiguro said nothing as he worked at a thick knot. 

"Brat, do something about him."

His eyes went wide as Fushiguro whipped his head around to see a mouth formed on Itadori's cheek, speaking in a familiarly cold voice. "He's driving me insane."

Itadori slapped a hand over Sukuna's mouth automatically. "You were already insane," he muttered under his breath.

The mouth opened again on his hand. "All you think about are your projects. If I wanted to possess a grandmother, I would have done so. Brat, break his knitting needles, throw out his yarn, something. I know you find it irritating too." 

Itadori pointedly ignored Sukuna's voice, but for a moment Fushiguro was sure he saw something flicker in his eyes — something like disappointment, or maybe regret. His smile seemed a little too tight, his gaze too fixed.

Ever since he had come back to life, Fushiguro had noticed that Itadori wasn't quite the same. He never wanted to talk about it, either, besides the few words they'd exchanged before the Goodwill Event. 

But these days, something about Itadori Yuuji seemed a little unsure. He seemed harder, cracked around the edges like broken glass. He was smiling the same smile as ever, but something in his eyes told Fushiguro that he didn't mean it. 

Fushiguro imagined that he was untangling Itadori. Maybe it was that he didn't trust him enough, wasn't close enough to him, didn't care as much about him as Fushiguro did him, but there was something twisted up inside Itadori that he didn't let anyone touch. 

(He would never admit it, but Fushiguro wished that he could. Sort through the strands one by one, with care and with gentleness, until he was all smoothed out.)

"Itadori," Fushiguro said quietly. 

"Huh?" By the time he turned around to meet his eyes, Itadori had already masked his brief slippage of control. 

"I don't think it's irritating."

Itadori laughed a little. "No, it's okay. You don't have to feel bad, I know I'm going a little overboard…"

"I'm serious."

He fell silent and ran his fingers through his soft pink hair. Again, there it was — a flash of something between disappointment and regret. "I just… it feels nice to make stuff for other people, I guess." And there he went again. Always other people first. 

(When would he realize other people worried about him too?)

Fushiguro didn't say anything else, but silently picked a piece of yarn off of Itadori's hoodie. 

"Oh! That's right!" Itadori suddenly stood up and rummaged through his bag. "It's your birthday tomorrow, isn't it?"

It was. Fushiguro hadn't told anyone about it though — there wasn't much he hated more than other people fussing over him on his birthday. The attention, the coddling praise, the presents… all of it was too much. 

Who could have—

The winking face of his sensei flashed across his mind. Of course.

"Here you go, before I forget to give it to you." Itadori handed him a folded blue scarf. "It's your birthday present!" 

Fushiguro took the scarf gingerly. It seemed to tingle in his hands, and he could almost feel the attention and time that Itadori had put into it. It had a complicated-looking cable pattern that must have taken him forever. 

"Do you— do you like it?"

He glanced up at Itadori, whose usually sunny face was clouded over with insecurity. Ah, I must have made a face by accident. 

Fushiguro answered by putting the scarf on. It even smelled like him. If he breathed in deeply, he could smell Itadori's fabric softener and the scent of the outdoors that always seemed to cling to him — wood and soft grass and—

Stop smelling the scarf.

"I like it," he managed. He couldn't make eye contact with Itadori — if he did, he was afraid his careful mask of casual indifference might break and reveal something much more embarrassing.

"You do? Oh, that's good." Somehow Itadori didn't sound very convinced.

Fushiguro risked looking into his eyes. "I really love this," he stated firmly. "Honestly, I'm glad you decided to start knitting again." He paused a moment before going a step further, grasping at the tangled strands around him and within the boy who stood before him. "I think your grandfather would be really proud of you."

Itadori blinked in surprise. "Oh." A wide grin spread across his face. "Well, I'm glad you like it!"

Fushiguro gestured hopelessly to the mountain of tangled yarn.

"Ah, right."

An easy silence fell as they untangled the rest of the yarn. The warmth of the scarf around Fushiguro's neck was grounding, and reminded him of the warmth of the boy next to him. 

Itadori scooted closer to him and rested his head on Fushiguro's shoulder, surprising him. Neither of them said a word as they picked at knots of yarn. 

"Thank you," muttered Itadori under his breath. 

Maybe birthdays weren't so bad after all. 

[veliseraptor]

top 5 Xue Yang quotes

I mean pretty much every time he opens his mouth I love it. But I guess if I had to pick single lines...I am going to put screencaps here. This is also all CQL because that’s what I’m more familiar with.

Under a read more because it got long. Surprising no one familiar with me and how this sort of thing goes. Featuring my new blog subtitle: A Whole Lotta Feelings About Xue Yang, and links to a bunch of my own older meta.

1. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved in other people’s business. Who’s right, who’s wrong? How much kindness, how many grudges. Can an outsider be clear about it? Maybe you shouldn’t have left the mountain.”

I wrote a whole meta post about this! I mean, I’ve written a whole lot of meta posts about Xue Yang generally, the amount of digital ink I’ve spilled over this character is, hm. Well. 

But I just find this line fascinating for the ways in which it is, like many of the things that Xue Yang says in this scene, such a blend of emotions: anger, frustration, misery, disappointment.

There’s the “how dare you judge me” of it all, the “you’re so goddamn clueless you just don’t get it” of it, and then also the thing that I talked about in the linked meta - the “you would’ve been better served staying away from this stupid world, where you would’ve been safe and where you would’ve been safe from me.” 

I have a lot of...thoughts, about the way that Xue Yang bounces back and forth between finding it hilarious that Xiao Xingchen is so nice to him while having no idea who he really is, finding it maddening that he is (he’s so stupid! how does he get away with being so stupid!), and finding it...something that he likes, and sort of wants him to keep (in a similar way, actually, to the way that I think Jin Guangyao wants Lan Xichen to keep his relative innocence). 

And also the arc words/recurring sentiment of those questions of right and wrong, black and white. And the idea that that’s not a question Xue Yang has historically concerned himself with, but perhaps right now it might actually matter.

And right now he wants Xiao Xingchen to be on the same page, and at least for a half a second genuinely thought he might be.

2. “The finger is mine, while the lives are theirs.”

Obviously this is like. Peak Xue Yang line: pure solipsism, pure self-centered self-interest: my finger is mine and therefore it’s worth more than the lives of other people.

And there’s a lot to be said about that as a manifesto for Xue Yang - on one level I do think it’s just about how he thinks and perceives others: they just aren’t quite real to him, not in the way he himself is. Like, yes! They exist! Nominally they have “feelings” and “wants” or whatever, but conceptualizing that in any concrete way, or internalizing it, is...hard. It doesn’t seem quite real to him. They don’t seem quite real, not in the way that he is, himself. 

And on the other hand I think there’s something about the way that Xue Yang weights his own value so heavily because he’s the only one who will. Nobody else is going to put any value on his hand or his finger. Xue Yang’s approach to life is very much “nobody’s going to give me anything, so I will get mine and fuck everyone else, if I don’t look out for me above all then it’s a short road to death.” And I think there’s elements of that here. 

Or maybe a question: why should their lives be worth more than my body? Why should they be more valuable than me? And the answer, of course, is that they shouldn’t. 

While I do think that Xue Yang has his insecurities and uncertainties, one thing that he refuses to doubt is that he has a right to exist and a right to get what’s his - even if that comes at the expense of others. 

And I think, too, on some level he figures this is how everyone works. They probably think their fingers are worth his life. They’re wrong, obviously, and the fact that he won proves that. But they still believed it.

3. “Cultivator friend, I’ll plead guilty. But to submit to punishment...that depends if you’re able to catch me.”

Flirting is playing murder tag with a cute boy!

This is a less serious one but I love it because it is just...it’s not his intro intro (see below) but it also sort of is, in another way. And it is definitely an intro to his relationship with Xiao Xingchen, and I love it for that - for the way he shows up, perching on a house over an enormous massacre, and is just having the time of his life. 

It’s so cheerfully playful, so bright, the way that he doesn’t even hesitate to be like “yes! I did kill all those people! what’re you gonna do about it :D”

(”does my gay little crime spree piss you off?”)

It sets up this dynamic between a Xiao Xingchen who is taking this all very seriously and a Xue Yang who is having a fantastic time and I just love it. New standard for your OTP meeting: if it doesn’t happen at the scene of a massacre for which one of them is responsible then what’s even the point.

4. “I don’t fear death, only boredom/living without a purpose.”

I wish!!! I knew whether this translation (”having no purpose in living” or the Netflix one (”boredom”) was more “””accurate””” - or if it doesn’t matter and the meaning is pretty close. If someone can tell me that’d be amazing. But either way - this is the moment where I was like “oh I’m screwed” when it came to adopting a new terrible character for my very own.

I have a huge glaring weak spot for characters who are very “death before boredom” about their lives - who look at their existence as sort of “here for a good time not a long time” and recognize that they’re not one for a long life but they’re going to make it one they can enjoy. That almost indifference to their own end weighed against the prospect of dullness - or, with the Viki translation, purposelessness. 

And it does fit with how I think of Xue Yang as someone who sort of needs to have a drive or a goal, most of the time; who needs to be engaged and is easily bored. (This is one of the things that I think he has in common with Wei Wuxian! Sorry, buddy, you’re more alike than you’d like to acknowledge.)

But it also demands such a contrast with the fact that he does, later on, settle down into domestic relative tranquility - into something that would look, to a lot of people, and maybe even to his past self, like boredom.

And yet it doesn’t bore him.

And I just. You know. Have a lot of feelings about that.

5. “Very well. Would I be afraid of people’s disgust? However, are you qualified to feel disgusted by me?”

tfw you see your great fake life starting to go to pieces and decide you’re going to detonate your nuclear weapon in it because hey, might as well take everyone down with you, right?

I love this because it’s one of those things where it’s true and it’s not - I do not think, generally, that Xue Yang really cares about people’s disgust. He sometimes even relishes it! I mean, I think a certain kind of dehumanization sets him off, but in general - yes, I’m’s horrible, yes, I’m disgusting, yes, sure, do I care? Nope. 

But it is pretty clear here, both in terms of facial expression and reactions, that Xiao Xingchen’s judgment does hit home. That his anger and dismissal of Xue Yang’s story, of his exposure of a vulnerability he doesn’t usually allow, hits pretty hard. From Xue Yang’s perspective, he’s taken a risk, and Xiao Xingchen answered it with a slap in the face. (Wrote a bunch about this here.)

And in that hurt he responds, immediately, by lashing out - by using the weapon he’s held in reserve. I’ve written before about how I think Xue Yang prior to this point was in sort of “the fierce corpses thing can stay between me and the fierce corpses now” mode about his extracurricular activities with Xiao Xingchen, but it’s still there, and he knows exactly what he’s doing here. After all, that revenge was always tailored: it was always about bringing Xiao Xingchen down to his level and proving that he’s no better, and never has been any better. 

But I will never get over the look on his face over that first line, where he’s saying “would I be afraid of people’s disgust” and while the words imply no his face is definitely saying yes, at least when it’s you.

BONUSES: 

Most of his conversation with Wei Wuxian but especially the bit about slowly and intimately doing experimental necromancy, but also Xue Yang inviting Song Lan in for lunch.

Come on, Song Lan! Just take the free meal! It’ll be fine.

[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter five: dark vibrations

word count: 11.4k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: body horror, hallucinations (?), mentions of self-harm, mentions of suicide. spooky scary activities ensue. elliot has an increasingly difficult time keeping a grasp on reality. we knew this was gonna happen, though!

notes: howdy! i hope y’all enjoy this. sometimes i go weeks without updating and sometimes i wait like, 4 days before manically writing an entire chapter. you know how it be like that sometimes. i was feeling a bit more inspired and felt like i finally hit a groove on where this story was going, which i think definitely helped, and i hope you all enjoy it!

thank you, as always, to everyone who reads, likes/comments, even if you just come into my dms with two nice words or write something nice in your tags; it really does make my whole night to see even one person enjoying anything i’ve made. <3

Cold morning light filtered in through the window, drenched in wedding-silk grays thanks to the wintery cloud-cover. Everything in the room looked to be placed with absolute intent and care; polished, porcelain-white decor in elaborate geometrics, gold accents, a king-sized bed with impeccably pressed sheets. Truthfully, John had thought for certain he’d come back into the house to be informed by Elliot’s statuesque mother that, in fact, she had rescinded her offer to let him stay and actually, he would need to depart immediately, lest the authorities be called.

He was glad that it hadn’t come to that, of course, because it would’ve been such a shame to have to dampen Scarlet’s opinion of her own daughter so quickly into their meeting.

Dropping his small bag of belongings—the manila folder packed full of information, including his own scribbled notes; the burner phone; a few quickly-packed clothes that had been meticulously cycled to avoid the most long-term wear—John paused as the heat in the house kicked on with a delicate whirr.

Everything in Scarlet Honeysett’s home seemed to be precisely the shape and color that she liked, with not a single thing out of place; and yet, as the heat kicked on, he was certain that he could hear the sound of sharp, hushed voices downstairs, a little ripple in the woman’s perfect, arcadian home scene.

It was good. It felt good, to be here. To have gotten the upper hand. So much of the past weeks he’d spent with Elliot had felt like he was slowly, violently spiraling out of control, but this? She was here, and she had to play by his rules for once, and—

And he’d wanted just one more second alone, with her. To watch the way her eyes flickered over his face, to drink in the way her chin tilted up in defiance but not unlike the way she used to do it when she was waiting for him to kiss her, the same lovely high-color in her spreading along her cheekbones and the same little spark in her gaze. Whether it was anger or allure was neither here nor there, anymore; with Elliot, they were interchangeable, a stepping stone one way or another, just the way it had always been with them.

Because John liked her anger. He liked her wrath. He wanted to put his hands on it, his mouth on it, break it into pieces and wring it out of her and put it back and do it all over again, while she said his name, his name, and not anyone else’s. God, she’d been so fucking close—so close, and he couldn have just had her if he really wanted to, grabbed a fistful of her hair and kissed her when the sting of her slap was still fresh on his face. She liked when he did that; kissed her, like he was starved for her. Because he was starved for her, and then she could knot her fingers into his shirt or dig her nails into his skin or whatever it was she wanted to make him desperate.

The sound of excited barking downstairs broke him out of his thoughts. John blinked, taking one last swift look-over of the immaculate room his mother-in-law had decided to put him up in before he nudged his bag beneath the bed and stepped out into the hallway.

To say old money would be almost an understatement. Surely, this house had to have some kind of historical significance; it was several stories, with one of those grand staircases that was wide going up, hit a landing, and then split to either side of the house. As he made his way down, he caught sight of the flicker of Scarlet’s silk robe in the kitchen; music drifted out of it, the same kind of hazy, older music that Elliot had turned on in her mother’s house back in Hope County.

“Stop moving,” Elliot was saying to Boomer, strapping him into a little reflective vest that sat on him like a saddle blanket. For a second, she didn’t notice his presence—or willfully ignored it; he couldn’t say for sure one way or another—and instead focused on the Heeler, rubbing his ears and kissing the bridge of his nose. A tiny little smile ticked the corners of her mouth, and he thought he heard her say, so handsome, best boy, yes you are.

Boomer’s attention snapped to John, now at the foot of the stairs. He let out one sharp, accusatory bark (could dogs sound accusatory, John wondered, or was that just Elliot getting to him?), and what little of his hackles were visible from out under the vest spiked up instantly.

“Good to see you too, beastie,” John greeted him, trying to ignore the way the hound’s low-pitched, reverberating growls made his skin crawl. Flashes of Boomer’s numerous and vicious takedowns of not only Eden’s Gate members but at least one member of the Family that had the misfortune of having chained the dog up darted across his memory, like a flipping through a photo album.

“Don’t talk to him,” Elliot snipped, cupping Boomer’s ears protectively. “I don’t need him getting the idea we’re friendly.”

John rolled his eyes. “More than friendly, I’d say.” His eyes darted over her, drinking in once against the shock of her appearance—red hair, so fucking red that every time he looked at her it was almost like staring at a stranger until he took in the rest, the freckles smattering her nose and the flush in her cheeks, cupid’s-bow lips that were glossed. Had he ever seen Elliot with more than river-soaked mascara on before?

The woman shot him a look, dry and unamused, coming to a stand. He asked, “Going for a walk?”

“Trying to,” she replied tartly, “but someone is evil enough that Boomer doesn’t trust them.”

“We’re pals,” John offered pleasantly. “Me and the beast. You know, were, anyway. He probably just needs to spend a little time with me.”

“Speaking from personal experience, more time makes you less palatable.”

“Let me come on the walk with you,” he tried again, letting her little barbs and jabs roll right off of him, water skating off of his feathers. At this point, he really quite enjoyed her venom; it was familiar. “I’m sure we’ve got plenty to catch up on.”

Elliot eyed him warily, eyes giving him a scathing once-over—eerily reminiscent of her mother’s own disdainful look, and now he thought, ah, yeah, that is where she gets it from, then—as her mouth twisted around whatever it was she wanted to say but wouldn’t let herself. Something too vicious for Scarlet to overhear, perhaps. The threats she’d made in the past had been wildly colorful, but each second that Ell spent considering her words more carefully rather than saying whatever it was she felt with her eyes darting to the kitchen was another second that John became more aware of how little Scarlet actually knew.

“Fine,” Elliot said at last, her eyes narrowing. “I suppose that we do. Mama, we’re leavin’.”

The little quirk of an accent at the end of her sentence made him swallow back a laugh. He’d barely heard that Georgia accent back in Hope County, but maybe spending time with her mother had reinspired it.

“Alright,” Scarlet said, drying her hands on a towel as she stood in the doorway. Her eyes glanced between them, inquisitive for a moment, before she said, “Be quick. Doctor’s appointment in an hour and a half.”

John tilted his head. “Oh? Baby check-in?”

“Can’t imagine what else it would be, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet idled. “Are you familiar with the process of pregnancy?”

“Not beyond the knowledge of a man, I’m afraid.”

“Well, allow me to educate you,” the blonde said, her voice light. “When a woman is carrying a baby, she has to make frequent visits to the doctor, to ensure that all is well. Can’t have anything going wrong with the baby, you know.”

John steadied the intake of breath so that it did not sound so abrupt. He would have done a double-take and thought perhaps she was just overbearing, and not attempting to insult him, were Elliot not smiling. Certainly, only her mother’s attempted insult of him could elicit such an expression out of her.

“Then my arrival was fortunately timed,” he announced. “I look forward to it.”

“And you’ll be sorely disappointed,” Elliot cut in, her humor fading. “You won’t be coming.”

Ah, yes. That’s why I don’t love her attitude. “That’s absurd,” he replied, incredulous. “It’s nearly six weeks, and I haven’t seen a single ultrasound of our baby.”

He was careful, this time, to keep it to our baby. He’d seen the way Elliot’s expression tightened when he’d said my baby, even though that’s what came so naturally to him now, being that they were hardly on the same team—but he’d seen it, that look in her eye, the way she’d squared her shoulders like she’d suddenly been ready to go at him.

Only one thing to do with a rabid dog, Jacob had said, not two days before they found Elliot drenched in another man’s blood in the woods.

John half-expected Scarlet to jump in, to say that it was the father’s right to be there; she was more traditional than Elliot, if her comment about wedlock or her insistence of him staying were anything to go by, but when he turned his gaze to her, the older woman’s expression was devoid of any sympathy. Typical of Honeysett women, he was coming to find.

“If she doesn’t want you there, then you won’t be there. I won’t have my daughter stressed out,” Scarlet told him. “Stress is bad for the baby. Surely that falls within the realm of what a man knows about babies, Mr. Seed?”

He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Surely.”

“Good. Hour and a half, my beloved, do not be late.”

That a woman had become so capable of tacking the softness of my beloved onto something that verged on a threat was nearly beyond John—would have been, certainly, were he not accustomed to Isolde’s particular brand of venom that was not so unlike Scarlet Honeysett’s.

“I won’t,” Elliot promised. “Can you call the handyman? My TV’s been acting up lately. Turning on static and whatnot.”

“Fine,” Scarlet replied, waving her hand. “I’ll have them come out this afternoon.”

Elliot turned on her heel and opened the front door out into the frigid morning, letting Boomer dart out ahead of her and not waiting for him in the least. He fell into step beside her easily, shrugging into his coat halfway out the door as it clicked shut behind him; she trudged through the snow, passing the garbage can and opening the gate that led out into what had once been pastureland and towards the woods.

It was the same fence that she’d been standing at, early that morning, face lax and serene. If the return to the fence bothered her at all, it didn’t show on her face any more than her irritation at having him there.

“Your mother’s quite...” John’s voice trailed off. “Tall.”

“Mm.”

“Statuesque, even.”

“Mmhm.”

“I get the feeling she doesn’t like me that much.”

“Yes,” Elliot acquiesced, her tone dripping with something close to venomous amusement, “I’ve never seen her take so poorly to someone so quickly before.”

“I suppose I should be flattered.”

“You would be.”

A fourth of the way into the snowy pasture and Boomer was far ahead of them, leaping like a little speckled gazelle in drifts of snow. It was easy to forget that the dog had been ready to rip him to shreds just a little under an hour ago (and once more, more recently). Still, as they trudged through a path that it seemed Elliot had worn through a few times before, John let out a little puff of breath and glanced over at her.

For just one second, she wasn’t spitting any venom at him, but rather seemed to favor the act of pretending like he wasn’t there, which was a bit worse than having her fix her fury on him. Her gaze was focused forward, following Boomer’s little lines in the snow. Attention at all was one thing, but acting as though he didn’t exist?

John said, “So, Burke just got his autopsy reports back and dropped you off right here at home, huh?”

Elliot’s face had already gone pink from the cold, right on her nose and spreading through her cheeks. At his words, a new flush of color rose, a shade more vicious than the last, and her gaze slid to him. If looks could kill, he thought, that dreamy little spike of delight at her eyes on him going straight to his head. Look at you, my little Wrath. You’ve got the good girl mask on, but I know what your true face is.

He’d seen it. Kissed her when the blood was still in her mouth. Let her feed the monster inside of her when she told him to beg, when she dug her nails into his skin, when her breath hitched in her chest from the pressure of his knife blade against her sternum—not in pain, necessarily, but delight at that pain.

The scar had to still be there, of course. The reminder of its existence, swathed in the heavy winter fabrics she wore now, made his fingers itch. If he could just get his hands on her—get his mouth on her, if she would just stop being so obtuse—but he didn’t think he’d be so fond of her if she wasn’t.

“The same way the government probably drove you and your siblings back to the compound and dropped you off,” she replied at last, her voice tight, “isn’t that right?”

John flashed his teeth at her in a grin. “Very astute, hellcat.”

Her expression tightened at the moniker. She sucked her teeth, fixing her eyes forward again, shifting back into the strategy of being withholding of her attention rather than entertain him.

“Oh, come on,” he said, swinging around in front of her and stopping her single-minded journey across the pastureland. “You can’t say you didn’t miss me even a little bit, Ell.”

“I told you,” she replied tartly, “not to call me that.”

“Because it reminds you of what it was like when we’re together,” he agreed.

An exasperated noise came out of her. “Did you forget that I lied to you?”

“At the end, sure,” John said, eyes flickering over her face. “But I don’t think you’re so good a liar you could lie about all of the times you said please, or the way that you said my name, or—and I think you’ll recall I’ve insisted on this bit from the beginning—the undeniable connection that we’ve had since we met.”

“You are a fucking lunatic,” Elliot snapped, her face flushing red. “And don’t fucking talk about me like I’m—like I wasn’t there, I know what I—” She sucked in a sharp breath; lower, and more threatening, “I’m aware of what I said. Of what I did.”

“And you’re going to tell me that it was all fake?” he prompted, unwilling to let go of this little thread. Gripping, sliding through his fingers, but he wouldn’t be so quick to let it escape him now that he didn’t have to think about her mother pitching in an unwanted opinion. “That you lied the whole time and you don’t feel anything for me, that—”

“Of course it wasn’t fake,” she bit out. Her voice had gone venomous, sharp, unbridled in its timbre. “I’m not a fucking psychopath, John, I can’t fake loving someone like you can.”

John opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. He hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, there was a part of him that was sure Elliot had her doubts about his intentions, otherwise she wouldn’t have fucked off to the middle of nowhere (nor turned them in), but—still?

“You think I—” He paused again, blinking. “You’re not that stupid.”

Her eyes narrowed. Everything about her stiffened, quite suddenly, like maybe she was bracing to take another swing at him. “You are fucking begging for a punch to the face.”

“I mean,” John began quickly, waving his hands a little, “that you surely don’t think that whole time I was just—”

Elliot made a disgusted sound and brushed past him, letting out a high whistle; the sound immediately drew a flurry of activity as a flock of birds when bursting from the treeline, followed closely behind by Boomer’s gray-and-black speckled form. John fell back into step with her, huffing out a breath of air. He was going to table that discussion for later—she was clearly still upset, still a little sore and tender from their departure, and that was fine. There were a lot of things at play concerning his wife’s mood, including but not limited to being pregnant.

So she did, he thought, glancing at her through the corner of his eyes. Love me. Back then, and maybe now, still.

“How have you been sleeping?” is what he said instead, when the moment had spread between them long enough for him to think that he was safe to speak again with incurring her wrath once more. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Fine,” she replied, her voice tight.

“Yeah?” he asked, keeping his tone conversational. Elliot blinked once, slow, clearly trying to temper herself. “I just remember what a restless sleeper you were, back home.”

He wanted to say, I saw you at three AM, twice, staring out your window and then walking out into the snow barefoot. I saw you sleepwalking, I know you aren’t sleeping well.

He wanted to say that, and he couldn’t, because if Elliot knew he’d been tailing her for a while she’d go berserk—pull the plug, self-destruct, take whatever loss she had to in order to fucking end him.

“I’m sleeping fine,” the redhead reiterated. For a second, she looked like she wanted to say something; her eyes flickered uneasily, like something was bothering her and she hadn’t been able to say it to anyone but maybe she wanted to, and maybe she could say it to him, but something in the treeline drew her attention away. They were about ten yards away, now, the low breeze skimming pine needles against each other as Boomer barked conversationally at the birds that had so rudely taken flight.

Elliot’s molars clicked, grinding together. Her lashes fluttered, and she sucked in a sharp little breath through her nose.

“Elliot?” John glanced at the trees, but that was all he saw—tall, dark pines, bunching together erratically through years of growth spurts and inevitable fellings. He turned his gaze back to his wife, gaze inquisitive. “What?”

“Don’t you—?” She stopped herself, and sucked in another sharp breath, and now John felt the concern spike sharp and hot in him, because when he reached up she didn’t even seem to register his movement; Elliot, the same woman who had snatched his wrist and threatened to snap it in half for having the audacity to ���sneak up on her’ when he’d been in the middle of talking to her, completely transfixed on something that he couldn’t see.

“Elliot.” He tried something firmer this time, his hand coming up to sweep the strands of her hair away from her shoulder and neck. The gesture finally startled her out of wherever it was she had gone, yanked her back to reality.

Her shoulder bunched up to her jaw in an effort to deter his hand, swatting at him absently with her hand. “Don’t touch me.”

“Are you going to tell me where you were just now?” John asked, tilting his head inquisitively.

“I was here. Just thought I saw something in the trees,” she replied tightly, turning away from the treeline and clearing her throat. “Just birds.”

Just birds, she said, even though the birds had already taken off and the forest was otherwise still and serene. Behind her, Boomer whined before beginning to follow her back towards the house. Elliot moved with a newfound purpose, one that she had been distinctly lacking before.

His mouth pressed into a thin line. John turned his attention back to the trees, searching for anything—any tangle of branches of play of shadows that might read sinister or threatening.

Only the trees and their shadowy pines. He thought about that night he’d fished Elliot out of the Family’s grip, when she’d been so fucking drugged up to her gills that she’d balked at the sight of the treeline on their way out. I don’t think I can, she’d said then, her voice pitching high with the anxious vibrations of panic. John, I don’t think I can—

“John,” Elliot snapped from ahead of him, “are you coming, or are you just gonna stand there all fucking afternoon?”

He thought about the way Ase had grabbed her hand, blood and viscera coating Elliot like she’d become a tried-and-true Scream Queen. If he searched long enough, if he sat in the memory long enough—did Ase’s mouth open? Had she said something to Elliot? What had she said?

“John,” came the grinding demand, again, less patient than before. “As much as I would love to leave you to freeze to death for insinuating I’m stupid, mama would hate to have to deal with a corpse on her property and I’d never hear the end of it.”

“I missed our banter,” he replied, though the jest did not quite land the same way that it would have were he not so deep in his own thoughts. By the time he’d started walking in her direction, his back to the forest, something uneasy had settled just under his skin; the feeling of being watched, eyes on the back of his neck, anticipation prickling along like his spine.

The house loomed, polished and pristine, on the horizon; as they picked their way across the snowy field, Elliot puffing out breaths occasionally from the labor of it all, John tried to shake that pervasive feeling of dread that had settled over him.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Weyfield was just Weyfield, a small town not unlike Hope County, and maybe he was just jumpy from the way the Family had conducted their business, and maybe it was the same for Elliot, who had certainly been put through a different experience than he—but regardless:

The sooner they got out, the better.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Shouldn’t have agreed to let him drive me here.

“Have you been getting enough sleep?”

It was stupid. Stupid, I should have put my foot down, told him to fucking stay at the house and wait for me to come back.

“Elliot?”

She blinked, vision fuzzing and refocusing around the sterile white of the doctor’s office. Her abdomen was sticky, and the ultrasound machine had been turned off along with her shirt tugged back down. Like usual, Dr. Harding did not say anything about the gossamer-webbing of scars, but did pause upon first seeing them, as though she hadn’t seen them times before.

“Sorry?” Elliot said, the apology quirking up at the end in question. She sat up from the bed, the paper crinkling beneath her as she moved.

“I asked,” Harding reiterated, “have you been getting enough sleep?”

Elliot knew the answer. She felt the exhaustion souring in her mouth already, the way something spoiled when it went too long without attention. A sickness. She should say that she hadn’t been sleeping well at all, that she’d begun sleepwalking, that

(seeing things, I’m seeing things when I close my eyes and when I look in the dark treeline, I see faces, heads, people I don’t know but they feel familiar and their faces drop down in between the branches of trees on invisible silk threads and their terrible dark mouths open but they can’t scream)

she’d been feeling out of sorts, as of late. That seemed like a nice way to put it.

The dark images that had fluttered between the trees on her walk earlier that morning with John felt as real as any memory—and that wasn’t to say that her memories always felt real, because they didn’t. But the validity of this morning’s waking nightmare of floating heads drifting between tree-trunks, swinging loosely while John asked her how she’d been sleeping.

“Fine,” Elliot said after a moment, feeling a fresh wave of nausea come over her. “I think, um, maybe the stress about the baby is keeping me up at night.”

Harding regarded her for a moment. The severe sharpness of her dark hair pinned back did nothing to soften her expression—though the woman was hard-pressed to be cheerful, she, at the very least, never sugar-coated anything. “Have you been trying those breathing exercises before bed? And spending time at the stables, as I suggested?”

“I have,” she replied, which wasn’t entirely untrue—she was doing at least one of those things. “It’s just been a lot of—stress, is all. I’m sure it’ll get better once the holidays are over.”

“That can definitely help,” the woman agreed, nodding her head and typing a few loose notes into the computer. “If you find that you aren’t getting enough sleep—enough,” she continued, pointedly, “restful sleep, you let me know and we can figure out some next steps.”

Elliot nodded, coming to a stand; the sudden movement had her head rushing, and she for a second she thought again of the floating heads, swaying with the breeze through the pine boughs.

“I’ve been sleep-walking,” she blurted out impulsively, her doctor’s gaze turning quizzically towards her. “I mean—um, just twice.”

“Do you have a history of it?”

“No,” Elliot began, “but I’ve always been a restless sleeper.”

“It’s not uncommon for sleepwalking to increase with pregnancy, Miss Honeysett,” the doctor replied, her voice even-keel. “It sounds like you’re under quite a bit of pressure, as well. I would suggest trying something mild—an over-the-counter sleep aid would be fine. Unisom is a typical one. Try half of one first, and see how it makes you feel.”

“Okay,” she murmured, sliding her coat back on. Something that was less heavy-duty than the pills her mother had left for her might be good. “Are there any—symptoms? To sleeping pills?”

The doctor adjusted the glasses on her nose, regarding her for a long moment. “Some adverse side-effects, on occasion. Usually with stronger, prescription sleep aids, you could have worsening anxiety and depression, day-time drowsiness. That kind of thing.”

So, no hallucinations, then. No sleepwalking, no lost time, no...

“Are you having other symptoms?” Harding asked.

You’ll think I’m crazy, Elliot thought, you’ll think I’m fucking nuts if I tell you about my dream with the television, and Joey’s body, and walking out nearly to the treeline in my sleep clothes. You’ll think I’m fucking nuts and I’ll have to be committed.

So Elliot said, “No, just curious,” and Dr. Harding hummed as she scribbled the name of the sleep aid onto a sticky note for Elliot to take out with her.

“You have a healthy baby, Miss Honeysett. Let’s keep it that way, shall we?” The brunette gestured for Elliot to head out the door, walking with her back up the hallway that led to the front lobby once again. “Next appointment we can find out the gender, if you’d like.”

“Oh,” Elliot said, surprised. Was it that soon already? Had it already been that long of being—like this? With child? She swallowed, pleasant little flutters in her chest. It was the first time that she’d felt something other than dread concerning the baby. Well, first time, sans John’s annoying little assertion about his claim. Why had that bothered her so much?

“You can decide to keep it a surprise,” Dr. Harding added, sound a little amused. “Think about it, and in the meantime, get some rest. Half a pill to start, remember.”

“Will do, thank you.”

She waded through the small collection of people in the lobby and out onto the street. Something strange was humming inside of her—it was sad, she realized, with a little spike of panic. She felt mournful. So fast, and so soon, she would figure out the baby’s gender, and suddenly the baby would be all the more real and she’d have to start thinking about names, she couldn’t have a baby without a name, and how was she supposed to pick a name? How was she supposed to decide something a real human being was going to be saddled with, forever?

Was the baby a Seed? Or a Honeysett?

Which one was she?

“What’re you doing, just standing out here? You’ll freeze.” John’s voice broke her out of her thoughts, shaking her back to reality again. He must have seen her standing there, glassy-eyed in the middle of the sidewalk, from where he’d been waiting—perhaps, if she was lucky, even suffering over the fact that he hadn’t been allowed into the doctor’s appointment—and come out. He’d kicked up a big enough fuss about not getting to come in that she’d said, fine, you can fucking drive me there, but that’s it, and true to his word John hadn’t pressed the matter any further than that.

Even though he wanted to. She could tell he wanted to, the second they had parked on the main street. She could tell he wanted to say, so, maybe I do come in, hm? What do you say to that? But he hadn’t. And that was...something.

Fuck, she needed to stay focused; she couldn’t keep letting her mind wander like that. Twice in less than an hour?

“I was just—thinking,” Elliot replied, feeling exhausted already. John’s brows furrowed at the center of his forehead, and she sighed. “Stop looking at me like that.”

He arched a dark brow loftily. “Like what?”

“Like you fucking care,” she snapped.

“Contrary to what you might believe concerning my feelings for you,” John quipped, his voice tart, “I do have every reason to be invested in the well-being of our baby.”

She thought to reiterate again that the baby was, in fact, hers, and not any part his, as she was doing all the work and John had done nothing to endear himself as an acceptable father-figure, but she was too tired. Something about the doctor’s office and the way she’d had to dodge the truth of how she’d been feeling left her empty, scooped out her insides like she was a Jack-O’-Lantern and left her floating, aimless.

“Ell,” he began. His voice had pitched lower, now, and his hand reached up; she saw it move in the corner of her vision and something inside her said, yes yes yes, this is what we want, we remember you, we know you. He twisted a loose curl around his finger, letting it smooth out against her shoulder, the corner of his mouth ticking upward when she absently batted his hand away. “Tell me about the appointment. Did everything go well?”

“The baby is fine,” she told him, and then sighed. “I mean—healthy. The baby is healthy. The doctor wants me to pick up an over-the-counter sleep aid, so we’ll need to stop at the store on the way home.”

“I thought you were sleeping fine?” John prompted. He sounded sly. His was a gotcha tone, the way he got when he thought he’d walked a particularly fine circle through the holes in what she chose to tell him or not. Elliot’s expression flattened. She ignored the way that he was looking at her—hungryhungryhungry, always greedy and never, never content with what he had—and fixed her eyes on the passing traffic behind him.

She said, “Just when you’re being somewhat tolerable, you have to go and ruin it.”

“If it’s intolerable for me to point out when you’re withholding information from me about your health,” he demurred, “then I’d prefer intolerable.”

“I cannot believe that I have to say this to you,” Elliot bit out, the sudden spike of irritation flaring hot and violence in her chest, “but I don’t fucking owe you anything. I don’t owe you the truth, or an explanation, and quite frankly, the fact that I allowed you to even chauffeur me to this fucking appointment is a sign that I’m being incredibly generous with you—far more generous than what you deserve.”

John’s teeth flashed in a grin. Before, back in Hope County, the venom had bothered him—he’d hated it, frowned and fought back with a little poison of his own, despised that he had to work so hard to get to the nitty-gritty underneath. But he had once, and perhaps now that he had known her, it only thrilled him.

How frustrating.

“Everything I did,” he said, lowering his voice as he closed some of the small distance between them now, “whether you believe me or not, was for us—”

“Ugh.”

“—and I might have gotten a little heated,” John continued, and this time when he reached up again Elliot’s mouth twisted into a grimace and she tilted her face away, don’t say it don’t say it don’t you fucking say it fuck you fuck you fuck you, “back at the ranch, but I meant it when I said that I l—”

“Honeysett!”

It was Via. Her greeting immediately cut off John’s words, effectively driving a wedge between their metaphorical—and physical—closeness. Snapped her out of the magic of his cologne and his voice and his hand coming up to her shoulder with its grounding weight.

“Missed you at the barn today,” the blonde chirped, cheery as she approached, hands tucked into her fluffy parka pockets. Her eyes flickered over to John, inquisitive. “Friend?”

And then Via turned her eyes back to Elliot, waiting expectantly. It struck her quite suddenly that Sylvia was checking—that despite the kindness and warmth in her voice, she was giving Elliot the opportunity to escape, to wave a red flag and ask for help. She said friend?, and what she meant was, is this man bothering you?, and it made a fuzzy warmth spread right through Elliot’s chest, uncomfortable in the softness is inspired in her.

“Hey, Via, this is...” How best to proceed? How to explain, this man is the father of my baby—which, by the way, I’m pregnant—and also technically we are legally married, oh and also he’s supposed to be in Federal custody right now but he isn’t, somehow, but it’s fine, we’re all good? “...my...John.”

Sylvia eyed her for a moment, sticking out a gloved hand. “Howdy, Elliot’s John. I’m Sylvia.”

John was clearly trying not to have the biggest shit-eating grin on his face as he shook Via’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sylvia,” he replied pleasantly, once again reminding Elliot that the man was a tried-and-true practiced liar and could slip a perfect face on at any time. The knowledge was almost enticing, to know that she’d seen him without the masquerade, more than once.

It made, in hindsight, reflecting back on that moment he’d come unraveled at the ranch—No way, baby, I’m fucking it for you—have a different light. She had done that to him.

Good.

“Y’all busy?” Sylvia asked, blissfully not prying any further for an elaboration on what the nature of their relationship was. “I was just about to meet Wyatt at the Wild Rose. It ain’t trivia night, but they do have a live band playing tonight that’s supposed to be good.”

“Oh,” Elliot said faintly, “I don’t think—”

“That sounds excellent!” John interrupted. “I’ve barely seen anything of Weyfield. What do you say, Elliot?”

I say you can eat shit, she thought, but Sylvia was watching her closely—trying to make sure everything was okay, she supposed, considering Elliot had said nothing of John since they’d become friends. She took in a little breath and looked at the blonde, giving a small smile.

“No harm in a little time out of the house,” she agreed after a moment. “I’m starving, anyway.”

She wasn’t hungry in the least. The sticky note with the doctor’s suggested sleep aid was crumple in her pocket, and a little sweaty from the way she’d been clutching it, but somehow the idea of returning back to the house only seemed to fill her with more dread.

The tv, buzzing static, dull and thrumming in the back of her head, in the roots of her molars. HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS? And the heads, twisting and turning in the breeze, their silk-spun puppet threads invisible, their mouths swinging open as they try to scream.

HAVE YOU BEEN HAVING STRANGE DREAMS?

“Well, can’t have you starvin’,” Sylvia said amusedly, looping her arm through Elliot’s own and beginning to walk. “You’re not keeping my girl well-fed, Mister John?”

“Trying my hardest,” John replied, his gaze sly, “but she can be a bit ornery.”

“Hm, that does sound like her. Where are you visitin’ from, anyway?”

As they chattered, over her, John on one side and Sylvia on the other, Elliot got the distinct impression that her friend was quietly, politely fishing for information without putting Elliot under the stress of it.

HAVE YOU

Snow underfoot. The forest breathing, expanding, swelling because it holds some great, dark beast just waiting for her to get close enough.

BEEN HAVING

(Itwaitsforyouitwaitsforusallanditwillhaveyou)

STRANGE

“Careful,” John cautioned, reaching for the door with all of the gentlemanly nature of a man not possessed by the devil to hunt her down across states, “it’s slick.”

He opened the door into the Wild Rose, the sweep of warm air rushing over her a pleasant shock to her system that managed to draw her back to reality. Sylvia nudged her inside, effectively planting herself between Elliot and John as they moved single-file into the crowded bar.

She was tired, and having nightmares, and once she finally got some sleep she would feel a lot better about everything. All she needed was some sleep. And in the meantime, try to enjoy her time with her friends as best she could.

Get some sleep. Feel better in the morning. Burke’s old mantra popped up in her head, running through the worn grooves that were a sad, bittersweet sort of comfort to her now; the second you think you can’t anymore, you keep going anyway. Dig, dig, dig, until her fingers were dirt-packed and bloody, as deep as she fucking needed to go to keep moving, because it wasn’t just about her anymore.

Get some sleep.

Feel better in the morning.

Sylvia had drifted out from their little formation to make her way to the booth they had recently staked out as their own, where Wyatt already sat waiting and waving for them. John planted his hands on her shoulders, squeezing and lowering his mouth to her ear. “What do you want to drink?”

“You’re acting awfully domestic for someone who should be in Federal custody,” Elliot replied lowly, looking at him over her shoulder just in time to see him flash a smile that was all teeth.

“C’mon, hellcat,” and he all but purred the words at her, making her skin prickle in a type of anticipation that wasn’t purely dread. Traitorous, treacherous body. “You can at least play at liking me while your friends are around.”

“Iced tea.” She shrugged, disembarking his hands from her shoulders. “No lemon. A lot of ice. Think you can swing it without, I don’t know, lying halfway to Hell on your way there, Slick?”

“Anything,” he replied, pitching his voice even lower amidst the din of the bar, “for my lovely wife.”

Elliot’s head snapped around, ready to grab a fistful of his shirt and remind him to watch his fucking mouth, but he’d already started his journey to meander through the crowd and reach the bar on his little fetch quest.

Fucker, she thought, even when her stomach twisted with something other than vicious disdain. John had only been here for a day and was already too comfortable taking liberties; she’d have to make sure that got nipped in the bud before he got any funny ideas about his own personal redemption arc.

It would have been nice, to just be able to turn off any and all feelings whenever she wanted. But she couldn’t, and that meant she’d have to do the next best thing:

Get John the fuck away from her.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Eden’s Gate did not make a good first impression. Eden’s Gate did not even make a good second or third impression; in fact, Isolde had come to the conclusion that Joseph’s little compound was incapable of making any impression that didn’t fill the observer with a sense of despair. Every time she stepped out of the little building Jacob had set her up in, she was overwhelmed with disgust—eyes followed her, but none of them held anything beyond a dull spark of interest, nearly smothered by what seemed to have been a full-body beat down by the other cult.

The other cult, she constantly had to remind herself, because that’s what Eden’s Gate was. A cult.

A few miserable days at the hands of Montana’s coldest winter by record had her in a foul mood. The snowfall seemed inevitable, like it wouldn't ever stop, and the amount of times there had been paths shoveled between buildings—all leading to the chapel—were equally endless. Isolde couldn’t imagine coming to fucking Montana for fun, let alone for work, and yet she was somehow here for the latter and not the former. Distinctly, painfully lacking in fun.

It didn’t help that Joseph was insufferable. It didn’t help that every time he fixed his eyes on her, she felt an uncomfortable heat dripping down her spine like some kind of molten IV, like they hadn’t left on the worst of terms. Like she hadn’t told him to get the fuck out of her loft, like she hadn’t thrown an engagement ring on the floor like it was poison.

That was a time of her life that she had the distinct desire to not revisit, not even once, and yet in his presence—she found it nearly impossible to ignore. Joseph seemed to take a special, muted pleasure in making her hackles raise, and at least that hadn’t changed about him.

“Sol!”

Jacob called to her from halfway down the compound’s yard, a truck idling beside him. She stopped her trek back to her little hovel and looked at him, arms crossing over her chest.

“You wanna get out for a little?” He inclined his head toward the truck. “I’ve got some errands to run.”

“What kind of errands do the Collapse dictate?” she asked.

“The important variety.”

“Hm.”

She didn’t elaborate on that any further, and Jacob waited only one heartbeat before he reached for the driver’s side door and opened it, slowly.

“Going once—”

“I am not a child, Jacob.”

“—going twice—”

Fuck, did she want to get out.

“Fine,” Isolde snapped, “but bring that truck here. I’m not hiking through a snowdrift to get to you.”

Jacob, sounding quite pleased with himself, replied, “I thought you weren’t a child?”

He seemed moved enough by the dramatic eyeroll to oblige her, and if he found it annoying, it didn’t show; enough so, at least, that Isolde was able to clamber into the passenger side of the truck once he pulled it around, tapping the snow off of her shoes before pulling herself in.

“Thank you,” she huffed, shutting the door and rubbing her fingers to circulate the blood again. “This weather’s a bit abnormal, don’t you think?”

“Not anything out of the ordinary for this time of year, no,” Jacob replied. He nudged the windshield wipers on, plowing a thin layer of snow that had already begun to accumulate off of the window before starting to pull out of the compound. “I think you’re just not suited to the snow.”

“Could have told you that myself,” Isolde snipped. “I’m a hot-blooded creature.”

Jacob made a noise, something like an mm, a place between agreement without incriminating himself by agreeing too fervently or elaborately. She glanced over at him through the corners of her eyes as they turned onto the highway. In the comfortable silence that elapsed between them, Isolde settled back against the seat of the truck and tried to appreciate being out from the stifling dread of the compound.

It did seem to her that Joseph was markedly different than he had been, before. In the few instances in the last couple of days where he hadn’t been picking a fight with her, it almost felt normal—but of course, he was doing it in his own way, this pot-stirring, this instigating. With politeness. With kindness. By remaining completely unrattled by anything she said to him, every, any critique, so self-assured in his righteousness that not even reason could make him look twice at the state of his congregation.

Then, he had always been that way. Righteous. Assured. She had found it appealing, once—she liked a man with confidence—but now she found it—

Equal parts frustrating and attractive. Objectively, of course. Not anything that she felt herself.

“Trying to account for the bodies of the Family against the ones we know we saw before,” Jacob explained, when she had been quiet long enough to let him sort out his thoughts. “Seems like they started killing themselves, in pairs, once the two leaders were done with. I sent out a couple of scouts and they radio’d back some locations, but they’ve gone quiet for a while.”

“Dedication,” Isolde murmured, digging the nail of her thumb into her lower lip. “How dreadful.”

“The dedication, or the act?”

“Both. Imagine being so bound to something or someone.”

Jacob’s mouth twisted in a wry smile, and he brought the truck to a crawl. Two bodies, swallowed by snow nearly up to their waists, sat propped against the cliff face. He fished a pad of paper and a near-worn out pencil out of the center console of the truck and held them out to her.

“Mark it down, Sol.” When she blinked at him, he continued, “What, you thought you were gonna get out and not help me?”

“Well, I was hoping.”

She sighed, taking the pad and pencil—a glorified secretary is what I am, she thought bitterly—and marked two tally marks down. From where the car was stopped, she could see that the arms of the corpses came together, and though it was buried in snow, she had to think that beneath the white frost their hands were intertwined.

They went like that for a while; Jacob would drive to a spot, have her mark down the amount of bodies, and then go on. By the time they had reached Fall’s End, Isolde had counted nearly twenty dead bodies. As they rolled into the far end of town, Isolde realized very quickly that most of the buildings were blackened, and when she rolled down her window, the stale scent of charcoal still sat in the air.

“What happened here?” she asked, grimacing and scrunching up her nose.

“Dunno,” Jacob replied tightly. “Someone with an agenda.”

Isolde’s gaze snapped to him, to try and wring any information out of his expression, but true to his nature Jacob remained completely unreadable. It wasn’t until they had gotten to what appeared to have once been a bar and tallied up the bodies there that Jacob threw the truck into park.

“What in the fuck?” he muttered, eyes fixed forward. When Sol followed his gaze, she realized that it was fixed on someone—someone running towards them, frantically, nearly falling over themselves in the snow.

“Is that one of yours?” she asked. “Jacob?”

“Shh.”

He had busied himself fishing around in the back seat, and as he did Isolde squinted, trying to get a better look at what was going on. The man running definitely had to be Eden’s Gate—he had the big red emblem on his shirt, but he wasn’t wearing any coat, and—

And there were others.

“Jacob,” Isolde said, “there are more.”

“What?”

“Bodies,” she managed out, “there are more bodies.”

The snow wasn’t so deep on the roads that she couldn’t see the width of a body, and she did—see it, that is, tousled dark locks reflecting wet and sticky in the overcast, late-afternoon light. The man running was waving his arms and yelling for help, and then he fell over one of the bodies, fell to his hands and knees over the body of someone else, and made a sound kind of like anguish.

Jacob finally managed to pull out what he’d been looking for—a pair of binoculars—and immediately lifted them to his face.

“Shit,” he said. “Fuck, they’re ours.”

“All of them?” Isolde demanded. “They’re all—”

“Yes,” he bit out, opening the driver’s door and grabbing the rifle from the back seat. “They’re all ours. Isolde, stay in—”

Jacob’s words were cut off by the violent crack of a gunshot. For a split second, Isolde saw nothing; in the space between heartbeats, sluggish from panic, she saw the arterial spray coming from the back of the running man’s body before he hit the ground, screaming.

He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead, he was still crawling, dragging himself through the snow, leaving a smear of red behind him, and that’s when Isolde saw them.

Jacob had stopped moving as well. The person at the far end of the main road leading through Fall’s End had yet to shoulder their weapon. From here, Isolde could see that she was tall—short-cropped, blonde hair, swathed in dark clothes, but beyond that the features were near impossible to make out.

“Close the door,” Isolde hissed, not moving, her instincts screaming to duck but the fear that sudden movement would draw attention prevailing. “Jacob, close the fucking door.”

The eerily satisfying click-click of what could only be the bolt-action rifle in the hunter’s hands clattered around in her head. The rifle was returned to their shoulders, brought up level, and then fired again.

Out of pure instinct, Isolde flinched—but once again, the bullet was aimed not at them, but at the man already crawling in the snow. The sound of the gunshot, and the subsequent bullet-on-bone impact, was enough to make her stomach churn; now, at least, the man lay slumped in the snow, one of the many bodies that seemed to have been the unfortunate pull-and-fire clay birds for the stranger.

“Who,” Isolde whispered furiously, as Jacob carefully put the truck into drive without letting it move forward at all first, “Jacob, who the fuck is that?”

The redhead’s expression was unforgivingly tight, pulling taut with it the scars and mottling of his skin visible outside of his beard. He wasn’t looking at her, but rather kept his eyes fixed forward, as he closed the driver’s side door.

“Fifteen men,” he ground out between his teeth, “that’s fifteen fucking men I sent out here to figure out the body count.”

The stranger finally lowered their rifle, apparently satisfied with their work. This far away, it was hard to tell, but Isolde got the distinct impression that they were being watched, looked at now, where before the attention had been elsewhere.

And then it was confirmed, because the stranger lifted one gloved hand and pressed her index and middle fingers right against the hollows of her jaw. A snakebite. A cut right to the carotid. A message.

Jacob cranked the wheel, the tires shrieking in protest against the snow as he pulled between buildings in a sudden rush of acceleration. The stranger was quickly cut out, stifled by the side of the used-to-be-bar, leaving them out of direct range of a sniper rifle. Not that her companion seemed that pleased about it, anyway.

“Fuck,” he bit out, seething as he tried to navigate the narrow space in the clumsy Eden’s Gate truck. “Fuck, did you count how many bodies were on the ground?”

“Hm, no!” Isolde snapped viciously. “I was a bit too busy trying to make sure they were going to shoot us!”

Jacob gritted out another string of swears between his teeth, turning the truck until he could take what looked to be a back alley in the opposite direction of their little hunter. He checked the rearview mirror frequently; his expression was set in a deep frown, and he only looked at her once before continuing his regular scanning of the road behind them.

“Well, aren’t you going to turn around?” she demanded.

“For what?” Jacob replied flatly. “I’ve got a hunting rifle, not my HTI.”

“I don’t know what that means, and I don’t care,” Isolde bit out.

“It means, the chances of me getting shot before I get a shot on them are significantly lower,” he told her, his knuckles whitening along the steering wheel, “and as confident as I am that I could kill them before they killed me, I’m not confident they wouldn’t take a shot at you first.”

Isolde’s stomach rolled. It wasn’t the violence that bothered her—it wasn’t the death, or the guns, or even the blood—but the message itself. The Stranger had been hunting the Eden’s Gate men and women for sport. For fun. To pass the time, while they waited. But what for? What could they be waiting for?

She stayed quiet, listening to Jacob radio back to the compound quick, short orders that flew right over her head. She couldn’t stop thinking about it—the gesture. The stranger. Who were they? The remainder of the other cult, perhaps? What were they waiting for?

You’re next, that two-fingered, snake-bite-right-to-the-carotid gesture had said.

You’re next, and I’m coming for you.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Sylvia did not seem that impressed with John Seed, and Elliot could not blame her.

John was exceptionally charming. So charming, in fact, that he and Wyatt seemed to get along smashingly. It was almost frustrating, how quick the blonde took to John—but then, Wyatt did strike as the type of man who got along with everybody until they gave him a reason to think otherwise. After all, he’d been kind to her, and she was...

Needless to say, Sylvia was a harder sell, which was nice. Reassuring. It made Elliot feel more grounded, to see Sylvia politely smile at John’s chatter—she’d nearly forgotten how much he liked to talk—but then decidedly turn to Elliot to ask her about something or dive into a different conversation. It was pointed, and if the way John watched them interact was any indication, the message of it was not lost on him.

By the time the evening had drawn to a close, for her and John at least, the brunette had departed to go warm-up the Jeep and left her standing by the doorway, keeping warm, with Sylvia.

“You sure you’re doin’ okay?” the blonde asked after a moment, propped up against the wall in the tiny little doorway that led out to the main street. “You look tired. Stressed out. I was worried when we didn’t hear from you this morning, about comin’ to the barn.”

Elliot felt a little pang of guilt digging in, just there below her sternum. “I’m okay,” she promised. “I’m sorry I didn’t call, I—had a doctor’s appointment this morning that I completely forgot about until my mama reminded me, and John showed up this morning too, so it’s just been...”

“A crazy day,” Via agreed, her nose crinkling cutely in amusement. “He’s a funny fella, that John of yours.”

Oh, if only you knew. “I think so, too.”

“What is he?” she asked, conversationally. “Maybe a—car salesman?”

Her friend’s playful jab was enough to elicit a laugh, billowing out of her and catching even herself by surprise. But then, she shouldn’t have been shocked to find that Sylvia had gotten a quick read on John. Given the way she’d quickly diverted from the attention on Elliot’s scar and carried on, she thought maybe Via was more perceptive than she liked to let on.

“Lawyer,” Ell replied, and Via winced comically.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I mean—Elli,” Via intoned playfully, “he might as well be sellin’ you snake oil when he’s a lawyer.”

Elliot sighed ruefully, glancing out the window to see John clambering out of the front of the jeep. Snake oil seemed a light judgment for him, all things considered.

“Hey, Via,” she began, swallowing a little, “if I tell you something, you’ve gotta promise you won’t say anything?”

Via regarded her curiously, head tilted. “Okay, sure, Freckles. What’s up?”

She shifted on her feet. “John and I are actually, um—” Elliot paused, swallowing thickly. She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to, because saying it out loud—her, and not John—made it real. Gave it legs. Forced her to face what had happened and what she couldn’t change yet.

“You don’t have to,” Via told her gently. “I could tell there was somethin’—you know, out of sorts. You don’t get a slick-talkin’ lawyer grinnin’ like the cat what ate the canary if he hasn’t done somethin’ to piss a woman off.”

Elliot shook her head. “We’re actually, uh,” she tried again, pulling at a loose thread on her shirt, “m—married.”

Saying the word out loud didn’t feel as wretched as she thought it would, which was almost three times as concerning. She felt, instead, more dread waiting for Sylvia’s reaction—waiting to see what her one friend had to say or think about that.

The woman’s face screwed up comedically. “Oh, Freckles,” she said, her tone teasing. “Say it ain’t so.”

“I’m not kidding!” Elliot felt a nervous little laugh bubble out of her. “I mean—what, Via? You clearly have an opinion on him.”

“I don’t know the man from Jack walkin’ down the street,” Sylvia demurred. “I just think...well, I just think you’re a real peach, you know? And you didn’t seem too pleased to have this John walkin’ around, and I take that kind of thing seriously.”

Sighing, Elliot scuffed her shoe against the ground, watching John pick his way through the crowd back down the street.

“We left on—bad terms, sort of,” she explained. “He showed up to make amends.”

“Do you want to make amends?”

The question caught her off-guard. It was an obvious one—obvious in that, it should have been one of the first things anyone asked her regarding John, even John himself, and yet: no one had. Not a single person had asked her if she wanted to suffer through making amends with the man who had lied to her, violated her trust, and still somehow managed to be the one person she didn’t have to fear seeing the worst, ugliest parts of her.

“I don’t know,” Elliot said after a moment, clearing her throat. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Then I will reserve judgment,” Sylvia replied firmly, “so you can make a decision on your own.”

The door to the street opened, bringing with it not only a waft of chilly wind, but John himself and the scent of his viciously-expensive cologne. It took every ounce of Elliot’s self-control not to burst into laughter at the absurdity of it—John Seed, charisma-extraordinaire, somehow managing to make poor first impressions both on her mother and her friend.

“Car’s all warmed up,” John announced, rubbing his hands together. He glanced between the two women, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “What’s so funny, hm?”

“Nothing,” Elliot replied. “Just talking about you.”

This piqued his interest. He said, “Good things, I hope,” and she could see it on his face—the painful reminder of the way John had craved Joseph’s approval, the way he’d lit up like a nuclear mushroom cloud the second Joseph deigned to say anything remotely kind to him.

“Jury’s still out,” Sylvia said lightly, and then flashed a pretty smile and clapped him on the shoulder. “But don’t worry bud! We’ll get you there eventually.”

John tried very hard to feign polite laughter, but the uneasiness bled through readily—and it was a little satisfying, to see John squirm, to see him out of his element, no longer surrounded by a constant chorus of Yes hitting his dopamine centers nonstop. No wonder the man had a conniption anytime someone dared to dislike him.

“Better get this lady home, she looks like she’s about to fall asleep standing,” Sylvia announced, reaching and giving Elliot a gentle hug. “Night, Freckles.”

“Goodnight.”

John and Sylvia bid each other a pleasant goodbye as Elliot stepped out onto the street, careful to avoid icier parts of the concrete as she made her way to the car. Her brain felt fuzzy—a lot of socializing, a lot of time spent trying not to let John get to her. It had been long enough since she’d had to hold her walls up for so long that she felt exhausted from doing it, even for this long.

Maybe that was his strategy. Wear her down, then swoop in, just like last time.

“Did you have fun?” John asked, and she realized that she was at the car, having climbed into the passenger seat already. He closed the driver’s side door, settling in before carefully beginning to back out of the parking spot.

“I mean, having you loom over my shoulder the entire night was a little odd.”

He made an affronted sound. “I was not looming.”

“You were,” Elliot told him, “a little.” She paused, feeling the exhaustion pulling at the edges of her vision, begging for her to close her eyes—but she couldn’t. Not in the car, not with John driving. If she did, he might just keep driving and not turn back around. “It’s funny—”

“My quote-unquote looming?”

“How much different you are,” she finished, “when you’re not around Joseph.”

John was clearly trying very hard not to look like he was stiffening at her words. Gotcha, she thought, with a little pinprick of pride. Yeah, I didn’t forget. I didn’t forget how much you hated it when I brought him up.

“I don’t know what you mean,” John replied, keeping his voice light. “I’m exactly the way I’ve always been.”

“You haven’t tried to drown me a single time.”

“That time was a miscommunication,” he insisted. “I wasn’t trying to drown you. Just—coerce you. And besides, that’s behind us now. I know you, Elliot Honeysett, intimately, which means such forms of brute persuasion aren’t required.” He paused. “It’s much better when you indulge me willingly, anyway.”

Elliot’s nose crinkled. “You sound fucking nuts when you say that. ‘That one time I thought about drowning you was just a miscommunication’. No wonder Sylvia doesn’t like you.”

“So she told you? That she doesn’t like me?”

He paused for a moment, his gaze flickering over to her, and when he saw the very subtle upturn of her mouth he exhaled out of his nose.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Not necessarily. But if I was—it would be the least you deserve.”

He was different, out from the insane pressure of the cult, out from under Joseph’s thumb. It was like, given room to breathe, he was suddenly relearning what it was like to make his own decision—to exist outside of Joseph. Back in Hope County, John had been fervent in his belief that he owed Joseph everything. Maybe the distance had done him some good.

Don’t, something inside of her insisted viciously, as she turned her attention out to the side of the road where the headlights illuminated snowdrift after snowdrift. Don’t get soft on him. That’s how he got you last time, you know. Don’t let it happen again.

But if he wanted to press the issue about Sylvia—or about her comment concerning Joseph—John seemed to exercise a remarkable amount of self-control and instead focused on driving. In the quiet, without him chattering on about doing things for them or how much he missed our banter, it was almost...Comfortable.

“Finding out the gender,” Elliot said after a moment, the exhaustion now settling like a deep chill in her bones. “Of the baby, I mean. At the next appointment.”

The brunette shifted in his seat. In an attempt at nonchalance, he said, “Oh, yeah?”

What am I doing? she thought. He plays nice for one night. He’s good at that. Short-term goodness.

“I’m nervous,” she added after a moment. “About finding out.”

“Not excited?” John tilted his head.

“No,” she admitted. “Nervous.”

Ahead of them, she saw the dark blur of a figure. A frown tugged at the corners of her mouth. John was saying something—something about how he’d read a number of books and it was normal to feel nervous, or some other kind of psycho babble—but she shifted forward in her seat, eyes straining to see.

“Slow down,” she said, “I think there’s a dog...?”

“What?” John asked. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

“Just up ahead. Have you not been paying attention to the road?”

He made an indignant sound—“I am the best driver between the two of us, you know,”—but before Elliot could think up a response, the dark, furred creature slowed down ahead of them, stopped in the middle of the road, and turned its head.

The headlights caught it immediately. It was a dog, four-legged and large and shaggy black fur, but when it turned its head, it was a man’s face, the mouth slung open and the gently-rounded teeth of a human’s mouth blaring white in the headlights. Something dark and slick oozed between the teeth, in that split second, she watched the dog-human-creature push off from the ground and stand on its two hind legs.

She screamed, and John swerved, and immediately threw the car into park and slammed his hand on the hazard lights button.

It was dread, pure dread and fear, sending a pulse of adrenaline straight to her brain. Bent over at the waist, Elliot closed her eyes tight, trying to will the image out of her head, out from behind her irises. John had quickly unbuckled and reached over, his hands doing the same to hers.

“Elliot,” he said urgently, fingers pushing the hair back from her face. “Ell, take a breath, come on—sit up, you have to take a breath—”

“Is—is it gone?” she asked, but the words came out closer to a wail, the fear spiking viciously in the timbre of her voice. Please, God, what the fuck, please let it be gone. God, oh fuck, what the fuck what the fuck— “The—the—”

“There’s nothing—?” John stopped. Elliot frantically scrabbled at the high neck of her parka, fingers shaking and clumsy. “Ell—”

“Can’t breathe,” she managed out. “Too hot, can’t—”

The brunette reached over the console and stilled her hands. She was still bent at the waist, but he made do, pulling the zipper of the parka down until she could pull her arms from it; once it had been deposited in the back seat, his hand went to the back of her neck.

She sat up slowly, her eyes immediately making a frantic search of the road. There was nothing. Only quiet snowfall.

“Where—” She paused, swallowing thickly. “Where did it go?”

“Ell,” John murmured, “there wasn’t anything in the road.”

“What do you mean?” she moaned. “I saw it, the—I saw the—”

“You saw...?” he prompted. His thumb swept across the back of her neck, coaxing.

“The dog,” she insisted. “It was a dog, but it had—it’s face was—it was a man’s face, and it f-fucking—it fucking stood up, John!”

He was watching her carefully, his gaze searching her face for a long moment. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t see anything,” he told her. “Just that you—you just screamed, so I pulled over.”

“I’m not crazy,” Elliot bit out, her voice wobbling.

“I know,” John replied plainly. “Maybe it was just—you know. The snow. In front of the headlights.” And then: “Have you really been getting enough sleep, Ell?”

She felt her lip tremble, the desire to cry almost overwhelming. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t stand John being tender to her, worrying about her, questioning the validity of her saying that she had been sleeping fine because he could see that she couldn’t. He was wretched and wicked and it needed to stay that way.

“Please take me home,” she said finally, re-buckling and rolling the window down to let the cold air on her face. “Please just take me home.”

John waited for a few heartbeats before he turned the hazard lights off and put the Jeep in drive.

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he told her after a moment, glancing at her a few times. “I mean it, Ell.”

“Fuck you,” she replied, exhausted and feeling furiously wound up. “Just take me home.”

Get some sleep.

Feel better in the morning.

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 15: A Home

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Mrs. Gold puts herself to bed

Read on AO3

Mrs. Gold rested her forehead against the passenger window of the squad car. The cold glass gave her something to focus on. Something real and solid in this swirling haze of booze and impossible facts.

Sheriff Swan was driving her home. Graham had done this, more times than she could remember. Whenever she was out making too much trouble to ignore, Graham would take her back to Mr. Gold. 

Emma Swan was taking her away from him.

Graham had always been quiet, but Emma kept trying to talk. Mrs. Gold kept her face to the window and let the words wash over her. 

“I know it’s hard to get out of a bad relationship. I can’t imagine what it’s like to get out of a bad marriage. But it’s really important that you learn to put yourself first. Put your own safety first. And if that means walking away--then you just gotta do the brave thing.”

Do the brave thing and bravery will follow. 

The words felt weird in her head, foreign and familiar at the same time. Like something she had known once, but forgotten. What was she remembering it from? A movie? Some hokey book she’d read as a kid?

Mrs. Gold had never cared much about being brave. It didn’t take courage to do what Mr. Gold ordered her to. If she was being honest with herself, she did tend to obey him out of fear--fear of disappointing him, fear of his disdain. Fear of losing everything he gave her, especially those scant, precious fragments of himself.

“And I will help you! I just need you to tell me you need help.” Emma Swan was still talking. “Just give me a reason. I’m not afraid to use excessive force.”

She looked up. “On Mr. Gold?”

Emma pulled into the driveway of Mr. Gold’s house and parked the car. “Why not give a wife beater a taste of his own medicine?”

“He’s is not--”

“Yeah, but he’s not a responsible dominant either,” Emma cut her off. “The kinky stuff is based around trust, so you gotta find someone who’s trustworthy. Good for you if you like pain play, but for the love of God, don’t give that kind of power to someone who isn’t going to care about you.”

“I told you in the station, the problem isn’t how Mr. Gold uses me. The problem is that he hasn’t done anything with me in months!” Fighting off tears, Mrs. Gold unbuckled her seat belt and tried to bolt out of the car.

She got two steps toward the house before everything got all spinny again and she had to slow down. Before she knew it, Sheriff Swan was beside her, holding her up by the elbow.

“Okay, lightweight, whatever you say.”

Mrs. Gold jerked her arm away. “I’m alright on my own.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She was still walking beside her. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna tuck you into bed. Unless you invite me in or I have reason to believe a crime in progress, my jurisdiction ends at the front door.”   

“Whatever,” Mrs. Gold muttered. She had Mr. Gold’s keys in her coat pocket. The weight of them was like ballast on a sailboat. They steadied her. 

Emma followed behind her as she went up the porch steps. She waited by the door while Mrs. Gold fumbled with the keys. There were so many of them. Months ago, Mr. Gold had sent her out to have copies of the house and shop keys made for herself. That was one of the first strange things he’d done. Those keys were in her purse in the front hall. She still wasn’t used to letting herself come and go. Mr. Gold’s key was original to the house, a brass skeleton key from the 1890s. It wasn’t any trouble to open the door and walk in. 

“You gonna get the lights?” Emma asked.

“No,” Mrs. Gold held her head high. “I like the dark.”

Emma raised her eyebrows. “Guess that’s your choice. But before I go, I gotta say it again: Call me, if you need help. Or if you have questions about how other people do BDSM. Or if you just wanna talk. Okay?”

Safe in the darkness, Mrs. Gold gave a condescending smile and a nod. “Sounds great.” 

“Take care of yourself.”

“Sure,” she said. And shut the door. 

****

She didn’t turn the lights on as she made her way to the kitchen. Mr. Gold’s house was big enough and clean enough that she never worried about bumping into things or stumbling over a pile of clutter. Nothing like the place where she’d grown up--cramped and filthy, piled high with junk. They never wanted to throw anything away. You never knew when you might need something that you hadn’t used in ten years, but you knew it was wrong to waste money on getting a new one when there was a perfectly good one around here somewhere. 

Mr. Gold’s house was a better home than her father’s house had ever been.

She didn’t stop moving until she got the refrigerator. Wincing against the blinding light, she searched for a bottle of sparkling water. She put the cool glass against her swollen eyes and sighed. She kicked away her heels and leaned against the refrigerator door. When she drank, the bubbles popped sharply against the inside of her mouth. It was a needle-sharp pain, soothing in its way.

She’d never drunk sparkling water before she met Mr. Gold. They always used the tap, and if it tasted like dirt or sand, well that was just extra minerals. Not like they could do anything about it. If it tasted like chlorine or carcinogenic runoff from some factory upstream, they couldn’t do anything about that either. People like them just had to keep drinking what life gave them because they couldn’t afford anything better.

She’d have to go back to that--if anything happened between her and Mr. Gold. If he decided he didn’t want to be married to her anymore. Their pre-nuptial contract was very clear: If the marriage ended for any reason, Mr. Gold kept everything. Even her clothes and jewelry. Even her wedding ring.

And her father would have to start paying rent again. She’d never hear the end of that. Of course, she never heard the end of it when Mr. Gold told him he didn’t have to pay rent anymore. Or, more specifically, that whether or not he had to pay rent was entirely up to Mrs. Gold.

The idiot florist had hated hearing that. Mr. Gold had given his daughter financial control of his shop and his house. She could waive the rent or charge him double or kick him on the curb and burn the buildings to the ground as she saw fit. Her father had sputtered and raged and sworn a blue streak when he’d found out. But marrying Mr. Gold meant she didn’t have to listen to his tantrums anymore.

Would he take her back? If Mr. Gold kicked her out, would she even have the option of living with her father again? 

He’d told her she could, on the day that she left. Her father had said that she could always come back. But she knew that he meant she could leave Mr. Gold and apologize for the unforgivable crime of liking sex. She could live with her father if she was willing to put herself on his idea of good behavior. If she never told him what she really thought about anything. If she was willing to cook and clean and slave away in the flower shop just so the two of them could have enough money to scrape by. Like she was a fucking teenager again.

Shitty as it would be to be back in that house, it was probably better than being homeless.

She finished the bottle and threw it in the trash. She still hadn’t turned on any of the lights. She could walk around Mr. Gold’s house blindfolded. In fact she had, many times. And on her hands and knees. And on a leash. And with a ten-inch dildo in every hole she had. That was how Mrs. Gold paid rent. 

Do you have somebody you can stay with tonight?   

Emma Swan’s words had been ringing through her head since she’d first heard them outside of Granny’s. She’d told the Sheriff that she didn’t have anyone. That was probably true. No one who would pick her up at the police station, at least. No one who would want to deal with her while she was drunk and emotional. No one wanted Mrs. Gold when she was at her worst.

Not even Mr. Gold. 

****

The door to the bedroom was open. The bedroom, where all this trouble had begun. She’d had a dream that her husband loved her, and when she’d woken up, she’d tried to make it real.

But he had been dreaming about Belle. 

Belle.

The name had a weird echo in her mind. The other woman. Her husband’s lover. The only other person she could blame for her unhappiness. Was Mr. Gold thinking about Belle now? Would he tell Belle that he had spent a night in jail?

Would he tell her he had done it so Mrs. Gold wouldn’t have to?

In the bathroom, she ran a washcloth under hot water and pressed it against her face. Most of her makeup had been cried off earlier, so the wash was more for warmth. When Mrs. Gold looked at herself in the mirror, all she saw was her own exhaustion. Red eyes, flushed cheeks, quivering lips. Even cleaned up, she was still a mess.

But Mr. Gold had put himself in jail for her.

She looked closer at her reflection, so close that she pressed her forehead to the glass. So close that she couldn’t see the whole of her face. She was just an abstraction, broken apart into pieces. What about her was worth that kind of sacrifice? What about her was worth anything? In the mirror, she was nothing but pink skin, dark lashes, sky blue eyes.

Mama’s eyes.

Mrs. Gold jerked away from the mirror like it had electrocuted her. Maybe it had. Something had to happen to make her hear a voice in her head.

It was her own voice. Only sadder, more gentle. That was how her thoughts had been in the squad car too. And she’d heard it before then. Off and on, in little flashes just like this. She’d been hearing it for weeks. 

If there was anything creepier than hearing a voice in your head, it had to be agreeing with that voice. It was right, she did have Mom’s eyes. Sky-blue, just like Uncle Peter and  Andrew used to have. Just like Janine and Chloe still did.

But she had never thought of her mother as mama. That sounded like something from some historical drama where everyone wore ball gowns and corsets. Maybe she was being possessed by the spirit of a Regency aristocrat. Maybe one of her past lives was trying to communicate with her from beyond the grave.

Or maybe she was very, very drunk.

She turned the light off in the bathroom and peeled off her dress, then looked around her armoire for something she could sleep in. Mr. Gold had never bought her any comfortable pajamas, only negligees and skimpy short sets. In the past--which Mrs. Gold was about two weeks away from thinking of as “the good old days”--she’d rarely worn anything to bed. Once they got home, the only reason she wore clothes was so Mr. Gold could take them off. Especially her lingerie. Mr. Gold liked nothing more than to rip her underwear off her body and leave her in tattered rags before he fucked her 

Mara Trudine probably couldn’t have kept Sugar ‘n’ Spice in business if Mrs. Gold hadn’t needed to restock on panties every week. Well, that was one way to help out an old friend. 

There was one long sleeved tee-shirt in her wardrobe. It was mostly see-through, with a pattern of red velvet roses dotting the thin red mesh. In the magazine, the model had worn this shirt with a camisole underneath. Mrs. Gold was lucky if Mr. Gold let her wear a bra when she went out in this shirt. 

But it was the closest thing to comfortable that she had. A pair of leggings would keep her legs warm. Mrs. Gold didn’t own any sweatpants or yoga pants--or any pants at all for that matter. Mr. Gold had always treasured the ability to grab her whenever he wanted her. Skirts and dresses provided the best access, so that was all he let her buy. 

She sighed. Of course, that was in the past. The way Mr. Gold was acting now, he might as well have bought her a space suit to wear around town, helmet and all.

This was the first night she’d ever spent alone in this house. This was the first time she’d ever gotten into this bed and not expected Mr. Gold to join her. As she pulled back the quilt, Mrs. Gold was struck with a memory from last night: Her husband, trembling with rage, throwing this same blanket over her body before he left. She had tried to make love to him. She had tried to pretend to be Belle, just to get him to touch her. And he had seen it as a betrayal, a violation.

He was right.                    

Mrs. Gold knew that she had done wrong. Her actions were not just immoral, but incorrect. In trying to force her husband to be near her, she had only made him want to be further away. He had run away from her to the guest bedroom. Run and hid, like she was a monster.

Emma Swan kept trying to protect Mrs. Gold, but she didn’t understand. Mrs. Gold hadn’t just done wrong, she was wrong. She was the wrong person. It felt like she always had been. Wrong as a daughter, wrong as a friend, wrong as a student, wrong as a girlfriend. 

Wrong as a wife. 

For as long as she’d been married, she had told herself that the feeling of wrongness didn’t matter. No one’s opinion of her mattered except for Mr. Gold’s. She didn’t have to be good at anything else, as long as she was the slutwife he wanted. But over the past several months, he had made it clear how little he wanted anything to do with her. Maybe he hated her as much as everyone else in Storybrooke did. 

She couldn’t sleep in this bed. This was their marriage bed. If their marriage was broken she’d be better off sleeping on the floor. At the very least, she would follow in Mr. Gold’s footsteps and run away to the guest room. There, she knew, she wouldn’t have the memory of Mr. Gold hating her. If he thought of Belle while he had waited for sleep last night, she didn’t know it for certain. She wouldn’t have to think about it. 

With the lights still out, Mrs. Gold went across the hall to the other bedroom. Mr. Gold’s dressing gown hung from a hook behind the door. She buried her face in the silk and breathed in his scent. Before she could think about what she was doing, Mrs. Gold had wrapped the dressing gown around her body. She pulled it tightly over her shoulders, hugging herself, pretending Mr. Gold was holding her. Pretending that Mr. Gold would ever hold her again.

This bed was smaller than the one in their room. It felt less empty with only one person in it. The pillow smelled like Mr. Gold’s hair.

I love you.

The voice in her head again, saying what she wanted to say. She had never told Mr. Gold that she loved him. Until recently, she didn’t know that she had. Now the knowledge was a burden. It was an ache in her heart, a hole that would never be filled. 

Everything was over.

****

He leaves her in a swirl of wine-red smoke, at exactly the stroke of midnight. He goes, to walk into a trap the two of them have all but set themselves. He goes, to keep her safe from his enemies. He goes, to lay down the final pieces of the plan that will--someday--lead to their complete happiness. 

As he leaves, he keeps his face turned away from her. She understands. When he gets to where he is going, he will have to wear the mask of a devious trickster. Tears would spoil the effect.  

Her eyes are moist as she watches him disappear. 

Candlelight reflects the golden sparkles in the skin of his hands, the glinting crinkles of his hair. His leather-clad back has a dark gleam to it. He keeps his shoulders straight, his arms poised--ready to put on a show.

She cannot look away from him. She would say that she is memorizing him, but she already knows him by heart.

They will be together again.

She must believe that, even when he is gone from their home. She trusts her husband. She trusts the plan they have made together. She trusts herself. She will ensure that they are together again. She can do the brave thing and know that bravery will follow. Though the power she has is small and meager, there is enough determination in her to move the world if she needs to.

If Rumple needs her to. 

She cannot stay staring at the place where he was. There is work to be done. Her husband is doing his part of the plan, now she must do hers. 

Since she is already in the dining room of their castle, her first task is to fetch the chipped cup. It sits in a place of honor on top of the magical cupboard that creates their meals. 

The sight of this cup never fails to make her smile. She had dropped it, on the first of many times one of her master’s orders had shocked her. For a time, it was a shameful thing for her, a sign of failure. Over time, she had decided that she liked his orders, and that she wanted him to give her more. She had offered him the imperfect cup, and he had understood what she had wanted--and he had given it to her.  

When she had left, her lover had destroyed this room. He had smashed all the plates and cups, except for this. Later, he told her that he had wanted to throw it against the wall, but instead he had broken down in tears. He had it clutched to his chest when she found him in the dungeons.

Since the wedding, the meaning of the cup changed again. Now they serve each other, whenever they wish to play. The cup is imperfect, but it is beautiful because of what it means to them. It was the first object they shared together, even before their wedding rings.

She holds it delicately, as she walks to the next room. The night is dark, but torches light at her approach. Even if they didn’t, she knows the way. The castle is her home, and she walks without fear through every hallway. 

The small room at the end of the corridor holds everything Rumple has of his son. There are clothes and toys and even a few battered schoolbooks. This is the boy that he lost a lifetime ago. This is the boy that he will destroy the world to get back. She has never met Baelfire, but she loves him. She will do anything she can to reunite her husband with his son.

If she could, she would take everything in this room. The memories are so precious. She would give them to the boy, once they find him. But her husband has given her specific instructions, and she trusts him enough to follow them. Magic can be fickle, especially when there are too many variables. If they ask it for too much, there is a greater chance that something might go wrong, and an even higher price to pay. They will only need one object of Bae’s to be able to find him in the new world. She can only take the shawl.

It is yellow wool, a little ragged and dirty from belonging to a young boy. Her husband knitted it himself. She feels the love that was woven into every fiber of it. 

She cushions the chipped cup against the shawl and holds both objects in one hand. With her other hand, she draws out a single glove from the pocket of her gown. It is a magic glove, made of black velvet and her husband’s golden thread. As soon as it is on her hand, she is transported to the next room.

This is a room with no door. It can only be entered by using her husband’s magic. This is where he keeps things safe, including his secrets. This is where he stores the remains of his life before he had magic. 

There is a wide bed, stuffed with straw. A rough-hewn farm table with a bench and pair of stools at either end. A spinning wheel wound with simple yarn instead of the gold her husband is famous for spinning. She looks over these furnishings with familiarity and with fondness. She has been in this room many times before.

Often enough to know where to find what she seeks. 

A small table serves the function of a desk. It is piled high with papers, mostly drawings. Rumple’s first wife drew pictures of their son when he was a baby. And when the boy had grown older, he had developed the same talent. 

Her mental image of Baelfire comes from a sketch he made of himself: Wavy dark hair and steady dark eyes, a boy who has already suffered and struggled more than he ought to have, a boy who smiles rarely, but is rarely afraid. She would rather take that drawing than handle what lies on top of it.

The dagger that controls her husband is an evil thing, but he has made her the mistress of it. When he proposed, he gave her the dagger, and submitted to her all the power of the Dark One. Together, they have studied its magic, tested its limits. While she does enjoy having some authority over her beloved, the thought of anyone else using the dagger on him--or hurting him with it--is enough to make her blood boil.

She cannot allow that to happen. She cannot allow the dagger to fall into any hands but her own or Rumple’s. This is the only weapon that can hurt him. She will never allow him to be hurt. She holds the dagger to her chest, just like the shawl and the cup.

She takes off the magic glove and finds herself in the tower room where her husband does most of his work. He knew that he was leaving, so he has put away most of his potions and equipment. 

He may never see these things again.

Tears burn in her eyes. Stumbling to his work table, she lets their things slip from her arms. Her satchel is up here, Rumple must have placed it in this room. He gave her this satchel, the last time they were separated. The last time she had to leave her home. It is brown leather, with a design of a red rose blooming among the thorns.

She sets the cup and the shawl inside the satchel. Then she takes the dagger and slashes the glove to shreds. Golden sparks and wine-red smoke emanate from the glove as magic destroys magic. Now she will never be able to enter the safest room again. But neither will anyone else.

Everything she needs to carry fits inside the satchel. She could probably fit the entire potions cabinet and her husband’s spinning wheel inside and never feel the weight of it on her shoulders. 

Her mission is done, but she has no will to rest. Their bedroom is at the bottom of the stairs below this tower, but she cannot bring herself to go there now. She has never slept a full night in this castle without her husband, without at least expecting him to join her. Their marriage bed is large and luxurious. It will feel so empty without him. She cannot sleep there.

 She wanders over to the window. A waning moon and hundreds of stars cast a soft glow over her husband’s spinning wheel. When he needs to think, he will spin straw into gold, working continuously from dawn until darkness. A day’s work fills up a bobbin of thread, and he has more bobbins than she could ever count. They mark centuries of pensive isolation. He starts every spinning day with one empty, and the work isn’t over until it’s full. 

 But when she looks at the flyer, a bobbin is already waiting there, half-filled up with gold thread. 

For a moment, she is perplexed. It is unlike Rumple to leave a loose end. But then she smiles. She understands. Her husband has left her with a message. An unfilled bobbin means the day is not done. There is still more work to do.

They are not finished yet. 

[saiyuri-dahlia]

For the character ask (you know I have to): Shad

I know you had to do it and I am very happy that you did it because I am always ready to talk about Shad. In fact, I’d be more sad if no one sent me Shad whenever there’s a character/shipping post.

Why I like them: He’s just so adorkable in the same vein of Milo Thatch or Otacon. And I don’t know how much of it is projection or canon at this point, but I relate to him quite a lot. He’s a nice guy and a good male option to pair with Link to have just a sweet, healthy relationship with—and there was a time where those options were very limited.

He’s good at reading but he wants to help, even though he doesn’t feel like he can contribute much—except he can. He gets visibly happy when Link says yes to listen to his research but also gets super pouty face when you tell him no. He’s got big blue puppy dog eyes that you can’t say no to and this one defiant curl that rests on his forehead

Why I don’t: There’s not too much to dislike about Shad, but I’m not a fan of the little Oocca faces on all of his buttons. Also, the fact that he has Oocca faces on his buttons makes me wonder how the Oocca have not already been discovered or depicted in some historical artifact. Like, how can he know what something looks like when he’s the leading researcher on the thing he’s trying to discover that no one else has seen before? How does he have Oocca faces when he’s never seen an Oocca before???

Favorite episode (scene if movie): When he’s in Kakariko Village studying the Owl Statue I love how he looks in his idle stance in the glow of the surrounding lamps casting an orange light on the red ochre walls around him.

Favorite season/movie: Not applicable, since only the one game, y’know. I’d love to see a direct TP sequel.

Favorite line: "Well, I'm formidable at book reading, but I lack, shall we say, physical skills.” Same, Shad, same.

Favorite outfit: He only has the one, lol But I also like seeing fan arts that put him in fancy clothes that he’d wear at Royal functions. And sweaters. Shad probably has so many sweaters. Shad probably even has lightweight summer sweaters because he looks good in sweaters.

OTP: Shadlink—I’m gonna try to be brief here but first, there’s the really nice opposites attract dynamic that they have and the ways that their differences in personality and skills can complement each other nicely. And there’s a nice height difference between them that I enjoy. That’s the long and short of it. For a more in depth explanation, see my body of work for reference.

Brotp: Ashei and/or Ilia— I want at least the four of them to be one big friend group that always has each other’s backs, ready to ride or die at any trouble, but also willing to call him out when he’s being a twat. Also, to tease him mercilessly about his crush on Link and play matchmaker for them.

Head Canon: Too many to count, but Shad is one of those students that the vast majority of his professors can’t stand. He always asks too many questions, takes too detailed notes, isn’t afraid of pointing out errors in their lectures, and is unfortunately their best student and the only one that ever raises his hand to answer their questions to the class. And the thing is that same feeling for some of his professors is mostly mutual from Shad. He’s often bored and half-asleep while growing increasingly vexed that somehow his esteemed professor in Zora literature doesn’t see much difference in Upper Zora versus Lower Zora in translation and believes it’s no different than saying the same word in a different accent when the connotations of words can mean vastly different things depending on the two.

Unpopular opinion: I’m not sure because I don’t think fans have much of an opinion of Shad to begin with. I have seen a handful of TP playthroughs that make fun of Shad and give him a mocking name or a silly voice, which I find disappointing because his character doesn’t do anything to warrant such mocking, aside from him being a nerd. It got really tiring to see, so much so that I don’t watch TP playthroughs anymore.

A wish: Most of my wishes for Shad involve a long and happy relationship with Link, but I know those will never be made canon. Something that could be made canon, however, is that either Link tells him about the City in the Sky or takes him there in a sequel game...and that Shad is Link’s companion throughout the whole game.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen: Okay, I’m gonna side-eye the manga for a bit on this, but I don’t wanna see him get his heart broken. Don’t let Ilia break his heart. Ilia and Shad both deserve better than that. I hope that it’s a mutual, gentle letdown. I want them to be able to remain friends, and not for there to any awkwardness between them.

5 words to best describe them: adorkable, well-educated, sweet, thorough, classy

My nickname for them: Bird Nerd, my sweet baby, my darling son, my little duckling child, cinnamon roll

[amandaklwrites]

Movie Review: The Mummy (1999)

Genre: Action, Adventure/Historical Fantasy

Rating: 10/10

Movie Review:

I LOVE THIS MOVIE.

I know this a fan favorite all around, and I totally understand now. I think I only watched this movie for the first time like two or three years ago, and I have to say, I’m very disappointed with myself for having waited so long. It is totally a movie that is 100% up my alley.

First of all, I love anything archaeology, especially when it comes to Egyptology. So, a movie set during the height of Egyptology (well honestly, all times are the height because they keep finding such cool, amazing stuff all the time), made in an Indiana Jones-style adventure of treasure hunting and curses. And all about ancient Egypt (even if it’s made up places and people)! So much my jam.

Now, the only complaint I have about this movie(s) is they do take some liberties with Egyptian mythology/beliefs that I didn’t totally like (more in the second movie, which I will do later). In this one, it mostly had to do with the flesh eating scarabs. In ancient Egypt, they revered and honored scarabs, they weren’t afraid of them because they ate flesh like that. I do understand that is for the plot of this film, so I let it slide. It is technically a fantasy after all.

So, time to just gush about this movie.

I love everything about this movie. The action and adventure, the humor. My god, the humor is so well done in this movie. Sometimes, I notice in action movies, they try to put humorous moments at the strangest times. But not this movie. Every funny moment is perfectly timed, and the actors do it all superbly.

Speaking of which, let me get to the actors and characters. Our main cast is absolutely fantastic. I love Rachel Weisz so, so much, and Evie Carnahan is the ultimate woman. I think I connect with her even more than the other female characters that I idolize. She loves Egyptology (go girl, you read those hieroglyphs!), she’s headstrong, she may be clumsy and silly, but it doesn’t make her anything less than. It actually all gives her strength. She’s young, but she has a strong mind and a strong will, and she knows who she is. And I think that’s what makes her so interesting to Rick O’Connell. (Let my briefly say, I had grown up with some Brendan Fraser films, and I did like him, but I never loved him as much as others. But I LOVE him in these movies. He’s so great at this character, and the funny reactions he has is so perfect). At first, you wouldn’t think that the two of these characters would like each other—Rick is the macho type, living on survival of his own instincts, and he likes the fight. But the fact that he sees Evie just as who she is and falls head over heels in love with her (I personally think he does so first, before she does) is the absolute cutest. He likes that she has her own mind, that she’s strong and confident and intelligent as all hell. So, when it comes to personalities, they’re opposites, but they work so well together. The brains and the brawn, so to speak. But they respect one another, they work as a team instead of trying to be stronger or smarter than the other. The only moments when they argue/bicker are silly things that I think most people that deeply love one another and respect each other actually do (my grandparents are like this, so I’ve witnessed it). I think their love story is one of the best honestly, as they balance one another, and they don’t try to make the other feel less than because of their differences. When I watch this movie, I always think about how I want to be Evie, and I want to find someone like Rick. I have a type, I think.

The others are great too. Oded Fehr as Ardeth Bay is a total badass and I think he’s one of the coolest people in the movie. He has a mysterious air about him and he can seriously work every weapon??? Like how amazing! John Hannah as Evie’s silly brother Jonathan is the comic relief of the film, but I love his relationship with his sister. He may be all for taking the riches, but he has a good heart deep down. Arnold Vosloo as Imhotep is a great villain, and I liked that he wanted to take the only role if his character could be straight. Other than the running away from the cat thing (which, actually has an interesting take on ancient Egypt culture when I think about. More on that later), he doesn’t have “funny moments.” He’s just a straight up, terrible villain with so much that it’s scary. And a quick little add on—Kevin J. O’Connor as Beni is just hilarious. He’s such a little weasel and I love to hate him.

Earlier, I had commented on the little bit I didn’t like about the movie, which had to do with ancient Egyptian culture. Now, there are some things, though different from what I think ancient Egyptians meant, that I think had some interesting takes on that culture. Something to add real quick, I liked that they used a curse, even if there is really no connection between “the curses” Egyptologists have experienced. The ancient Egyptians did believe in spells, and I think curses to a degree, but there has been no proof of that actually happening. But I liked how this movie played with their idea of magic. Imhotep was a sorcerer, quite powerful, and he betrayed his King, so he was killed for it. And when he comes back, he’s pissed. I think that’s more of “the curse” than an actual curse because of opening a tomb. They brought back to life a really, really angry dude that happens to have so much power. A sorcerer that wants revenge on what happened to him and his lover, and he will take down the world with him. What he does reflects how angry he is, and he wants to punish everyone else. It’s really interesting. And the cat thing! I’m sure most people know that the ancient Egyptians loved and worshipped their cats. But I’ve learned that it went beyond that—there were actual rules that if anyone had hurt or killed a cat, they would be executed themselves. That’s how much they loved their cats. So, I think with the scene of Rick discovering that Imhotep “fears” cats is, though a funny moment to see him run away in fear, actually a comment on their culture. Imhotep would have known the danger for his soul if he killed a cat, so he would go in the opposite direction. He would get far, far away. So, though funny, I don’t think he was scared of the cat and ran away, he feared what would happen to him if he hurt the feline. Pretty interesting, how they did that, if that’s what they mean, I may have only interpreted it as such.

This movie is just so, so fun. The story is one that I love—an action adventure of these characters being plagued by an evil enemy and trying to fix everything. Evie, Rick, Ardeth, and Jonathan are great heroes, and I love seeing them team up. I love the world of Egypt, just the feel of it. Though I personally hate heat, I have such a strange fascination with endless sand, to watch it run across the land. I love the mummies, the story, the villain, the themes that they play with (and any treasure hunting movie, honestly). The love story is the best part of the movie, as it feels natural, it’s not so in your face until the very end—the subtle moments of Rick nervously giving her tools, Rick protecting her, checking her face, etc. There’s so much about this movie to absolutely love, and I do. I really, really love it.

It is one I can watch again and again, and never get tired of. Honestly.

[slashingdisneypasta]

NATM 2 Rogues (Sans Kah) x Teddy Roosevelt (Super Platonically) || Oneshot

Title: I Was Made In A Mannequin Factory In Poughkeepsie

Notes: 

This may become a series. For now though, enjoy the meeting of Teddy! 

Plot: Even though Larry has agreed to travel with the tablet between the three museums, seeing as it wouldn’t be fair to out of the blue bring all these things and people (back) to life and then dump them back into non-existence, it was deemed necessary to move Kahmunhrah’s ‘business partners’ to the Natural History Museum so they’re far away from Kahmunrah’s gate and cant even ponder bringing him back- because that is undesirable outcome, for everyone.

After they arrive at the museum, most of the other exhibits (Sans the good old Easter Island Head and Dexter) keep their distance from them. Everyone’s uncomfortable about this move and change, and that’s understandable but it doesn’t feel good at all… until Teddy steps in.  

Warnings: I guess, exclusion? But don’t worry, Teddy will fix it

~~~

“Its is a… nice museum, I suppose.” Ivan, the first to talk when they leave their crates -Larry had yet to figure out a place to put them or construct exhibits for them,- the first night at their new home, 3 hours after the sun went down. They had been busy wondering around the halls, exploring the new playing field together… thinking. Now they stand together, alone, back with their crates in a hallway.

No one had come to greet them unless you count the Easter Island Head asking for ‘gum gum’- but they had looked at them, for sure. Some scowls, some glares, but most they were wary looks as people walked away. Its not that the three men expected a warm greeting, but they didn’t really expect news about them to spread so fast, either.

Napoleon takes a deep breath, breaking out of his thoughtful trance and glances up at Ivan. It was be impolite to leave him without a response when he’s attempted -however blandly, - to fix the mood… Looking around the place quickly, Napoleon notes the tall ceiling and the railings. “Uh, oui, it has some beautiful architecture, Ivan… “

“I like the colour of the wood.” Ivan adds, continuing the conversation because what else is there to do?? If this aloneness is any indication of how they’ll be living for the rest of their time here, then theirs no point in sitting and being solemn about it. Al, on the other hand makes a face at the Tzar from his place sitting on his crate beside Napoleon. Napoleon nods in agreement, looking around at the floors with risen eyebrows.

“I agree, it’s very, uh, museum-y.”

“Da.”

Theirs a lapse of awkward silence in the conversation, before Napoleon promptly turns to Al. “What do you think of the wood- “

“Oh nah, nah, nah, don’t look at me. I’m not playing this game with you people.” He takes his hands off the crate on either side of him for the first time since he sat down and rubs the lines left there from how tight he was gripping. “We’re all thinkin’ the same thing. You saw what I saw, how they’re lookin’ at us. They know about Kahmunrah and us. We ain’t safe here.”

Ivan’s eyebrows raise up his forehead. “Are not safe??” That’s a little bit of an overreaction, isn’t it? He was thinking maybe they were looking at a long, lonely life with just each other but… peril? What? That was not on the radar!

“Oui, I agree with him. Ivan, haven’t you heard of Caesar?” Napoleon looks forward again, face growing darker. “A great leader… like us… stabbed thirty-seven times in the middle of a crowded room. These rooms feel like that when we’re in them.”

“I’m sure you are overreacting. These are all but peasant, who- “Ivan immediately squints, on realising what he said. He looks for an even amount of time between Al and Napoleon, suspicious. “Wait.”

“If I was gonna kill you, man, I’d do it my Tommy.” Al raises his gun, rolling his eyes at Ivan. “Which doesn’t work, as we all know.” Ivan and Napoleon nod slowly at that, remembering Al’s idiocy that the man himself choose not to mention. He puts the useless gun back down in his lap. “Besides, probably couldn’t get a knife through all those layers on you, anyway.”

Ivan spares another suspicious look at the back of Al’s head. Then they watch some faceless soldiers pass by them in the hallway, ignoring them completely.

“So, what are we going to do about this??” Napoleon asks, a high and impatient tone in his voice and he whips around the face Al. “I don’t know about you two, but I’ve already died once and I do not look forward to giving that red, horned beast another chance at me.” When he was alive, Napoleon would have never mentioned the Devil outright like that. He never would have suggested he was going to that place, in the first place.

… but now he knows how he’s remembered. He knows what parts of his life he’s judged on. The blood, the fear, and the death. He doesn’t see why deaths judgement will be any different.

Ivan takes a deep breath in, hearing Napoleons words like a stab through the gut, and looks furiously at him, but stays quiet. He’s right…

“Me neither. Boys, we need a plan.”

Ivan immediately rejects one part of Al’s phrase. “I am not one of your monochromatic minions, Alphonse, refrain from calling me your ‘boy’.”

And Napoleon, another. “For what?! Its not like we can charter a carriage and travel back to Washington in our condition!”

Al takes in a deep, refrained breath of his own this time, and slowly turns threatening around to speak quietly to Napoleon, first. “Mate, no one charters carriages anymore anyway. They’re called cars, now. And of course, I wasn’t suggesting that- don’t assume I’m an idiot!”

“I beg to differ! I think it would be much safer for us all if we all assumed that!”

“I’ll get right back to you, Froggy. And Ivan! I don’t take kindly to being told what not to d- “

“Ah! There you are!”

The new voice startles the 3 out of their budding argument, and the all turn down the hall towards where the Easter Island head is planted- to see an older man with a brown moustache, a jolly smile on his face and his hand on the handle of a sword coming towards them. Ivan raises an eyebrow, confused about who this could possibly be and why he is coming towards them so familiarly, Napoleon whips out his own sword and jumps to his feet, and Al just watches the 26th President of his country speed walk towards him, dumbfounded. None of them are yet used to historical figures they know, being alive also.

As soon as Teddy stops in front of them, he calmly raises his hands in surrender. “No, no. Sorry, sir.  I just hold the handle of my weapon, so it stays still while I walk. I should’ve known better- my apologies.”

Napoleon holds Teddy’s stare for a moment… Ivan and Al watch the tension a little worried and a little amused… and then the general puts his sword back away on his hip. Something about the way this man calls him ‘sir’, acknowledging their military positions and the kind sparkle in his eyes… Napoleon tries to calm down again, as Teddy smiles to them all in turn, under that moustache of his.

“Good evening, men! I apologise that I’m late. I meant to greet you as soon as we awoke for the night, but I’m afraid there was an unfortunate run in between our night guard and a monkey. Just routine stuff, don’t worry! Its settled now.” He offers his gloved hand to Napoleon, the closes to him, first. “Theodore Roosevelt, 26th US President. Don’t be afraid to call me Teddy, though. I’m not president anymore.”

The way he says it makes them all think he’s joking about not being a leader anymore. Like it doesn’t actually bother him, and none of them understand it.

But they move on, anyway. It’s something to discuss later, anyway.

They all shake their hands and introduce themselves, and Teddy nods his head. Once introductions are over, his hands both touch the sides of his thighs in, nearly a ‘A-Ten-HUT!’ kind of stance, spine completely straight. Ivan and Napoleon appreciate the good form. “So, I trust you’re settling in here well? Everyone is being welcoming??”

Al takes his hands, puts them on Ivan and Napoleons arms and prods them out of the way so he can go toe-to-toe with ‘Teddy’. They just give him dirty looks and shuffle to give him room, Ivan rolling his eyes at Al’s temperament. Such a child. “Actually bub, they been givin’ us dirty looks all night. We feel like them slaves, in Rome, ‘bout to be thrown into the auditorium with the lions!”

Napoleon sighs deeply. Coliseum… not, auditorium…

But Teddy doesn’t disregard Al’s statement because of a small mistake, like any superior Napoleon new, would have. His face fills with concern and frustration. “Well, I’m very sorry you feel that way. I told them to… we had a meeting… “Teddy’s face looks positively stormy, for a few moments there, a stark difference from his earlier cheer. Al feels pride well in him, getting such a serious reaction. He thinks, maybe this guy, who’s clearly the leader of this motley bunch, will get some executions going now! That’ll be great! This place is about to get a real glow-up! -

… That is, until Al truly recognises the expression on the older mans face.

Its not murderous. He doesn’t even think he describe it as ‘pissed’.

More like… disappointed. Like a mother about her children.

Al sets himself back onto the heels of his feet as he had popped onto his tippy toes. Good god, what kind of Brady Bunch shit has he walked into?

Finally, Teddy sighs, kisses his lips and comes to a conclusion. “Well, we’ll fix that. Come along, men! We’ll introduce you to the group!” He starts walking off back down the hall the way he came, calling loudly to the Easter Island head that honestly creeps Ivan out a bit, to please call a meeting.

Napoleon, Ivan and Al look at each other for a moment.

… Follow? Or stay behind?

Or, more specifically, go force themselves out of their comfort zone and make acquaintanceships, or cage themselves in to a lonely rest of their time here and possible assassination?

Ivan turns, squares his shoulders and follows the ex-president first, followed by Napoleon with his nose in the air, and finally an uncertain Al. “Fine, but I aint trust none of ‘em.”

[fairestcat]

We Did The Thing: Musings On the AO3, Wiscon, and Winning the Fandom Culture Wars

HOLY SHIT WE WON A MOTHERFUCKING HUGO.

Ahem.

More seriously - or at least more verbosely - I think we won the fandom culture wars. How weird is that?

This is a sort of rambly post. It's about the OTW and the AO3, but it's also about Wiscon, because that's the community I'm in where old-school SFF fandom and transformative works fandom collide, and it's where I've watched this transformation happen over the last decade.

Back in October I made a tumblr post about the history of the OTW/AO3: On the AO3 all these years later.

That post is mostly just quotes from the comments to @astolat's original post that started the AO3: An Archive Of One's Own - and quotes from the post I made back then linking to hers:  An Archive of One's Own, Or: Why Shouldn't We Ask For Everything We Want?

Those posts are from May 2007. I was on the OTW Finance Committee by that fall.

One year later, in May 2008, I went to my first Wiscon. I was on two panels: "Fanfic and Slash 201," and "Fanfic Rising: The Organization for Transformative Works."

They were back to back on Saturday night. "Fanfic and Slash 201" from 9:00 to 10:15 and the OTW panel from 10:30 to 11:45. All fanworks panels at non fanworks-specific cons were late night panels back then. Or, occasionally, on Monday morning after half the con had gone home.

I don't remember who else was on the Fanfic 201 panel, but the OTW panel was me, @oliviacirce and ellen_fremedon. The three of us had never met before that con. @oliviacirce and I had been in Chicago Friday night for a Panic! At the Disco concert and hadn't gotten back to Madison until 3am. I have no idea how we were even still coherent for a 10:30 PM panel.

None of us wrote the panel description, which reads even more impressively antagonistic in retrospect.

"The Organization for Transformative Works (OTW), led by fanfic writers, fan vidders, and fan artists (including writer Naomi Novik) seeks to establish a new regime in copyright law, in which 'all fannish works are recognized as legal and transformative and are accepted as a legitimate creative activity.' Should there be an exception for fanfic under copyright? Is OTW a good idea? (Some fans are afraid that OTW's activities will end BigMedia's tolerance for fannish creations.) What does the law say? What's the viewpoint of those who create original works -- should authors lose control of their original creations, as long as fans claim protection under a fanfic exception? And what about OTW's commitment to offer protection for RPF (Real People Fanfic)?"

At the time I would have said it was a pretty good panel, and yet we spent a distressing percentage of the panel defending the mere right of fanworks to even exist.

I went back to Wiscon in 2009, which was an...eventful year. It was the first Wiscon post-Racefail and it sparked a lot of discussion of intersecting modes of fannishness and particularly online fandom vs. offline con-based fandom, which was at the time a much bigger divide.

Wiscon 2009 was also the year @ellen_fremedon went to a panel on historical fiction, and got jumped on by Ellen Klages, who was one of that year's Guests of Honor, for the sin of mentioning fanfic in her presence.

After that Wiscon I posted Wiscon, Media Fandom and The Larger Fannish Conversation, about my experience of that divide, particularly as a transformative works fan at Wiscon.

Here's the thing: online media and fanfic fandom is a vibrant, active community within broader SF fandom. [...] And to a large extent media fandom is where the young female fans are, the women who are the future of fandom. We're there at Wiscon too; I was amazed by the number of people from LJ fandom I saw at the con this year. And yet, when it comes to having a voice in larger fandom, we're still the embarrassing cousin shuffled off into the corner (or the hotel lobby). Even at Wiscon, the feminist science fiction convention, we're mostly under the radar, carving out a tiny niche for ourselves.

Last year we had two general, broad-topic fanfic panels. This year we had a fanfic panel, a vidding panel and the media vs. book fandom panel, which was not explicitly a media fandom panel but had an audience heavily weighted towards media fandom participants. And I walked into those panels and I thought "Here! Here are my people!" But it was frustrating too. Why are we relegated to the corner, why are we willing to be relegated to the corner? The conversations we're having, the things we're doing, they don't exist in a vacuum, they're relevant to the larger fannish conversation, they're especially relevant, I think, to the conversation going on at Wiscon. And I think it's time we were a bigger, more open part of that conversation.

So, we set out to make that happen. The OTW and the AO3 were a big part of that. Everyone who was worried at the time that the OTW would bring too much attention to fandom was right to be afraid. And wrong to be afraid too. Because that attention was how everything started to change. The OTW was fandom coming out of the closet, and like any coming out it was a powerful, transformative moment for those involved.

In 2010, a group of fans held the first ever Wiscon Vid Party. 

At Wiscon in 2010, we held the first ever vid party in one of these hospitality suites on the Saturday night, from 9pm to 3am. That's six hours of vid programming! It was mostly unthemed, other than "here are some amazing vids!"[...] The general vibe of the party was loud, a little bit raucous, and pretty informal. We had a mixture of sofas and armchairs, stackable seating, and standing room. People came and went at will. We put a sign on the door asking people to keep conversations to a minimum, and it worked pretty well to keep chatter down while still allowing people to relax and have a good time. It was pretty much like a really big living room.

I missed that con due to the whole move to Canada and get married thing I did, but I remember my first Vid Party in 2012, looking around the party room and having this amazing feeling of being surrounded by my people.

I loved Wiscon, but it was always a fraught experience. There was always this worry that I'd say the wrong thing in the wrong place and suddenly get that disappointed, "oh, you're one of those fans," response. The vid party was the one place at the con that you could just walk in and that worry went away.

And then there started being more of those places. We started suggesting more and more fic and vid related panels.

In 2012, @oliviacirce and I were both on two transformative works panels. "What makes a great transformative work?" and "Fans Fix SF." In a step up from previous fanworks panels at Wiscon they were both during the day. But they were also both in the smallest panel rooms at the con, and both panels fit comfortably into those rooms. Conference 5, where "Fans Fix SF" was held, is still the only room Wiscon uses for programming that's so small it isn't wired for microphones.

And then in 2013 I suggested ten panels for Wiscon and nine of them ended up on the schedule. They weren't all explicitly transformative fandom panels, but a lot of them were, and most of the panel descriptions were informed by my experience in transformative works fandom. Looking back, that was a sea-change moment, because an interesting thing happened. There mostly stopped being transformative fandom-specific panels at Wiscon, because it started being okay, even expected, that fanfic and other transformative works might come up on any panel, from the audience or the panelists.

At Wiscon 2018, I went to a panel on #OwnVoices fiction. Every panelist was a published author and/or professional editor. In the course of the panel, every panelist mentioned fanfic in general or the AO3 in specific in an explicitly complementary fashion. I nearly burst into tears in the back of the panel room.

Afterwards, I met up with @oliviacirce and ellen_fremedon to flail about it, at which point we realized that it had been ten years since that first fateful OTW panel where we all met. And that ten years both felt like so long ago, and also so recent for everything to have changed so completely.

At Wiscon 2019, the three of us were on another panel together. We called it "Fanfic: Threat or Menace - Ten Years Later," and this time I wrote the description:

Do you remember a time before the AO3? Do you remember a time when mentioning fanfic at Wiscon risked a lecture on its illegality and/or immorality? We sure do! In 2008 we met on the panel “Fanfic Rising: The Organization for Transformative Works,” & spent most of our time defending the right of fanworks to exist. In 2018 we were amazed to realize just how much had changed. Let’s talk about how the perception & reception of fanworks have changed, both in fandom at large and right here at Wiscon.

We made it onto the schedule. They once again put us in the smallest panel room. We looked around the lobby on Thursday night and said, "yeah, that ain't happening." We eventually moved to one of the largest panel rooms.

It was almost completely full.

I started the panel by reading out the original panel description from 2008. There was laughter! revolutionaryjo came up afterwards and asked to take a picture of the description on my phone. There were so many people in that room who had no idea what the Wiscon of a decade previous had been like. It was amazing.

Best Related Work? The OTW and AO3 changed the nature of the relationship between fic readers and writers and the entirety of mainstream organized SFF fandom.

The Wiscon Vid Party is still happening, and it's still a marathon of amazing vids, but it's not a really big living room anymore. The Vid Party is the Friday night feature in the biggest panel room. There are Premieres. There’s a sing-a-long. People come who have never watched a vid outside of Wiscon. People come who've never even heard of vids outside of Wiscon. The first year the Vid Party was in the big room, I walked into the room just before the show started, looked around, and realized I didn't recognize ⅔ of the people in the room. And I was so happy. Because I no longer need the Vid Party as a safe space to let down my guard, the entire con is now that place.

We did that. We made that happen.

The OTW made that happen. The AO3 made that happen. But also, a whole lot of individual fans made that happen. We stepped out of our corner, we stepped out of our closet. We demanded a seat at the table. And now we have a motherfucking HUGO AWARD, and when Naomi Novik got on stage at the Hugos and asked everyone who felt that they were part of the AO3 to stand up to be acknowledged, a notable number of this year's other Hugo nominees were among the attendees who got to their feet.

[among-the-lostboys]

Function 11: Hero’s Departure || Adventure Cuz

Summary: Jane catches John with an ancient sword. 

@lost-girl-at-sea​

JANE

After some lingering last minute excuses and term papers graded (Jane hoped to never have to deal with having Vanessa Doofenshmirtz or Kovu Blackwell in a class ever again), Jane had finally finished all the work she needed to before break. She had a few days of freedom before she begrudgingly trekked to Portsmouth for Christmas Eve (she was doing it for Danny, she reminded herself, doing it for Danny), and she was going to kick start it all with a nice mug of tea and a good poetry book she’d been saving for a quiet moment.

It was mid-afternoon, though because it was the winter solstice, the sun was already low in the sky. Jane didn’t care much for days-old snow piling up on Main Street or for the tinsel-covered stores with their twinkling lights. Still, though — the students running through the park and pelting each other with snowballs brought a little smile to her face. 

She reached her flat, undoing her scarf as she pushed open the door, ready to just flop on the couch —

“What the hell?”

Her cousin stood in the living room, carrying a bloody sword. (What was it with people randomly having swords these days?!)

“Uh… did you join up with a historical reenactment group I was not aware of?” asked Jane, taking off her coat. 

JOHN:

Hell, he’d forgotten about Jane. 

Normally, this would not be a problem. He and Jane were not the sort of cousins who provided each other schedules for their various whereabouts and extracurriculars. They both knew better than to bring anyone back here, and so if Jane did not come home one night, John did not question it, only sent a text the next day, at some point, with an innocuous question to confirm that his cousin was indeed still alive. 

However, maybe he should have asked when Jane was coming home so he wouldn’t be caught with a sword in one hand. Or maybe he should have wrapped the bloody thing up in his room instead of out here in the living room.

But he hadn’t been thinking. The sun was going to set soon. 

And so here she was. Jane. John glanced toward the sword and his mind wiped itself blank. For years, he’d buried himself in lies but now he could not think of a single one. 

“Something like that,” he said then, because, well, at least she had given him one. Whether or not she believed him--

He put the sword back on top of the coffee table and went back to wrapping it up in the spare coat. “I’m ah, actually just heading out,” he said. “I’ll be back later.” 

JANE

At that, she laughed, undoing her scarf. She’d not been serious in the slightest and she hadn’t thought John would be serious at all. She figured she’d put on that kettle she wanted to and he’d tell her about how some eccentric professor gave him a sword to hold onto or how he confiscated it from Phillip Knightley or something absurd and they’d laugh and complain about holiday plans —

But Jane turned around to find John wrapping up the sword. He looked… off. Jane couldn’t quite place it except there was a look in John’s eye that reminded her more of her own, really. If he had joined a historical reenactment group, it was a damn serious one. 

“John,” said Jane, stepping over to the kitchen. She didn’t want to interrogate him, but at the same time, she had a damning gut feeling that something was wrong. Now Jane had enough of a head on her to pause and assess most gut feelings, but she had enough of a gut not to ignore them. 

She kept her voice light now, reaching for a bag of chocolate she’d picked up at the market and unwrapping one. “What is going on? I can't believe you haven’t invited me to swing a sword around.”

JOHN:

Now that he wasn’t looking at Jane, it was easier to think of lies. They came to him one after another, like dominoes falling into place. But he felt guilty for them in a way he normally didn’t. This guilt was misplaced and it was also inconvenient. What did it matter? This was not Jane’s business. Finding Faery had never been anyone’s business but John’s own; he’d discovered that very young, when no one, not even his own parents, had believed him. 

In a few hours, it wouldn’t matter. If everything went according to plan, then he'd be back with Wendy and he’d explain it then. 

And if things didn’t go according to plan-- 

John did not bother to think farther on that sentence. There were too many ways that this could fail; to expect them would be to invite those failures closer. Tonight, he needed to be less like himself and more… he needed to be brave and rash and confident. Like Jane, actually. And like Wendy. 

So he looked up. “Well I would if I were allowed to swing the sword but it’s a historical artifact, not a toy.” He raised his eyebrows at her in that older cousin way. He tucked the sword underneath his arm. “I was using it for my thesis,” he explained. “There’s writing on the handle but-- well, I’ve got to return it to the school before it all closes down for the holidays. So, no swordfighting tonight, I’m afraid.” 

JANE:

For a moment, Jane thought about making a joke about it all — how it was disappointing that there was a very lovely, very real sword in front of her that neither of them would wield. There was, in that moment, nothing about John’s explanation that gave her a pause at all, because, well, who was she to doubt him? 

She popped the chocolate in her mouth, leaning a bit on the counter, and glanced at John again. And well, beneath that dismissive little eyebrow raise — a familiar expression that rarely registered with Jane these days (though it certainly did bug her as a child) — there was something about his face that still felt off to her. She couldn’t quite place it. She should dismiss it, really, for it was an illogical feeling that crept up on her. But it lingered. Why would it linger? 

Jane pushed it down. She had to ignore this silliness. Perhaps it was just some lingering dread of her own about the holidays, perhaps because she’d just spent hours telling students that no, she was not going to grant them extra credit, perhaps she just needed to make a silly joke and shake it off.

Yes, of course that was it. 

She was being silly. 

“Fair enough,” she said as she tossed out the wrapper, moving to get the kettle. “If you were actually going on some epic, sword fighting quest, you should at least ask me to come as back-up. A lone hero is such a cliche. Plus I throw a better punch.” An eyebrow raise of her own here.

JOHN:

There was a weight in the room, an invisible weight, gathering the way that storm clouds gathered. John knew the weight well. He felt it roll in when he and Jane approached topics they knew never to talk about. Like John’s father, or Jane’s magic, or their love lives (or lack of love lives)-- things that felt fragile, as if to speak of them would give those things power. 

More and more lately, John almost broke those walls. And right now-- he thought about it again.

There was a version of this where John told Jane the truth and she believed him and she told him to hold on while she grabbed her coat, slipped her shoes back on. In that version, John did not do this alone, as he had been doing for years and years in his quiet, unassuming way. He let himself imagine it, and he could almost see it. He got all the way to the forest, with Jane at his side. But then, after--? If it didn’t work? Or if it did? And John’s game of pretend faded quickly, because it wasn’t a game of pretend at all. This time, Jane could not be invited. He didn’t know if he remembered to ask for help anyway. 

And so John swallowed. The weight remained in the room. “Well that’s true. Good thing I’m not planning on punching anything.” 

That wasn’t a lie. You fought faery with words, not weapons. 

He headed toward the door. “See you,” he said and this, he hoped, wouldn’t be a lie either.

[ibtk]

Book Review: Amber and Clay by Laura Amy Schlitz & Julia Iredale (2021)

(Full disclosure: I received a free ARC for review through Edelweiss and Library Thing's Early Reviewers program. Content warning for child abuse, animal abuse, and sexual assault.)

The children I spoke of before were like that. They weren’t alike, but they fit together, like lock and key. The boy, Rhaskos, was a slave boy. Unlucky at first. A Thracian boy—(Thrace is north of Greece) —redheaded, nervy, neglected. A clever boy who was taught he was stupid. A beautiful boy whose mother scarred him with a knife. The girl, Melisto, started life lucky. A rich man’s daughter, and a proper Greek. Owl-eyed Melisto: a born fighter, prone to tantrums, hating the loom. A wild girl, chosen by Artemis, and lucky, as I said before— except for one thing: she died young. This is their story. When it's over, if you like, you can tell me what it means.

"I want to tell you the things I never told anyone, in case this is my last chance. When I was alive, I didn’t talk much. So much of what I felt was a secret. I think that’s what I loved about the bear. Neither of us had any words."

Again we walked and talked. I never talked to anyone like that. No one ever talked like that to me. I talk to you still, Melisto. I’ve been talking to you ever since.

The red-haired boy variously known as Rhaskos, Thrax, and Pyrrhos is many things, though few of his masters care to know. He's Thracian nobility, with the scars to prove it - and also a slave, belonging to the wealthy Alexidemus and his soldier son Menon in Thessaly, and then to a humble potter named Phaistus in Athens. He loves horses and is as adept at handling them as he will one day become at drawing and sculpting them. He is a contemporary and friend of Sokrates, though he is powerless to stop his execution. He is an orphan, with a dolphin for a mother; a mother who loves him so fiercely that she curses a ghost to help set him free. He is like clay: common at first glance, but also not; capable of transmuting into creations lovely, clever, and full of value.

The owl-eyed girl called Melisto is seemingly as lucky as Rhaskos is not: the only child of a wealthy Athenian, Melisto wants for nothing. But she is a wild (read: untamed) girl child in a rigidly gendered society that has already predetermined Melisto's future for her: marriage, motherhood, a life of quiet domesticity. When, at the age of ten, Melisto is chosen to serve the goddess Athena as a Little Bear, her life opens up before her at Brauron; this is who she was meant to be. Like all good things, it cannot last.

Rhaskos and Melisto's destinies collide when Melisto frees a bear cub that is to be sacrificed to Athena. Or maybe their paths met even earlier, when Meda/Thratta was ripped from her toddler son. Perhaps the gods nudged them towards each other from birth. Alternately, the gods have nothing to do with it. Who can say? (Hermes, maybe. He has a lot to say and loves to hear himself talk!)

AMBER AND CLAY is ... not what I expected. Normally I'd steer clear of a contemporary (or any!) book styled after the ancient, epic poems (I positively labored through THE ODYSSEY and THE ILIAD in high school!), but the visual element sucked me in. I was under the (mistaken!) impression that AMBER AND CLAY would be heavier in illustrations than it actually is, almost as though part graphic novel. As it turns out, the illustrations - of archaeological artifacts - are a little sparser than I hoped, but they tie into the narrative quite nicely and add another layer of wonder and surprise to the story. The "exhibits" are really well done and do not disappoint.

Additionally, the synopsis had me thinking that this would be a supernatural romance; and while AMBER AND CLAY is indeed a love story, Rhaskos and Melisto are entirely too young to hook up, even by the time they finally meet near the story's end. (It's hard not to envision them - especially Rhaskos - as older than they are, both because the story seemingly stretching across years, and so much happens to these crazy kids to last several lifetimes.) Instead, this is a different kind of love story: AMBER AND CLAY tells of the love between a mother and her son; a father and his daughter; a teacher and his students; a girl and a bear; a ghost and her tether to the earth.

And despite my reservations about those epic poems, Schlitz both honors the form and breathes new life into it. While Melisto tells her story in prose, Rhaskos speaks in verse; and the gods sometimes address us commoners in turn-counterturn, occasionally using more complicated linguistic techniques like elegian couplets (which I barely recollect from HS English). This all sounds incredibly tricky and complicated (and undoubtedly is), but Schlitz pulls it off without a hitch. AMBER AND CLAY is fun and engaging, with a surprising sense of humor and expert sense of dramatic flair.

“Oh, Phaistus, look at his hair! He’ll be beautiful once he’s healed. We’ll call him Pyrrhos!” As if I were a dog. Pyrrhos means fiery. Half the red-haired slaves in Athens are called Pyrrhos.

It is, dare I say, exceedingly readable.

Honestly, I let out a little groan when I saw the "Cast of Characters" on page one, complete with various households and multiple monikers for the same people; but the story, the characters, their relationships to one another - all are easy enough to follow.

Schlitz's characters, both those based on historical figures and those spun from imagination and whimsy, are so full of life that they practically jump off the page. Rhaskos and Melisto; Meda and Lysandra; Phaistus and Zosima; Menon and Lykos; and, of course, Sokrates. Likewise, her descriptions of Greek life and customs left me hungering to learn more. Naturally, the most fascinating custom - that of the Little Bears of Brauron - is also that which we know the least about.

The scenes featuring Melisto and the bear cub are among my favorite in the book. In a story filled with animal sacrifice, this little slice of compassion and respect is life-affirming; to wit:

It turned in slow circles and collapsed with its rump pressed against her thigh. Melisto put one hand on it. It seemed to her that she had never touched anything more real than the bear cub.

For a moment her mind slipped back into the past. She recalled the bruises she had carried from her mother’s pinches, and the sore patches on her scalp from Lysandra’s hair-pulling. She remembered the loathing in her mother’s face that struck terror into her soul. She had never been afraid of the bear like that.

and

On the nights when she waded into the bay and watched the moon, she was barely conscious of the fact that it was she who saw, and the moon that was being watched. In the same way, she did not measure how much she loved the bear. She was the bear.

Likewise, Rhaskos's interactions with Grau/Phoibe are so wonderfully tender, my heart aches just to think back on them. From the moment he renames her (grau means hag) - a change of name that's much more respectful than those Rhaskos was forced to accept - Rhaskos treats his donkey charge with decency and kindness. The same kindness that he himself longs for.

Animals know when things get better. People might not know, but animals do. That very first day, Grau knew I was going to be good to her and I swear to you, she was glad.

Cue the "what is this salty discharge" gifs.

AMBER AND CLAY is such a beautiful story, and I'm glad I took a chance on it. Iambic pentameter be damned.      

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/3861642614 

[michael-weinstein]

A Christmas Post

Well, merry Christmas I guess. As an Israeli-Jew, I celebrate Hannukah each winter (it never has a fixed date in the Greogrian calendar) and never celebrated Christmas. That is, I never got a chance, because I'm actually quite interested and curious in American and European celebrations of Christmas. As a child, I was enthralled by "The Nutcracker", and less by the choreography, rather than Tchaikovsky's music. Even though I saw only one performance live so far (and that was when I knew much about it and was slightly older, so it didn't really make an impact on me), I have seen back then 2 productions: a 1977 production of the American Ballet Theater, choreographed by Mikhail Baryshnikov, starring him and Gelsey Kirkland. I must admit I haven't seen that one in a very long while, and I actually don't remember much of it, so I can't really say how much I like it, except that it is quite of a "traditional" Nutcracker so to speak. The music is provided by the National Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Kenneth Schermerhorn, some of the numbers are cut.

Much more memorable is the 1999 production of the Berlin State Ballet. This one, choreographed by Patrice Bart, is one of those "reinterpetations", which entered the opera world by the '70s, if not the '50s (the Wieland Wagner productions at Bayreuth, for example). It's one of those things, which made sense to do only in Berlin (both the company and its building, the State Opera, were part of what was then called East Berlin). This one puts revolution and psychology to the fore, and I will leave the rest to John Phillips from MusicWeb International:

Patrice Bart placed a prologue before the ballet [i.e. after the overture]. Its purpose was to elucidate the story in which Marie was abducted as a young child. Russian revolutionaries had attacked Marie and her aristocratic family and killed her father. The mother survived but went missing, leaving the traumatized little girl to believe that she lives in an imaginary land of ice and snow. She was adopted by the Stahlbaum family, but there she does not feel happy [...] She is not a 'normal' child [...] carefree and happy on Christmas Eve; the trauma will not leave her. This is where the wondrous figure of Drosselmeyer comes into the story. Drosselmeyer knows of Marie’s history. He intends to lead her back to her mother, so he brings the Nutcracker to life and reconciles Marie with her past. [...] [T]he Nutcracker is not a Christmas present from Drosselmeyer but a toy which she has always carried with her since before the abduction. The wooden puppet, whose uniform awakens memories of her father, is the catalyst for Marie’s renewed confrontation with the gruesome event in the dream — therapeutically speaking it is the first step towards becoming aware, towards healing.

Whatever you may think of the concept, it is superbly danced, but I will like to put your attention to the music itself. Most ballet orchestras will usually seem to have the orchestra playing Tchaikovsky's dramatic music (it is dramatic at least in the first act) rather lifeless and mechanical (of which the production mentioned above might be faulty), but this isn't the case if you're having the Staatskapelle Berlin and Daniel Barenboim in the pit. Barenboim seems to accentuate well how the music: a. has really strong connections with the composer's symphonies, and b. how much Tchaikovsky was inspired by Liszt and Wagner, even in what for some people would be seemingly unimportant music. Again to quote Phillips: "[W]e have a superb orchestra [...] playing as if their very lives depended upon it. Even where Barenboim slows the tempo down to suit the choreography, there is a passion and sonority in the playing". Unfortunately, this production is not available online for viewing (apart from a few excerpts from the later parts of the ballet), but you can buy it online.

From here on, I quite liked Nutcracker, and felt always rather disappointed when, looking at the discography at the Tchaikovsky Research website, there were barely any recordings by Austro-German orchestras (I quite like hearing music played by these kinds of orchestras). I apparently had, lying around, the 1998 recording by Valery Gergiev and the Kirov (alias Mariinsky) Orchestra. Listening to a few excerpts now, in retrospect, it seems a bit too fast, or even skating over the surface. But, as with Barenboim, there is honest feeling and passion to the music. Later, I was also given the full score of the ballet (easy to get online, Dover reprint), and it's quite full of markings right now.

In elementary school, some of my friends among the classmates were of Russian origin (more than a million of former Soviet Jews have emigrated during the early '90s), and as a consequence they didn't go to school on 1 January, because of Novy God (it's just like Christmas, only more pagan than Christian. The role of Santa Claus is filled by Grandfather Frost). Yet in recent years, I'm much more interested in - obviously - the German-speaking Christmas traditions. There are some traditional Christmas carols which are originally in German, and I'm going to talk about one of them right now.

My favourite Christmas song is Stille Nacht (Silent Night in English, but I will practically keep referring to the original German title), and it's one of the most famous Christmas songs (Bing Crosby's 1935 rendition is reported to be the fourth best-selling single of all time). My favourite performers are, however, the Vienna Boys' Choir (Wiener Sängerknaben). They recorded Stille Nacht quite of a number of times, as they released many Christmas albums over the years. The 1990 recording includes all of the six stanzas, and can sound quite mundane on repetition, even if you're able to appreciate the German lyrics. Look for some of the shorter recordings, yet this longer one has a particular dark timbre that I like more than the crystal bright one from the other ones.

But it's time to leave the holiday coziness, and shatter it alla Mahler into pieces. The first example is the rendition of Simon and Garfunkel, recorded in 1966, and it's typical of its time. On one channel, the duo sings the carol, while on the other, a news reporter announces the "7 o'clock news", obviously pessimistic and hope-drowning. Even though I'm about to show a way in which this dissonance is - in my opinion - better portrayed, Paul and Artie should not be easily dismissed, and their take on this carol is original and fresh in its own right.

In 1978, Alfred Schnittke wrote his "Stille Nacht", reportedly as a Christmas card to his friend, the violinist Gidon Kremer, for violin and piano. That probably tops all other Christmas cards in irony and hate-of-kitsch, so to speak. This Stille Nacht is full with dissonances, is creepy, cringy and actually makes Christmas sound more as if Halloween didn't yet understand that it was time to go already. Yet there it also makes the piece more humorus. When I played this to my dad for the first time, a few weeks ago, he laughed so hard, that I had to stop in the middle, because I was afraid he will run out of oxygen. He then told me that it was one of the most funny things he has heard in years. So it can be a good Christmas joke, but you do need to put it in some context. Schnittke, a Soviet of Jewish origin, was held in contempt by the Soviet system for being such a "problematic" composer, so to speak. Yet there is also not only light to be shed on the personal, but also the historic. When Kremer and his pianist wife Elena (currently Barenboim's wife) premiered the piece in Austria, it caused a scandal. By 1978 Austria, as well as Germany, were tainted by the years and crimes of Nazism, and after the catastrophe of two world wars, with the threat of a third, it didn't seem that anyone - either in Austria or Germany or anywhere else, for that matter - could believe - willingly or otherwise - that the idyll offered by "Stille Nacht" could become reality. A "Stille Nacht" for our time perhaps? Not a single one, as mentioned above, but in my opinion the main one. Gidon and Elena Kremer, shortly after the premiere recorded the piece. Schnittke, however, revised the piece a bit later. This is presented with a score in a performance by Mateja Marinkovic and Linn Hendry. Yet the former recording makes more of the irony and dark humor, inherent in the piece.

So, as this day comes to a close, try to enjoy or chill for your last moments of the last Christmas of the decade.

(Originally posted: 25 December 2019)

[luccislegs]

I'm in love with your writing.. 💘 mind writing something for ace? maybe going from friends to lovers? tiny bit of angst? I LOVE YOUR WRITING take your time and have a good day!! 💘💘

yes hello hi thank you! i can’t send emojis but just know they’re there in spirit! also sorry it took me so long to get to this, i just didn’t really have a direction to go with it. still don’t really, but yolo. also i’m not real sure i’ve got everything about ace’s personality down, but i think i’ve got enough.

–

You watched from the sidelines as Ace wrapped his arms around another woman’s shoulder’s, his own shaking in amusement. It stung, but you weren’t angry. He didn’t know how much it hurt you.

None of the others did, either. You had kept your feelings locked down tight, not wanting everyone to worry or start trying to butt into your business. Still, nights like tonight, you wished you had someone you could talk to.

Looking back up, you watched Ace leave with the woman, dozens of envious gazes following them out of the bar.

You ordered another drink.

                                                           _____

“Hey, _____, you wanna go into town with me?” Ace called from the stairs.

You poked your head out of the bathroom door, a toothbrush hanging out of your mouth. Nodding, you held a finger up to indicate you needed just a moment. Your ship had just landed in the next port of call, and you were excited to explore the spring island. The last few had been nothing but winter and fall, mostly rain or snow. It had been ages since you had set foot on properly dry land.

You bounded up the steps towards the top deck and looked around, but couldn’t find him. There was a call of your name, and turned to find one of the other crew members.

“Ace is waiting down there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the docks.

“Thanks,” you said, and hopped over the side of the ship. Ace was waiting there, leaning up against a barrel that had just been offloaded. “What do we need to get?” you asked, flicking the brim of his hat up in greeting.

He frowned playfully and made a show of fixing it. “Nothing in particular. Just wanted to go sightseeing.” He smiled at you, and offered his arm.

That was so typical of Ace. You had mentioned multiple times how much you hoped the weather was nice when you landed at the next island, and grew steadily more antsy the close you got to your destination. And somehow, Ace had taken it upon himself to escort you. It made your heart ache.

You eyed his arm with hesitation, not realizing how clearly it was written on your face, nor that Ace’s smile had dropped into a frown. His mouth opened to say something, maybe to ask you what was going on. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed you were acting different. He always made it a point to know how his crew was doing, but you especially. You were different. Not that he wanted anyone else to know that.

But then you were taking his arm, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and were moving in the direction of the town, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask anymore.

Soon enough, it didn’t matter. There was so much to see that you both forgot the tension from earlier. The island turned out to house quite a few historical sights, including a massive tree thousands of years old, old ruins from an ancient civilization, and a gorgeous beach on the other side from where you had docked.

After spending the whole day sightseeing, you and Ace had led the crew around to the beach. Right about now, you would normally have been setting up shop in a bar for the night, but everyone had agreed a raucous party on the beach would be preferable; even they were tired of being cooped up inside.

Everything was perfect for the first few hours. The crew had brought dozens of barrels of rum with them from the ship– you would have to restock again before leaving the island– and everyone was so hammered it was a surprise that they were all still capable of standing.

Then a few of the younger locals caught wind of your party– or more likely heard your party– and showed up. Ace, who had practically been glued to your side the whole night, had made his way over to them and invited them to join.

You could see already that the women that came were immediately smitten with them, and Ace wasn’t about to brush them off.

A ball formed in the pit of your stomach, dread and pain settling like a rock. When he slung his arms around their shoulders and started to guide them in your direction, you ducked into the crowd, disappearing from his sight.

Ace’s grin instantly disappeared and he began to search for you, but it was impossible to make you out in the dark and crowd. Letting go of his companions, he hurried over to where he had last seen you, calling out your name in worry.

You couldn’t hear him over the noise or the pounding of your own heart, and continued to weave in and out of the dozens of people until you came out into the dark on the other side.

It was dumb luck that Ace, now pushing through the crowd without caring who’s toes he stepped on, was close enough to catch a glimpse of you before you were swallowed up by the dark. You weren’t running, but you were clearly in a rush to disappear. His pulse was thrumming in his ears and he fought to close the distance, but his crew members weren’t making it easy. Finally, as a last resort, he allowed himself to heat up just enough to make everyone around him fearful of being burned. At last, a path opened up and he raced after you, using his fire to follow your tracks in the sand before they were washed away by the sea.

You were out of breath by the time you decided to stop. After escaping the light of the bonfire, when you were sure no one could see you, you had begun to run, and didn’t stop until your lungs began to hurt and it grew too hard to breathe. You collapsed into the sand, lying down on your back and struggling to control your breathing. Tears had been burning, threatening to fall as you weaved through your crewmates, but they had long since faded. Right now, all you felt was apathy as you stared up at the countless stars above you. It would be so easy to just disappear into town, find the nearest bar and take some stranger to your bed for the night. In fact, the idea was downright tantalizing, but it was quickly doused by a wave of melancholy as a vision of Ace swam up in your head.

With a sigh, you sat up, knowing it was fruitless to go that route. You had tried it before, and were left disappointed because the whole time, you couldn’t get Ace out of your mind.

Crunching in the sand alerted you to a new presence, and your guard immediately came up. Reaching towards your boot, you prepared to draw the emergency dagger you kept on you, until you saw the hand outlined in flames.

“_____,” Ace said, kneeling down beside you in the sand. His hand cupped your chin, thumb caressing the line of your jaw as he studied your face. “What’s going on? You just ran off.”

You put on a smile, pulling your chin from his hand in the process, saying, “Nothing’s wrong. The noise just got to be too much.”

You could tell by the way his jaw set that Ace wasn’t buying it this time. The smile hadn’t reached your eyes, and you had been running from him, no matter how you tried to spin it. He wasn’t stupid, he knew you were pulling away from him, that something he had done or was doing was upsetting you. He had been too cowardly to ask before now, afraid that you were going to pull away from him entirely.

“That isn’t true. I know that isn’t true. I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to tell me. What have I done?” he said, taking your hand in his instead. He wanted the contact, needed it, in case it was the last time he ever touched you. He desperately hoped it wasn’t, but he wasn’t fool enough to just assume.

Linking your fingers through his, you stared down at them, relishing in the contact yourself. It used to be that you would freely reach out and grab his hand, or wrap your arms around him. You weren’t sure when that had stopped. “Ace, I…” The tears were back, stinging at the corners of your eyes. “I can’t…” You stopped again, taking a deep breath. It was time for you to come clean, and it was a make or break scenario. Part of you had hoped it would never come, better to be his friend than to ruin everything. The other part of you, the part that harbored the pain, was relieved. “I can’t stand seeing you leave every night with other women. It’s selfish, but I want it to be me.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly how you wanted to say it, but it was the best you could do right now in the face of your rising panic. Ace was quiet, and you forced yourself to look up, to meet his eyes. They were wide, showing just how off-guard your confession had caught him.

And then he laughed.

You could feel your heart break in your chest, every hope you had tried to deny sinking right down to your toes. The dam broke and tears raced down your cheeks, but you wouldn’t give into the need to sob. You pulled your hand gently from his, using it to wipe your face. “Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

Except it wasn’t. Maybe you hadn’t expected him to actually return your feelings, but you never in a million years would have imagined that he would laugh at you. That wasn’t Ace. He didn’t laugh at other people like that.

“Hey, hey now,” he said, pulling your hand back into his. He shuffled closer, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t mean it like that, you just surprised me. I had no idea…”

Of course he didn’t, you had done everything in your power to make sure he never would. Ace had everything going for him, you would just hold him back.

Cupping your cheek, he forced you to look at him again before asking, “_____, you really mean it?” His heart was in his throat, desperately trying not to let his hopes get too high in case you were playing some extremely cruel joke on him. He wasn’t joking when he said he had no idea. You had always paid him more attention than the others, but it never crossed a line into what he could even pretend to think of as flirtatious.

Your eyes fluttered closed, the tears having finally stopped, and leaned further into his palm, relishing the warmth it exuded. Ace was always warm, and more often than not you would seek him out when a blanket simply wasn’t enough. “Of course I do, Ace. Why would I joke about that?”

He gave you a weak smile, which you missed entirely because your eyes were still closed. You felt his arms come around you, though, holding you so tight you almost couldn’t breathe. Uncertainly, your arms came up to wrap around his back, skimming up his spine until they settled in the center of his tattoo. The chill from the cool spring night evaporated immediately in his arms, and you found yourself pushing closer, seeking more.

Ace pulled back, his nose coming down to skim yours, and your breath hitched when you met his eyes. Leaning closer still, so you could feel his breath on your lips, he whispered, “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped several beats and you didn’t even answer, just pulling him down so his lips were pressed to yours. Your mind seemed to stop working, your entire focus centering around the way his lips moved against yours, parting so his tongue could dip into your mouth.

You could hardly think even after he had pulled away, resting his forehead against yours as both of you regained your breath.

“I never wanted any of those women, _____. I just needed something to distract me from you,” he said, allowing his fingers to comb through your hair. Before you could say anything in response, he was pulling you forward, into his lap and his lips were on yours again.

The party went on for hours, well into the early morning, but you never made it back.

–

they should teach a class on how to write a kiss bc i’ve no idea. anyway i hope this is angsty enough and enjoy!

[antiquecompass]

Ficlet: Chains of Love

Forgot to post this over here, but a tiny LAHL Xicheng Valentine’s Day Ficlet, featuring siblings, paper chains, and other chains.

In many ways having his brother living in his ridiculous historical mansion not even thirty minutes away made Jiang Cheng’s life easier. In other ways it made it an absolute goddamned burden. Like now, when his brother decided to waltz into the Jiang Industries Pittsfield Location, right into Jiang Cheng’s office, to find him doing his best to be a supportive partner and help construct the ridiculous amounts of red, white, and pink paper chains for all the Lan Academy elementary school Valentine Day parties.

Jiang Cheng didn’t even have a chance to duck and hide as Wei Ying quickly snapped an entire series of photos.

“I’m sending these to everyone I know,” Wei Ying said.

“Get the fuck out of my building,” Jiang Cheng said, throwing one of his many glue sticks at his brother’s head.

“How in the hell did Xichen,” he picked up one of the finished chains, “rope you into this one? Chain you into Arts and Crafts hell? Ensnare you into--”

“You can stop at any time,” Jiang Cheng said.

“Fair,” Wei Ying agreed. “Still--how?”

“Have you seen his disappointed face?” Jiang Cheng asked.

Wei Ying shuddered. “Enough said.” He sat down, dropping a paper bag with a large grease stain in the middle of the table. “I brought you curly fries because I was writing about a character eating curly fries, and then I needed some for myself, and then I thought of you, sitting here in Pittsfield, probably trying to eat all that damn trail mix--”

“The trail mix is good.”

“And I simply had to save you,” Wei Ying said. He took a stack of the pre-cut strips and a glue stick and started working. “Isn’t this something the PTA is supposed to do? Parent volunteers?”

Jiang Cheng sighed. “You know most of the kids at Lan Academy are boarders, right? Very few of them, unless they are Lans, are day school students.”

Wei Ying made a face. “Sucks,” he said. “They’re little kids.”

“Which is why the teachers, volunteers, and older students help, but with the increased attendance numbers, they needed even more help this year.”

“They’re going to need a new building soon. I can’t imagine the Lans want classroom trailers on their properties.”

Jiang Cheng did not say a damn word.

“Oh, what the fuck did you do?” Wei Ying asked.

“It’s a charitable donation,” Jiang Cheng said.

“You bought Xichen a friggin’ building?”

“Donated,” Jiang Cheng corrected.

“And I assume Jiang Industries will be doing the construction as well? At a discounted price? Who’s the architect? One of Xiao Xingchen’s brothers?”

Jiang Cheng tried to focus on getting the paper chains perfectly even.

“How’re those business ethics going for you?” Wei Ying asked.

Now that was a step too far. He glared at his brother. “This will be the sixteenth time Jiang Industries has donated a building and its workforce to a school. This is the first time it’s in the family, so to speak, and since no one seems bothered about my business ethics paying for their Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins, or Pats tickets, I don’t want to hear a single fucking word about helping put a much-needed building up at the school so personally connected to our family. And it’s my money that’s the bulk of the donation, not Jiang Industries, not the Jiang Foundation, mine.”

When Great-grandfather Yu passed, he left them all sizable inheritances, but Jiang Cheng had wound up with the bulk of it. The only instruction had been to use it to further good in the world. Jiang Cheng had been sitting on the majority of the money, letting it gain interest, since he was fourteen.

Xichen was determined to open up Lan Academy as much as possible to all students who could live-up to their academic standards. He was determined to do it, even if it meant the majority of the students would be scholarship kids. He was determined to make Lan Academy the premier school for the local kids and families, so they’d have a chance at a truly world-class education. He was determined, but the Academy simply didn’t have the facilities for such a swell in numbers, and if left to the board, a new building wouldn't be seen until Lan Sizhui was ready to retire as headmaster.

So, Jiang Cheng made a decision.

Wei Ying laughed. “Look who just won Boyfriend of the Century.” He threw a completed paper chain at Jiang Cheng’s head. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Xichen. Here’s the plan for a brand-new school building and the check to pay for it.”

“I wasn’t planning on bringing it up until the next Board Meeting when I can publicly hand over the donation and give them the proposal,” Jiang Cheng said.

“So, then what did you get him for Valentine’s Day?”

“A new set of his fancy water color paints and brushes,” Jiang Cheng said. “He was running out.”

He’d also adorned his person with a little surprise for Xichen that his brother was never, ever finding out about, but that wasn’t any of Wei Ying’s business anyway, nor was he saving it for Valentine's Day.

Wei Ying sighed. “How can you be so pragmatic and so romantic at the same time? You leave me in utter despair sometimes, little brother.”

“The feeling is absolutely mutual,” Jiang Cheng said.

“No flowers?”

“You know how he feels about plants that aren’t in pots and I can’t keep giving him orchids. We’re running out of room,” Jiang Cheng said. “Some of us don’t have our own greenhouses.

“Don’t be jealous. And technically Lan Xichen sort of owns the Lan Academy greenhouses,” Wei Ying said. “What about candy?” he asked.

“I already get him artisan fair-trade chocolate truffles or fudge once a week,” Jiang Cheng said. "Twice if it's a bad week."

Wei Ying sighed as he completed another paper chain. “And you both prefer dinner at home, so that’s out as well.”

“You’re the same as me,” Jiang Cheng said. “What are your plans outside of shuffling your kid off on Molly for the night?”

“Molly volunteered to host a sleepover,” Wei Ying corrected. He grinned as yet another paper chain joined the pile, a distracted Wei Ying always somehow a very productive Wei Ying. “And, yes, my plans are an empty house and a dinner at home. Do you really want to know more than that? Are some pointers needed? Some help? Some advice? Xichen did just turn forty.”

It was absolutely beneath Jiang Cheng, as the CEO of his company, as a grown-ass man himself, to start a slap-fight with his older brother, but he felt that it was completely warranted at that moment.

**********

Jiang Cheng always felt a little wary of Lan Academy at night. The beautiful architecture during the day took on a sinister turn in the dark, the angles of the floodlights and campus street lamps changing the welcoming walkways into paths that made you hurry along quickly, afraid of what could be hiding in the woods, or coming down from the mountains in the shadows of the night.

He should not be this freaked out carrying a tub full of construction paper chains and various others Valentine’s Day decor to an elementary school, but this part of the campus was the oldest part, and the shadows cast by the building’s spires were long.

“You going to stand there or are you going to come inside?”

Jiang Cheng had never been so happy to see Lan Jia in his life. The woman intimidated the hell out of him, had that same vague commanding authority as his mother, and was one of Lan Xichen’s closest family elders.

She was also a fencing expert and he had no doubt, if giving the inclination, she could knock him out cold with some fancy footwork and a foil.

“He give you the disappointed, ‘I believe the children are our future’ speech too?” Jia asked as the door banged shut behind them.

Jiang Cheng nodded. “And then the whole, ‘you know it’s not one of those holidays they can go home for’ bit too,” he said.

Lan Jia laughed. “I take it you’re going to be baking some cupcakes as well?”

There was an entire counter in their kitchen stuffed full with boxed cake mix and the kitchen table was already being assembled into a workstation. He’d be spending every night for the next week working on the damn batches, even though Lan Xichen had an entire culinary department at his disposal. He’d asked, and Jiang Cheng couldn’t say no, so this week he’d help decorate all the damn classrooms and then he’d start baking all the damn cupcakes and decorating them too, and having to ask his sister to ask his brother-in-law for his damn good strawberry cheese cream flavored frosting.

The things he did for the man he loved.

Lan Jia pointed down the hall. “He’s in the kindergarten classroom.”

“Of course he is,” Jiang Cheng said.

Lan Jia laughed as she gave him a little shove.

The kindergartners were the only true full day-students of Lan Academy. They didn’t accept any boarding students unless they were old enough for first grade, but that didn’t mean the youngest of Lan Academy’s student body were going to be left out of the festivities.

Jiang Cheng lingered at the doorway as he watched Xichen at work. He was almost done, the kindergarten classroom being one of the smallest on campus, but Jiang Cheng could see the perfectionist part of Xichen coming out, adjusting, and re-adjusting the various hanging hearts from the ceiling.

“If you get this picky about it, we’re never going to finish all the classrooms,” Jiang Cheng said.

Xichen turned to him with a wide smile. He nodded in agreement before folding up his stepladder. “I can always fix it tomorrow,” he said.

“It’s perfect,” Jiang Cheng said.

Xichen shrugged. “For now, I suppose.” He leaned down and kissed Jiang Cheng, sweet and quick. “Hello, my love.”

Jiang Cheng shifted the plastic tub in his arms and kissed Xichen again. “Hi,” he said. “So, where to?”

“Anna’s classroom for you,” Xichen said. “I’ll be in Scott’s room.”

Jiang Cheng laughed low. “Don’t trust yourself alone in a room with me?”

“In that sweater?” Xichen asked, referring to their shared favorite cream-colored sweater Jiang Cheng had grabbed after his post-workout shower. “Never,” he said.

“The headmaster of Lan Academy incapable of controlling himself? Whatever would your uncle say?”

“Shameless.”

Jiang Cheng turned around to find Lan Jingyi laughing at them from behind a veritable mountain of balloons, Ouyang Zizhen and Lan Sizhui with him.

“Your imitation is getting better,” Jiang Cheng said.

“Thanks,” Lan Jingyi said. He turned to Xichen. “We’ve got about a hundred balloons done already. Should we put them up now or keep them in groups?”

“In groups,” Xichen said. “There should be some weights in there to keep them tied down.”

Jingyj gave them a salute before the boys disappeared.

**********

Jiang Cheng was decorating his final classroom of the night, hanging the last paper chain and the last bit of streamers, when familiar arms wrapped around him tight and teeth nipped at the skin behind his ear.

“Really? That’s what does it for you now? The smell of construction paper and glue? The hamster wheel squeaking in the background? Pressing me up against the Percy Jackson bookshelf?” Jiang Cheng asked as he leaned into Xichen’s arms.

“Hmm, or it could just be you, wearing my sweater, smelling like my cologne,” Xichen said.

“My sweater first,” Jiang Cheng said.

Xichen laughed, his fingers sliding under the fabric to rest on Jiang Cheng’s stomach. He made a confused sound and leaned forward to inspect the paper chain above them. “Is that--is that glitter glue?”

Leave it to his brother to ruin the moment even when he wasn’t actually present.

“So, my brother dropped by today. He decided my glue sticks were too basic and then bought out, what I’m guessing, was CVS’ entire stock of glitter glue.”

“Festive,” Xichen said. His fingers slid further up Jiang Cheng’s stomach until they stopped and Xichen’s entire body froze.

Jiang Cheng grinned with the oh-so-familiar rush of rendering Lan Xichen stock still and speechless. It was nice to know he could still do that after nearly six years together.

“Is that?” Xichen’s voice stuttered as his long fingers encountered the first chain fringe hanging between Jiang Cheng’s nipple rings. “Is that?” he asked again.

“Is it?” Jiang Cheng asked. He gasped as Xichen’s fingers wrapped around the closest chain and tugged.

Xichen made an inhuman sound and Jiang Cheng grinned again.

“So, happy early Valentine’s Day,” he said. “I decided to stick with the chain theme.”

“Get in the car,” Xichen said. “Now. Please. I can’t--not--this is a classroom for fifth graders.”

“No one told you to get handsy on school property,” Jiang Cheng said, even though he damn well knew how Xichen got when he wore this sweater.

“Car. Now.” Xichen kissed him again, tugging Jiang Cheng’s bottom lip between his teeth and giving it a little nip. “Please,” he finished.

“Well, since you asked so nicely,” Jiang Cheng said.

[tessatechaitea]

Justice Society of America #6 (1993)

Weak as an asthmatic kitten in light!

Do cats get asthma? I'd hate for somebody to fact check and discover I once said an incorrect thing! My reputation as a staunch teller of ultimate truths is on the line here. Anyway, if it turns out cats can't get asthma, I was speaking euphemistically and you were too dumb to understand that. Dumby. I don't want to call my readers "dumby" but you remember that part about me being a staunch teller of ultimate truths? Well, sorry to reveal something your parents were too cowardly to confide to you. I was too busy contemplating how incredibly fucking cute and sweet a little coughing asthmatic kitten would be pay attention to the cover of JSA #6. But now that I've really looked at it, I'm confused as to why Doctor Mid-Nite is beating up zookeepers. I hesitate to assume the reason is that he's blind because that would probably be ableist. Maybe he was just molested by zookeepers as a young man. An aside: the family member I admire most on Facebook is the one who posts absolutely nothing about anything but every now and then unlocks a badge from Untappd.

Is this an historically accurate Nazi uniform? It looks like she's trying to make the shape of a swastika.

Ugh. I can't believe I just became one of those people who put "an" in front of "historically." It's weird how a little bit of side-boob can make me start thinking, "Were the Nazis really so terrible?" But this is a fictional world where they actually weren't that terrible! They even had a giant war Ferris wheel that would roll around ravaging the world and genociding people. Kind of exactly like a carnival, really. In the real world, Nazis were super bad and they are the villains of every action movie ever set from 1938 to, I'm assuming, 2021. I'm sure we're right around the corner from a Wicked-style Broadway musical from the perspective of Adolf Hitler where the audience learns that he wasn't really the bad guy the earlier protagonists made him out to be. If you don't want that to happen, you'll probably need to go back in time to murder John Gardner before he writes Grendel because I'm pretty sure that's where this whole "let's examine the life and motivations of the bad guy outside of the light of the previous protagonist's propaganda!"

I was thoroughly anti-Nazi when I began reading this comic book but these side-boob arguments are really winning me over.

How are the JSA going to win me back to their side?! They only have one woman on the team and Hawkgirl doesn't ever show any side-boob! I'm afraid America is about to fall and all I can think is, "Hee hee hee. Hee hee hee. Boobies." The Justice Society flies in to spout some patriotic garbage about liberty while The Flash beats up all the Nazis during the first third of the speech. I wonder if The Flash ever gets emotionally exhausted having to bear so much of the load of battling the bad guys. It's a good thing he's not one of those jerks you always wind up working with who never wants to do more work than the next guy so he always works as slowly as possible. But the problem in blue collar work is that most of the people you wind up working with are that guy! So their work output winds up being that of the lowest common denominator. Imagine if The Flash was one of those guys! He'd have to wait for Doctor Mid-Nite to throw a smoke bomb and fist fight a guy for five minutes before The Flash would take out his man in one second (after standing around for four minutes and fifty-nine seconds). The battle goes poorly for the Nazis which I'm elated to see because, you know, proud patriot here and all. Boo Nazis! Boo? Boob! Nazi side-boobs! Go Nazis! As the Nazis nearly defeated, they launch a huge bomb at the White House (which is where this fight is taking place because the Nazis are trying to kill Roosevelt).

"Look! Up in the sky! A noise!"

Yes, you perverts. That's the leg of the side-boob Nazi on the left and if I'd scanned a little bit more, you would have had a nice crotch shot. Sorry to disappoint you, horny nerds. Green Lantern lets the bomb explode on a big green patriotic shield because the Nazi's were too dumb to make the bomb out of two by fours. Wildcat says, "Yay!", as Roosevelt watches through a nearby window. His nurse, Nancy, approaches him slowly from behind. She pulls a Nazi pistol on him, full of Nazi bullets! It looks like the end! But then a bag of sand hits her in the side of the face and she forgets to pull the trigger as she says, "Gast! I'll...ooooh!" Then she dies, I guess? The Nazi story was being told to Jesse Quick by Alan and Jay. It was never reported because the American populace is too weak to hear certain news items. Why when we think about a population as a whole, we attribute all of the worst attributes to them? Cowardly, stupid, irrational. Why don't we think, "I would react fine to that news so I'm assuming everybody else would too." Instead, we simply assume everybody is a bigger and weaker jerk than we are. Weird that I'm as cynical as you can get but I'm somehow not as cynical as the average person? No, no! I'm more cynical! I just use my cynicism for good!

He didn't say that, Jesse. What he might be trying to express though is that coming down hard on criminals when much of the crime is driven by systemic problems resulting in an abundance of poverty for which the government takes no action to mitigate might be a bigger evil than the crime itself. Much of crime is a symptom of a bigger problem that is harder to fix so people ignore it and try to just hide the symptoms by putting them in jail.

Alan just doesn't quite have the words (or the real world experience of the 60s, 70s, and 80s because he was in Valhalla) to express how the constant lowering of taxes on the upper brackets of income have caused the slow destruction of the middle class by allowing CEOs and upper management to keep more of their money instead of reinvesting it into the business because they'd rather improve their business than give away 99% of their income after a certain point to the government. And by allowing them to keep that money, they stopped putting it into the business which meant salaries stagnated, pensions disappeared, and health care was no longer an automatic company benefit. I'm sure that's what he was getting at though. Jay's wife interrupts so we can finally see she exists six issues into the series. Alan's beard, Molly, also arrives. You might be wondering why "Jay's wife" is only "Jay's wife" but you shouldn't ask me that question. Ask the comic book who thinks I'm supposed to remember her name from whenever it was last mentioned, if at all. Maybe Linda? Let's just go with Linda. The Justice Society is on a ship because they're headed to Bahdnesia which doesn't allow plane travel in and out of its country. That's probably because air traffic control would be a nightmare with all the genies flying around. That was a joke but I bet it's the actual reason as well. Oh! It's Joan! Ted mentions it to Al after he gets tangled up in his deck chair while wearing an ice bucket on his head. I think Al might be having some old person cognition problems.

Nothing suspicious about a country run like a well-armed Applebee's.

Doctor Mid-Nite decides to check behind the scenes to see what's going on. The place is run like Disneyland so he enters the employee only backstage section to investigate. He's eventually attacked by some guards (see the cover!) and his story ends mid-fight. Meanwhile, Ted winds up climbing into a boxing ring to stop a fight that he believes is a huge mismatch. He knocks out the big guy even though the big guy doesn't necessarily mean he's the bad guy. Ted is basically interfering in a business transaction or, even worse, a staged event! Which means he climbs in the ring and begins beating up one of the actors. Guards also swarm him and he thinks, "What are these guys doing here?!" As if what he's doing is just fine and dandy. Didn't he hear the announcement about how nobody breaks the rules here? This is why! They get swarmed with violent guards! Justice Society of America #6 Rating: B-. Nothing says "The titular team's best days are behind them!" like a story where the only interesting thing that happens happens in a flashback. The whole cruise and island exploration part of the story was a big snooze. And it only ends in two members battling guards who are only doing their jobs to keep the JSA members from breaking the rules. Poor guards are going to get their asses whooped when they're only doing their job! I'm totally into the whole "I was just following orders" excuse thanks to the unbeatable side-boob argument.