#and poor Pratt also has a moment

[moirindeclermont]

Men beyond the façade: Colin Bridgerton and William The Bloody (Spike)

TW: brief mention of SA;

Like many things, the idea for this post comes with a random thought… I was talking about Spike with a fandom friend who did not watch all Buffy, and we came up with the idea of a fic in which Colin is a Vampire and Pen is the Slayer, and as I was writing snippets of dialogue, I've catched myself writing in a very distinctive Spike voice.

“Everyone underestimates her. She was a woman, for starters. She was short and plump. Everyone underestimated her until they were about to be dead (or dead again) because of her stake. Not Colin Bridgerton. He was fascinated by Pen, by her vitality, her joy for life. Hell, even her fighting gave him a boner.”

That's when I've truly started thinking about it. Can these two characters, who are so vastly different in the perception of people, have a lot of traits in common, so much so that they actually can be almost the same? I've decided to talk about 3 main points: the persona or the façade they put on, their relationship with their SO and the importance of accountability.

Of course, this whole piece is based on my very personal interpretation of the characters. But even without a personal interpretation, some similarities are just… there for everyone to see.

But first, a bit of presentation, if you met only one half of the pair we are discussing. I do discuss some plot points but I'm trying not to get into too much detail. Anyway, this is your spoiler warning.

Colin Bridgerton is the 3rd son of a very important family during Regency time in London. His dad died when he was young, there was a brief engagement during the first season of the show which did end when people found out the future bride was already pregnant with another guy. After that, he decides to travel a bit, until after a kiss (and a summer without Pen's letters - his best friend) he realises he is in love with her and from that moment he becomes Colin “my wife” Bridgerton. He has gone bad. Just to tell you one thing, he interrupts a dance Pen is having with another suitor and proceeds to finger her on a carriage. The man is unhinged when it comes to Pen.

Spike, or William the Bloody, or William Pratt was an only son of a noble family during Victorian London. He was a poet but his creations didn't gain much success, earning him the nickname The Bloody because of the poor quality of his writing. He was sired by Drusilla, with whom he becomes involved for a good century, and the nickname gets reclaimed as an attribution to his violence. During his life he kills 2 slayers, until he arrives in Sunnydale. After events he falls in love with the current Slayer, Buffy, and he also becomes absolutely unhinged and pathetic about it.

But their similarities don't even begin with this. Both of them have this façade they use to be cool and accepted. Colin return in season 3 as a charming and fascinated man and everyone (except his best friend and some family) congratulates him about it. William literally uses Spike as a way to prove he has changed. He changes the look, the accent and builds this reputation of being the big bad. For both, the cracks in the façade are not a crack but a river in Egypt, because both of them take so much joy and purpose in being the providers. They slip into that role with such ease and familiarity that you can see it's just who they are at their core.

I've seen a post about Pen and Colin that says “when little Miss “I can do It by myself” meets Mr “I know you can but let me” and if that doest summarise the relationship Spike has with Buffy I do not know what else does.

They both have a dream about their Significant Other in which they depict a highly romantic scenario in which both confess their feelings, come on.

I've said before that Colin went to the Gomez Addams school of loving your wife, but Spike was also there.

They both can't absolutely function without their respective partners and while their relationship evolves in different ways it doesn't change who they are at their cores.

Now, I know you are thinking about Seeing Red, because yes I've talked about being pathetic but surely they can't be the same even under this aspect (for those who have not seen Buffy, Seeing Red is an episode in which Spike attempts to SA Buffy). And while, I do agree, Colin has not done something like that to Pen, I think he would definitely have done the same thing Spike did when he realised what he had done to Buffy. Because when he is confronted with his mistakes, Colin does take accountability and so does Spike. In a way that's vastly different, for obvious reasons, but they both do.

Yes, Colin and Pen are healthier than Spike and Buffy. Absolutely. But Colin and Pen is what Spike and Buffy can become after they both do the work on themselves and each other.

Yes, there are differences. One is a vampire, for starters. But the point I'm trying to make is that when you strip away the difference and put them in similar circumstances, their actions prove how similar they are.

How they both tried to put out a façade, but how quickly that fall when they were confronted with Love. How they both take pride in having a woman at their idea that's indipendent and strong. How they both truly see their partners entirely. How they both know when they fuck up and they don't stop at apologize but they do the work to get there.

If they met, you just know they would talk about their partners constantly.

(And if you're wondering about the sex, the only reason Colin and Pen didn't fuck a house down - yup that happens - it's because they physically can't. After all, they broke at least one piece of furniture.

And Colin and Pen won the title for freakiest couple in Mayfair. Even their respective kinks match pretty well in my opinion.)

Now, I don't think this was intentional at all. It's interesting though because it's not a common interpretation of the romantic interest at all. And maybe for Spike the intention was completely different behind the scenes (iykyk) but for Colin it is very intentional. But that is another story ..

Before conclusing this, let me just quote the two most beautiful declarations of love (one by Colin, and one by Spike) and think about what they're really saying… they are so much more similar than you might think.

Colin: “And now I simply cannot believe that a woman with such bravery loves me.How lucky I am to stand by your side and soak up even a little bit of your light. If my only purpose in life is to love a woman as great as you… then I will be a very fulfilled man, indeed.”

Spike: “When I say I love you, it's not because I want you. Or because I can't have you. It has nothing to do with me. I love what you *are*. What you do. How you try... I've seen your kindness, and your strength. I've seen the best and the worst of you. And I understand, with perfect clarity, exactly what you are... You're a *hell* of a woman... You're the One, Buffy.”

I'm curious, though, to hear your thoughts on this.

And if you're still here, regardless of what you think, thank you for being here 💓

[direwombat]

another wip wednesday another wdoller

tagged by @ivymarquis (tysm~!)

tagging: @cassietrn, @poetikat, @confidentandgood, @trench-rot, @strafethesesinners, @miyabilicious, @simplegenius042, @g0dspeeed, @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @adelaidedrubman, @madparadoxum, @socially-awkward-skeleton, @voidika, @strangefable, and anyone else wanting to share something today! (please like/reply to this post if you want to be added to the wip wednesday taglist!)

considering i just posted ch5 of katc a few days ago, interlude ii doesn't have anything that's anywhere near ready to share, so please take this werewolf au snippet (and a bonus smutty kitsybjake snippet for the fic i've been trying to write since...february...affectionately dubbed "the muzzle fic")

werewoof au

“Any idea what done this?” Sybille asks. 

The coroner gives a small shrug. “Best I can tell? Some kind of animal.” 

“An animal?” Her brows shoot up in surprise. “You tellin’ me an animal burst through a barricaded door, mauled, beheaded, and cracked Mr. Wolanski’s skull like a coconut, and then ��� what? — decided to do some redecoratin’?” 

“I think I’m gonna vomit,” Staci mutters. 

“Not in the crime scene!” the coroner exclaims at the same time Sybille squeezes Pratt’s shoulder and urges, “Go get some air.” 

Pratt swallows thickly and nods, politely excusing himself before slipping out the front door.

The coroner turns to stare at her with exhausted apathy. “You’re asking me what killed Mr. Wolanski,” he says slowly, as if addressing a child. “In the absence of gunpowder, shell casings, or any other signs of a weapon being used against him and the abundance of trauma consistent with the kind typically found among the victims of wolf attacks, yes — I am concluding that the cause of death can most likely be attributed to an animal.”

She crosses her arms and shoots the man an exasperated look. By no means is she an expert on lupine behavior, but never has she heard of a wolf ripping off a person’s skull cap to get at their brains. It’s too much effort for fairly little gain -- at least, compared to the easy, meaty flesh of the torso. 

 He scribbles something on his clipboard and then looks at her pointedly over the rims of his glasses. “I’ve told you the what, Deputy. Figuring out the why is your job. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” A curt nod is all she’s afforded before he’s shoving past her to instruct his team to finish up bagging things to analyze back at the lab. 

Her feet remain rooted to the hardwood floor for a moment, watching the man’s back in mild disbelief as he walks away. With a small shake of her head, she pulls herself form where she stands and exits through the front door to go find Staci. 

The poor man is leaning against their squad car, hunched over and breathing into a paper bag. She nearly walks over to him, but when she catches Eli’s eye from where he also stands just beyond the crime scene tape, she pivots over to him. Ducking underneath the yellow ribbon surrounding the property, she crosses the distance between them in a few brisk strides and pulls him in for a hug. His arms wrap around her, and she feels some of the tension in his shoulders melt away in her embrace. 

“How you holdin’ up?” she asks

He squeezes her tight and buries his face against her neck. “‘Bout as well as you can after finding your best friend ripped to shreds,” he says thickly. 

the muzzle fic (this is straight up smut so no pressure to read if you don't want to <3)

The sight of both of them makes Sybille’s mouth water, and every breathy groan she pulls from them goes straight to her own cunt. Her jaw hangs slack, eyes glazing over. Her chest heaves with every breath, and drool dribbles from the corners of her mouth, drenching her chin and dripping off the metal of the muzzle. 

Her entire world narrows to fulfilling a singular purpose: pleasing her Masters. The edges of her senses blur, blocking out all other stimuli so that she can focus on the tasks literally in her hands. She can’t take her eyes off them, watching as they take their pleasure from her. Her ears are finely attuned to the soft gasps and grunts as they buck their hips into her hands; and her nose filled with the heavy, heady scent of sex, so thick in the air that she can almost taste it. 

She wants to taste it.

She leans forward to bury her face in Kit’s cunt, wanting so badly to taste the juices flowing down the other woman’s thighs. Hell, she’d even lick up the droplets that have fallen to the ground. But when she leans in, the muzzle knocks against Kit’s mound. The cold metal presses against her clit and Kit gasps. Her eyes fly open and she looks down at Sybille.

That look of surprise quickly turns lecherously wicked. Her nails rake pleasingly across Sybille’s scalp and she clicks her tongue condescendingly. “Aww,” she coos in mock sympathy, “you thirsty?”

Sybille nods frantically. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, eager to taste her. Her hips rock, her breath going shallow as she leans forward, pulling against the chain. The supple leather of her collar digs into her throat, restricting her airways. “Yes…” she rasps, “please.” 

Kit hums thoughtfully and drags a knuckle down Sybille’s cheekbone. Then, she slaps her, just hard enough to make her flinch. “Too bad.”

A desperate sound is torn from her chest and she turns her pleading eyes to Jacob, begging for mercy. 

Mercy that’s nowhere to be found. 

“Only good girls get to use their mouths,” he says, and he very pointedly drags Kit in for a lengthy kiss. Their lips move roughly together, all prodding tongues and biting teeth, and she wants nothing more than for them to kiss her like that too. When they pull away both their lips are swollen and Jacob looks at her with a taunting smile. “You haven’t been a good girl.”

“I can be,” she whines. “Please. Please, I can be good.” 

[chyrstis]

Nice try (but it won’t work twice)

It’s Whitetail Mountain time, and also time for Jess and Jacob to say hello.

Rating: T Word Count: 5.7K

Link to AO3!

___

As it turns out, earning Jacob’s attention doesn’t take much effort at all. A fact that the Deputy wishes weren’t the case.

______________

The F.A.N.G. Center had been home to all sorts of creatures.

Not necessarily the fanged kind – cue Sharky’s audible disappointment – but it hadn’t been out of bounds to expect to see wolves, wolverines, and even bears resting and healing up within its walls. One bear in particular had been the singular draw, and Cheeseburger was as adorable as a full-sized grizzly bear with maximum mauling capacity could get.

With the cult in charge, its focus had been redirected.  Repurposed for something much, much worse, if what she’d heard about the Judges was true. Wolves were dangerous enough on their own. Adding bliss to the mix was a possibility that she didn’t even want to entertain.

So, when Dutch had called in, saying that one of the caretakers of the place had been holding out, looking for help, Hana made a little detour. It hadn’t been hard to convince either Sharky or Hurk – the latter of which was just itching to dig into any kind of mayhem in general – and she pulled up on the outskirts of the center so the three could find a way in.

Just because said way involved rockets didn’t mean it was entirely a bad one, but it was far from quiet, and soon enough, the entire place was on fire, literally and figuratively.

When she wasn’t choking on smoke, or stomping out the flames threatening to climb up the leg of Sharky’s pants, she was trading fire with the handful of Peggies stationed there, none of which actually had Judges to back them up. That had been a small blessing in and of itself, and she gave the universe a mental high-five before digging for a spare stick of dynamite.  

The rest fell into place after that, leaving the F.A.N.G. Center singed, but standing.

She asked Dutch to put out a call to see if they could get some people to the center to lock it down, and with that resolved, the three had settled in to wait for them.

There was one outstanding problem, however. Cheeseburger wasn’t on the grounds, and hadn’t been seen since he was released.

Cheeseburger’s caretaker, Wade, pointed them all in the direction of where Cheeseburger had run off to, not even fazed by the fact that an actual bear was on the loose. The cult had been interested in seeing what could be done with the animal, possibly by dosing it with bliss as well, and he’d let it go shortly before the center had been taken.

With that as the alternative, she found herself agreeing with him. She hadn’t seen any of the converted wolves yet, but a blissed out megabear did not need to be added to the mix.  

Sharky and Hurk had opted to bear hunt, while she decided to hold down the fort. She made the two swear up and down that they would yell for her if things went south before leaving, and hoped like hell they would actually take her up on the offer instead of winging it.  

The souvenir shop she hadn’t had a chance to visit while it was all intact and operating before, and looked better suited now to a spot from an apocalypse film. The work they had done to clear the place out hadn’t helped, but the wind was technically blowing the fires in the opposite direction of this building, so…at least it wasn’t going to add to the look.

Hana pushed the door open, listening to it creak as it swung inward. It was a small building, and most of the items on display had been scattered across the shelves and the floor.

There were the usual items, like t-shirts and postcards, but the stuffed cheeseburgers and teddy bears drew a smile from her as she walked past them. She came to a dead stop when she saw it, however.

The bobblehead stared back at her from its place on the shelf. The bear itself had a giant smile, one bordering well on goofy, and when she picked it up to get a closer look, nearly dropped it when it started to speak.

“You smell just like a cheeseburger! Yum!”

The voice laughed, and she shuddered. “Hello, nightmare fuel.”

That sound likely haunted many a small child’s dreams, and wasn’t just limited to the toys. The speakers outside kept on playing other recorded phrases on repeat, all of which followed a similar theme. For people aiming to bank on selling merch, they could not have done a more severe disservice to a beloved mascot.

She set the bobblehead down with the same care she’d use for fine china, and slowly backed away before moving on.

Nearby two wanted posters were hanging up on the wall. One for an Eli Palmer, and the other was torn, only leaving the bottom edge with the name remaining. That one was for Jess Black.

Figures Jess would be a total mystery. Dutch hadn’t described his niece’s appearance, and she hadn’t asked, so Hana was going to have to hope that if she did run into Jess without warning, she’d be able to introduce herself before the bullets started flying. Dutch had said she was up near the lumber mill which they had cut around to grab Hurk. Swinging back to check for her made sense while they were well within reach. The statue had been her driving goal for the last few days, but it could wait.

Eli, on the other hand, she could get a good look at. Or as good of a look as the image presented showed. The long hair and beard definitely gave off the great outdoorsman vibe, and she found it difficult to tell his age because of it.

So, this was him, eh? At least she had a face to the name, even if it wasn’t looking likely she was going to meet him any time soon, if at all.  

Dutch had mentioned he was the head of the group giving Jacob the most push-back up here, the Whitetail Militia. Though, he hadn’t sugarcoated any of his words when it came to how well they were doing. Pressure from Jacob had come non-stop, and the long-standing endurance fight was one that had been wearing them down for a while now.

It was only a matter of time before the Resistance could kiss the Whitetails goodbye, so even if she couldn’t link up with them officially, she could at least take some of the attention off of them. That, she was getting to be quite good at.

“Still,” she mused, crossing her arms as she thought over the events of the day, “maybe you might wanna dial this back a little, eh? Guy’s not going to want to talk if you’re busy setting fires on his doorstep.”

“Deputy, do you copy?”

The radio at her side cracked as Dutch’s voice came through, and she picked it up. “Yeah, Dutch. I’m here. Everything okay?” If she had to ask, the answer was no, but she wanted him to confirm it first.

“Where are you right now?”

“In a room full of cheeseburgers, if that’s any clue.” She took a look around the souvenir shop again, her radio in hand, and crept over to one of the windows. “I’m at the F.A.N.G. Center right now. Why?”

“There’s been some talk on a few of the other channels about an explosion near there. Multiple.”

She winced. “You don’t say?”

“Bet I can shoot right between that gap in the bars, tagging both of those Peggies while threading the needle like a maestro.”

The gap in question she checked out with her binoculars, looking like a tight fit. “With a rocket?”

“With my one and only,” Hurk said proudly.

Sharky only served to back him up, standing right by his side as the three huddled close. “Cuz’ll get it. He’s a pro at this kind of shit.”

She thought it over for a grand total of ten seconds before saying, “Do it.”

“Uh, there might have been some noise. Maybe more than intended, but nothing was hit that didn’t deserve it. Should be quiet from now on.” She paused, considering both herself and the company she was currently keeping. “Quieter, at least.”

“Not quiet enough.”

That was not Dutch.

“Looks like someone is playing at being a soldier.”

This was not a friendly. Not when speaking with an edge like that, and that narrowed down the potential list of people calling her to one.

“So, that doesn’t get me a sparkling seal of approval from the man himself, huh?”

“No,” Jacob replied, the response flat. “You’re a problem. One that I’ve been told needs solving.”

When John had contacted her like this down at the Woodsons', he hadn’t dismissed her outright. Had even traded a few comments with her as she tried sniping at him right up until he mentioned sending people to get her.

Jacob was not John, however, and trying that same method with him was quickly looking to be a huge mistake.

“There’s work to be done, and what you are doing is counter to our progress. What threatens the Project, threatens us, and I don’t have time for games. There’s no use in running. You won’t get far.”

Only static filled the air after that. She stared at the radio for a few seconds, her finger hovering over the call button, and eventually cracked when no one else spoke up. “Dutch?”

“…ey! Kid, respond! Are you still there?”

“Yes.” The word sounded smaller than intended, and she cleared her throat before speaking again. “ETA on the guys headed here?”

“Last I heard, they’re about fifteen to twenty out. A group of Peggies tried to cut them off, but they’re still coming.”

Along with whatever Jacob was planning, and here she was, practically alone - short of having Wade nearby - swearing to herself next to a pile of teddy bears and burgers.

“Oh, this is bad. This is bad,” she muttered, giving the empty store a quick scan before holding the radio up again. She needed to call the guys back. Now. “I’ll figure it out. Just tell them that-“

A small, piercing sting to the back of her neck cut her off mid-word.

She slapped at the spot, hoping to swat the damn bug that had bit her. Instead her fingers closed around a small object. One that stung when she plucked it from her neck, and brought it in front of her face to examine.

A dart. A red dart.

“Are you fucking serious…?” she said, her words slurring.

She fell to the side, her sunglasses clattering on the tile below, and a set of hands grabbed her roughly before she could hit the floor. There were two figures in the shop with her, both with their faces covered, but their eyes exposed.

A disappointed sigh was the last thing that left her, as her eyes slid shut.

---

“Hey.”

Hana’s eyelids fluttered, then closed.

“Hey!”

She felt a flick to her shin, and she tensed, sucking in a breath through her teeth. “Ow!”

When she opened her eyes, the woman crouching down beside her backed up, one hand tucked close to the pockets of her green overshirt, and the other curled around a small knife.

Her hood was pulled up over her head, tangled dirty-blonde strands spilling out of it, and her eyes remained set on Hana as she watched her closely.

Hana slowly rubbed her hands over her aching leg, not wanting to drop eye contact just in case that would be the thing to set her off. Her legs were stiff, however. Unable to be moved apart.

When she glanced down to see what was locking them in place, she noticed the ropes, wound tightly around her ankles. The two were in an isolated spot, somewhere in the forest proper, surrounded by trees, and no other voices could be heard within range off them.

Slowly Hana raised her hands in surrender as the seconds ticked on, and tried not to let too much of her nervousness show.

“Don’t,” the woman said, rolling her eyes. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Says the woman with the knife.”

“I was in the process of cutting you loose. I saw you moving and thought it’d be better to let you know now instead of during, so you don’t fucking kick me.”

She noticed the large compound bow slung over her back, along with the words painted onto her clothes. All of them were a stark white against the green fabric, all of them roughly written, and as Hana took another look at her, she tried not to focus on how deep some of the scars on the woman’s face were.

“Thanks,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I think I owe you one, then. Sorry for being….well, me.”

“And who are you?”

“Oh, uh. Shit. I’m Hana. Or if you want to be formal, Deputy Vao, the asshole running around stirring up trouble.”

The woman gave her a curious look. “Deputy.”

“Yeah, Deputy.”

“Yeah, I did hear about some asshole of a deputy running around. Just not up here until now.” She leaned down and grabbed for the ropes, her knife glinting as they sawed through them. “Chatter’s scattered, but there.”

“Gotta love it when your reputation precedes you. And you are?”

“Jess. Jess Black.”

“Holy shit.  Dutch was…he told me to keep an eye out for you here.”

“Did he?” She helped Hana unwind the cut ropes from her legs, and tossed them aside. “And here I was wondering if I’d ever get to meet you. He’d only been talking you up ever since this shit started. How the cult’s having a fucking crisis over just how much damage you’ve done, and that’s just the something we need more of around here.”

“Well, I aim to please, and anything that makes their lives that much worse, I’ll gladly do in spades. So, if you have any suggestions, name it. I meant it when I said I owed you.”

Jess thought it over for a few seconds, studying her face this time. Eventually she gave her a small nod. “I’ve been tracking patrols. Looking for any of Jacob’s pet Chosen that would report back to the Cook. I was following a new route, but saw the men dragging you back to the VA Center, and no one that goes in there comes back out. And if they do, not right. Not after hitting the Chair.”

“And here I was thinking I had shit luck.”

“Still was if they got you. He’ll try again.”

That was not something she was looking forward to, but for now she’d take it. “Of course he is. The Seeds really have a problem taking no for an answer, no matter who I’m talking to. …Who’s the Cook?”

Jess’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “He’s a twisted fuck. One that should’ve been put down a long time ago. Instead he’s here, playing into Jacob’s ‘cull the weak’ bullshit, and using it as an excuse to do things that-“ She took in a shaky breath, her hands shaking slightly, but on the exhale they stilled. “To do things to people that no fucking person would ever think they’re capable of.”

Hana shifted, watching as Jess’s gaze which had been locked on her not even five minutes ago, shifted to the bushes surrounding them instead. “All of those things are solid reasons,” she replied, crossing her legs under her. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just get me close enough to kill him. That’s all that matters.”

“Done.”

Jess looked over at her and snorted. “You don’t need much convincing, do you?”

“You saved my life, and the world could always use one fewer motherfucker in it, so…” That got her the briefest of smiles, and Hana couldn’t help her grin in return.  “Yeah, I’m in.”

Hopping to her feet, she patted herself down, wondering what had been left on her, only to notice her bag resting nearby. The relief that hit upon seeing it was immense, and Jess sighed when Hana hugged the gear to her chest.

“They didn’t bother to remove it before dragging you along, so you got lucky.”

“Hell yeah, I did.” Kissing it would’ve been overboard, but as she went through it, she was tempted to. Especially when she found her radio, banged up as it was, but still intact. “So damn lucky.”

“Come on.” Jess tilted her head to gesture out towards the woods. “Daylight’s burning, and we need to head past the lumber mill before dark.”

“Hey, uh, Jess? You didn’t happen to see two guys wandering around close to the F.A.N.G. Center, by any chance? One in green, loves fire, but hopefully isn’t on fire, and the other leaning really hard into the whole ‘America, fuck yeah!’ theme?”

The next look Jess gave her stopped Hana in her tracks. “You were with them? No wonder Jacob was able to find and pick you up in record time. They’re like a herd of fucking elephants.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know they don’t set off every alarm.”

“Just most of them. You too, if I’ve heard right.”

Hana’s face flushed as she recalled just how big one of the explosions had been back at the F.A.N.G. Center, taking out the incoming trucks as she’d reached over to high-five Hurk. Jacob’s call had come not even five minutes before she’d been tranq-ed, and she’d been handling souvenirs for God’s sake.

They’d played right into Jacob’s hands, and lucky for all of them, she’d been the only one taken. If Jess hadn’t found her… God, where would she be right now? Would anyone have known?

Each thought that followed was worse than the last, and when Hana did finally reply to Jess, it was after letting out a long breath through her teeth.   “Touche.”

“You want to radio them, go ahead, but if you want to do this, I need you quiet. I will not lose him again.”

“If I’m going to be honest with you, I’m kinda crap at the whole stealth thing too, but…I’ll try. I owe you that.”

“Good. Follow me.”

---

They had a lot of ground to cover. While the mill hadn’t been too far from the center by car, going by foot was a different story. Jess made it look effortless, cutting through any paths in the brush without interference, and didn’t let anything slow her down.

She, on the other hand, was a city kid. This was not her schtick, though Hana did genuinely think at times that she was adapting pretty well. Just not when she was forcing herself through bushes, and snagging herself on branches, while stepping on every brittle leaf known to man.

Jess told her to stay close, but distance did end up creeping between them. She would check back, throwing one hell of a dirty look at her when it seemed like she was going to get left behind, but there was no waving Jess on ahead.

The other woman refused outright, and Hana couldn’t argue with that either after the second time Jess doubled-back to find her. After being drugged and taken three times now – and counting -   she couldn’t afford to be alone out here, no one could, and eventually Jacob was going to want to know where she went.

And she still hadn’t been able to get ahold of Sharky or Hurk. She’d tried radioing the two along the way, the signal unclear as she gave it a few solid smacks. It’d taken a beating, but hadn’t completely crapped out yet. At least, she hoped it hadn’t.

Shit, what if their radio was out? “Hello?” She let go of the button, then spoke again when no one answered. “Shurky? Hark? Whatever team name mash-up you two decided on, copy? It’s the Deputy. You guys still out here?”

Static came through, but she could hear voices as they faded in and out. This was bad. She’d try again later, but hopefully this wasn’t going to stick.

Jess stopped, holding up her hand.

She raised an eyebrow at her, but didn’t budge. A sound rose in the air, a howl, growing louder by the second until tailing off.  

“Judges,” Jess drew her bow, and crouched down low in the grass.

Reaching for her rifle, Hana watched as Jess all but disappeared, blending into the woods surrounding them. A lump was growing in her throat, and she worked to swallow.

“-copy, roger-“

She slapped at the radio at her side, switching it off. Every hair stood on end as she turned in place, and when she heard the charge, heard the crashing through the brush it was almost too late.

Something quick flew past her, and she darted to the side, jumping clear of the spot where the large wolf would’ve pounced. With white fur, this wolf was larger than the others, its snarling jaws wide as it whirled to stare her down.

The handgun by her side was the quickest choice, and she fired, watching as the Judge shot forward, going for her. It was on her, it would reach her like this, and she tumbled back, screaming as she kept on firing.

Two arrows buried themselves in its side, and it cut away, leaving Hana scrambling back away from it. She didn’t wait this time. She saw the flash of white, saw the red streaked across its forehead and down its nose, and ran.

Distance. She needed something between her and it, other than air.

Her handgun tumbled to the ground, her fumbling making her miss her holster, and she grabbed for her rifle. Tucked it close, as she heard the animal bearing down on her with heavy breaths.

Turning now would be a mistake. Turning now with no clear shot would be a serious mistake.

A quick look over her shoulder told her what she knew. The Judge was there, white stained red, but it branched off from her, darting back into the bushes.

She skidded to a stop and fired, sending a full burst of shots into the woods. The howling stopped, cutting off sharply, but she heard movement still. Not just her own nervous pacing as she ducked behind a tree, her attention jumping to anything and everything.

She sucked in a breath, her heart hammering, and looked for Jess.

“Jess?”

No answer came. In fact, the only sound she could hear now was her shaky inhale.

“…Jess?”

She broke into a run, getting up from her position only to scream in pain as something sharp drove into her left thigh. It sent her down to the ground, her mind yelling at her to move even as her body rebelled against her.

She twisted on the ground, trying to push herself up as she took in the arrow jutting out of her right thigh. An actual arrow, stuck deep.

The shock of it took a few seconds to sink in, but when it did, panic welled up fast.

Oh. Oh, fuck. So this is what happens when the tranqs fail.

Each stab of the metal lodged in her leg was agony as she moved, but after a few seconds, it was no longer as sharp. As present. She set her head down on the ground, her breaths slowing as she rested there, drifting.

She shouldn’t have. Knew she should keep moving, but just couldn’t bring herself to.

---

Her eyes were open. They were open, but there was nothing to see in front of her. Not at first. Only blurred shapes as she felt hands lift, and set her down.

Her head rolled as she leaned back in the seat she was placed in, her eyes trying to adjust to the dark. A light flashed, the image bright against the back of the room. It was almost too much to look at, but Hana let herself focus in on it, seeing the image for what it was.

Someone took her wrists in their hands, placing them one by one on the arms of the chair. The light behind them made it difficult to see who it was at first, and she held her eyes shut for a few seconds, before opening them again.

The realization of just who was standing in front of her hit hard enough to leave her gaping up at him, struggling to say something. Anything. “…Stace? Oh, God,” she whispered.

The bags under Pratt’s eyes were dark, his face drawn and thin. He was unable to focus on any one spot for more than a second at a time, and she winced when he strapped her wrists down tight.

This wasn’t the guy that had dropped a huge stack of papers on her desk in the middle of the day, telling her that the documentation was wrong and needed to be hand-corrected one by one. This wasn’t the guy that had called her Probie whenever she’d trip up on something basic and make a small mistake in front of Whitehorse. This wasn’t the guy that complained when she’d bought them all coffee one day only to remind her he’d asked for a damn latte instead.

This was another man. One that curled into himself to seem smaller, his hands trembling as he stared deep into her eyes, unblinking, as he withdrew.  “You shouldn’t have come for me. You shouldn’t have.”

A voice was speaking, the words coming to her clearer now as she shook off the last of the drowsy feeling, but she didn’t turn her head towards it. Hana looked at Pratt instead, mouthing, I’m here for you, before trying her bonds. He’d locked them down securely.

The look he gave her in return he held for a few seconds before dropping his eyes to the ground. He backed away, clear out of view.

The whirring of the projector’s motor hit her ears then. As did two words. Weak. Soft. Neither of these things the voice spared his distaste for.

She took in the room they were in, the click of the projector drawing her attention as the image in front of her changed. She wasn’t alone. Others were seated as well, all of them restrained as they watched.

“…our heroes used to be gods. They did not give in to doubt. To let go of their ideals, when convenient. They did not lose what it meant to survive."

The owner of the voice took his place in front of them, still speaking, still facing away. He was wearing a camo jacket, marking him as either military or a guy set on copping the style as he paced forward, the bones of the animal on-screen now scattered across his back.

“These heroes, the ones we would follow now, are no gods. They are weak, feeble, diseased.”

But she did know this voice. Had heard it before, had seen a flash of this person before, and it wasn’t going to take her three guesses, let alone five to tell her just who this was.

When Jacob Seed turned towards them, he didn’t wait for them to answer, or to respond. Only continued as the images in front of them grew more violent.

“They use this power to guide us forward with no direction, the many, leading the few, but they forget what history has taught us. That sacrifices must be made.”

The wolf on screen was tearing at a fallen deer, its flesh coming away from the bone.

“That we must cull the herd so it stays strong.”

Hana counted the clicks, watched the slides change, and watched as Jacob turned towards her. He still spoke to the room as a whole, but it was different now. He knew where she was, and there was no hiding here.

“Over and over, the lives of the many have outweighed the lives of the few. This is how we’ve survived.”

The lights and images were distorted as he came closer. Every step, highlighting or hiding him until he was right in front of her, staring down. He was a tall man to start, but from her current position she felt so much smaller, her eyes wide as he zeroed in on her.

Her hands clenched into hard fists, her nails digging into the palms of her gloves.

“This, we’ve forgotten, but now the bill has come due.”

She’d hardly prepared herself when Jacob leaned down, and she felt the legs of the chair drag across the floor towards him. The burns were easier to see up close, the skin on parts of his face rougher and heavily scarred.

And as he intended, his eyes held her.  

“With the Collapse, there can be no doubt. This time the lives of the few outweigh the lives of the many, and when they realize what they’ve lost, that this time there’ll be no one to save them from madness, hunger, or desperation, we’ll be ready.”

He let go, standing at his full height again. Her jaw unclenched as distance was re-established between them, but when he reached for a small box on a nearby table, she didn’t know what to do next.

“We will cull the herd.” He started winding a small lever on its side, attention still set on her. “We will do what needs to be done.”

It opened, and her whole body tensed.

Music played, the words to an old love song coming to mind.

She gasped at the sudden pounding in her head, at her response, and saw red.

Only red.

Only you.

She squeezed her eyes shut, only to feel the sensation recede as her senses went into overdrive. Opening her eyes, everything narrowed into focus. It was the same room, the same chair she had been strapped to, but they were alone now.

Her bonds were gone, removed from her wrists.

The wolf flickered on the screen in front of her, snarling around the viscera in its jaws. Seconds ticked by in her ears, the sound echoing in the small room as she stood up from her seat, rooted to the very spot.

What, what am I…?

A gun rested on the desk in front of her, and her heartbeat quickened, her attention on the two men still strapped to their chairs up front. They pulled at their bonds, and they came loose.

She stared down at her hands, watched as they trembled, and felt a pull. An urge.

Arm yourself.

They stood, whirling on her, guns raised, and the buzzing in her ears reached a fever pitch. Her fist shot out, punching one squarely in the throat. He went down as the other fired, and she tried to sidestep around him. The shot grazed her upper arm.

Again.

She gasped, pain shooting through her system, through her thigh as she placed her weight on it, and fought him for the gun, turning it on him. It went off, the flash blinding her briefly, but soon her vision came back, the edges of it tinged red. Only red.

Keep moving.

The room opened up, the doorway ahead leading to a hall.

She ran down the corridor, reaching for the weapon presented to her, her nerves on fire. She couldn’t stop. Couldn’t relax. Three men had the upper hand above her, perched high, all of them training their weapons on her. Only her.

Do it. Cull the herd.

Cull the- Pain lanced through her again, making her clutch her head. Bullets hit the barrier in front of her, and she pushed ahead once it cleared, climbing up towards those hiding there. They would get her. Find her. Hunt her down. Kill her.

She fired, again, and again, and again, listening for the voice. Waiting for it to let her continue.

Again.

The room changed, resetting her position in space. She took the offered knife, and continued through the maze.

She fell, clawing through the dirt as the person above fired.

Pushing up, she ran towards them and sank her knife into their chest. She repeated the motion over and over until they crumpled at her feet.

She stared down at her hands. At red, so red.

Good.

This was-what was she doing?

Her body quaked, sickness running through her.

Move.

It settled deep into her stomach, and she gagged.

Keep moving.

Sucking in a breath, she squashed the feeling down, spitting bile out onto the floor.

Up ahead she had to climb. To rise. A man slammed into her as she was standing up, forcing her to bring her knee up to kick him back. Her muscles screamed, but she couldn’t have them fail. Not now. Not while the clock was ticking.  

She grabbed her holstered gun and dove in close, pistol-whipping him hard enough across the face for blood to fly. That didn’t stop when he hit the ground, and she let it go. Any measure, any degree of restraint.

It bled out through her limbs, through her body onto the floor. That wouldn’t help her. That wouldn’t save her.

Excellent.

Her hands were slick, a dark, deep red as she stood up and walked through the doorway, down the same hall she had traveled before.

This time she didn’t look down at them. She didn’t waver.

Ahead she needed to climb. She gripped the steps, pulled herself up as the clock kept on moving, kept on ticking.

Before her, was the end. Before her was the only path left, leading down a long chute.

She jumped, and didn’t feel a thing as she hit the bottom.

---

Hands grabbed at her chair. Righted her, pushing her up to sit.

Red flashed in her vision. The only thing that she could connect to before. To the room. To the chair. To the music.

She could hear people speaking. One, two, three. Maybe more.

A projector flashed in her mind, showing Staci, then Jacob. He held a box. A small brown box.

Why can’t she-

Her cough came out as a harsh rasp.

“Holy shit!”

She was dropped, the chair clattering to the ground, and her breaths came fast as her chest grew tight.

“-we’ve got a live one! Quick get her out-“

Why can’t she remember it? Any of it?

“She’s looking bad, hurry-“

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t.

[tennessoui]

Prompt: Can you shut up!?

hey hi hello!!! so this is set in the princess diaries au (no shame if you never heard of it, it's about 4 posts from about 5 months ago, i just thought the quote fit)

but basically anakin is the princess who writes the diary, obi-wan is chris pratt in the second movie, and they're very annoyed at each other except they also can't stay away or keep their hands off each other. because well. mutual obsession etc etc

(2.8k)

“Princess! Fancy seeing you here,” the most unwelcome voice in the entirety of Genovia and perhaps the world greets Anakin as he turns the corner into the main entrance hall.

He considers turning back immediately, but his grandfather has been trying to drill manners into his head and he knows that such a display of preference—dispreference, perhaps?—would be breaking half.

(Even though it’s not as if Anakin sees Qui-Gon obey all the rules Anakin has spent hours learning since he’d been discovered by his grandfather in San Francisco. All Anakin is saying is if Qui-Gon can knight a cop in order to get out of a speeding ticket, Anakin should be able to walk away from smarmy assholes who don’t know when to stop.)

“Lord Kenobi, what a surprise seeing you. Here. In my home,” he places his hands behind his back, files clenched just a hair too tightly between his hands. “Uninvited,” he adds in case the lord has not noticed that part.

“Apologies,” Lord Kenobi replies. He’s sitting on a side table, probably a Genovian antique worth more than his entire life, long legs crossed at the ankles in front and arms crossed over his chest. Does the man ever wear anything that isn’t a suit? At least he’s left off the jacket this time, but that might even be worse. All Anakin can see is his bare forearms, flexed as they are in that position.

All he can think about is the ball from two nights ago. It had been Anakin’s twenty-first birthday celebration, a coming of age in Genovia that could not be swept under the rug. That was how Qui-Gon put it, though Anakin still thinks his grandfather simply adores having a reason to throw a party.

He’d been warned beforehand that the guest list was mostly princesses and ladies and duchesses, women and girls looking to win his favor and eventually his ring. There weren’t many single, handsome, titled men these days—for good reason, of course, but still.

He’d been warned, but he hadn’t been prepared. After an hour and a half of dancing, he’d taken refuge in the linen closet off the main hall, several rooms away. He’d just needed space to breathe unperfumed air, to clear his head, to remember that he wasn’t just Ani anymore, the poor kid from San Francisco with the shit haircut he loved. He was Anakin Espa Tatoin Set de Shmison, Prince of Genovia.

And that meant dancing with women in ball gowns and long nails that pinched at his arms when he tried to leave before they were ready to see him go. That meant being a piece of meat, to be studied and measured by people he had no interest in.

But how can he say that?

Single, handsome, titled men are supposed to be straight. They’re supposed to be interested in women. And if they’re not—if they’re interested in men as well, that has to be an afterthought. That has to be a shameful secret, hidden away while they parade their beautiful wives around the world.

And single, handsome, titled men who aren’t interested in women at all? Who have only ever wanted to love another man openly and ardently? Who went to the San Francisco Pride Festival at the age of twelve and bawled in the streets at the realization that he wasn’t alone in feeling this way? 

Those don’t exist. Ani cannot exist, not if Anakin, Prince of Genovia is supposed to.

So he’d needed a second to remember, to get his head and his story, well. Straight. And he’d ducked out of the room, into a linen closet just for a few moments to breathe.

That’s all he’d had. Just a few moments. And then the door had opened and someone had closed themselves in with him.

Anakin had opened his mouth to protest—because, really, this was all very indecent, there was hardly any space between their bodies. If Anakin moved a single half-step forward, his entire front would be brushing along a—a very firm chest and broad shoulders, nice arms covered by a dark blue suit.

He must have swallowed his tongue there for a second, and it had given the strange man an opening. “Hello, darling,” he’d said, tone a low hot murmur very close to his ear. “Sincerest apologies for barging in like this, but I wanted to give you this.”

In his hand had been a champagne flute. For the first time, Anakin had followed the line of his arm up to his shoulder and then to his face. The man was gorgeous. His beard was neatly trimmed to the lines of his jaw, his eyes pleasantly crinkled on his smile. His hair had been styled, but several pieces had been falling out and they hung over his forehead.

“I heard it was your birthday, princess,” he’d teased in that same low tone, the lilting accent of a native Genovian coloring his words. “And I know in America they never celebrate twenty-first birthdays without a bit of alcohol. What do they call it again? When they go to different bars all in the same night for the sake of getting wasted?”

Getting wasted had never sounded more appealing than it did in that voice. “Twenty-one run,” Anakin had replied, taking the champagne from the man’s hand. “Usually it’s with harder stuff than champagne though.”

The man had smiled. “Champagne is the chaser, if you want.” He’d opened his jacket to pull out a silvery flask, shaking it slightly so Anakin could hear the liquid sloshing around.

And well. Many people had told Anakin many things throughout the course of his life but definitely since he became Prince of Genovia.

But no one had ever told him not to accept drinks from attractive strangers in cupboards.

They’d stayed there for at least an hour, talking in hushed tones and swapping the flask back and forth, champagne mostly forgotten. When Obi-Wan—his name was Obi-Wan Kenobi, what an amazing name—had complained about it being slightly cramped with both of them sitting opposite each other, Anakin had—Anakin had climbed into his lap and wrapped his arms around his neck.

And they’d laughed and Anakin hadn’t heard anything of what Obi-Wan said because he’d been too distracted by the way the man’s hands felt on his waist, and he’d felt so tired that he’d tried to curl up on him and go to sleep right there, face pressed against his neck so that all he could smell was Obi-Wan’s perfume, so strong at this part of his body that it almost drowned out all memories of the perfumes of the women at the ball.

The thought had woken him up. The ball. His ball. He’d been languishing in a linen closet for ages while his ball was going on. Unacceptable. Deplorable.

Obi-Wan had been shocked to feel him scramble up and away, shocked to watch him scrub a hand down his face and over his hair.

“No, no, I have to go,” Anakin had warbled when Obi-Wan’s hands had reached out to catch his own, bring him back to his lap. “No, I can’t—I’m not Ani, I have to be—I’m Anakin, Prince of…Anakin has to…he can’t like you, he has to go—he has to go dance with girls.”

Obi-Wan had stood up and looked at him with such kind, sad eyes that Anakin had thought he would cry if he had to see anything more. He’d turned to go, but Obi-Wan had caught his wrist, pulled him back and into his arms for a crushing and achingly quick hug. “You can have both,” he’d whispered in his ear. “I promise, Anakin. You don’t have to choose between who you are and what your duty is.”

Anakin had shaken his head sharply once, fighting the urge to cry, because he couldn’t. He couldn’t be both. Obi-Wan didn’t understand. Obi-Wan was just a lord. He didn’t understand that as a prince—he was expected to marry, expected to give heirs, expected to—

He’d left the closet but had been unable to get the words of the lord out of his head. Three dances later, he’d seen Obi-Wan standing on the sidelines of the room, next to a severe looking old man, hands clasped behind his back and legs indecently set apart.

You can have both, Obi-Wan had whispered. But was that true? Could it really be true?

It had been liquid courage that had made him cross the room to stand before Obi-Wan as the strings of the last song died. “Can I have this dance?” He’d asked, like an idiot, a tipsy, smitten child. And that’s exactly what Obi-Wan had treated him as, looking quickly at the old man next to him before he’d looked back at Anakin with an eyebrow raised in derision.

“I don’t know,” he’d said, lilting voice carrying so far the palace guards at the mouth of the driveway probably heard. “Can you?”

Anakin had flushed so red, it was a miracle he hadn’t simply burst into flames. But he’d wanted Obi-Wan. He’d wanted to be held and to hold the man again. Something about being around him made him feel safe and looked after. Protected. “May I?” 

And Obi-Wan, the man who had chuckled so deeply into his hair in the linen closet not even an hour ago had turned his head. “I believe someone more suiting your tastes is waiting over there,” he’d said, and Anakin had followed his gaze to spot a young woman clutching at her matriach’s hand, staring at him with stars in her eyes.

“I do not,” he’d said, and he’d sounded unsure, he knows he had. He’d broken and whispered almost furiously between them. “I hoped I could have both.”

Obi-Wan had taken a pointed sip of his champagne flute. “And I hope that with age, your naivety will meet its end. Happy birthday, my prince.”

And then he’d bowed, and then he’d left with that old man, and Anakin had been able to hear the whispers around the ballroom. He’d been so embarrassed, he’d been so angry—

And now Obi-Wan Kenobi is here, leaning on a table and looking at him consideringly as if he has any right to his time or his fucking—side table after what he’d done. He’d humiliated him, after letting him be vulnerable with him.

Worse, he’d—he’d given him hope. And then he’d taken it all away. He’d been a right dick, and Anakin despises him, an opinion that will never change.

“I’m not expecting visitors,” he tells him in a clipped manner, striding by. If he cannot turn around and leave, he will walk past and not engage. There—the grand staircase. He will go up a flight, perhaps two, and then into a random room full of things that can hopefully be broken without costing Genovia a fortune, and he will have a tantrum. “I’m much too busy today.”

“Are you?” Lord Kenobi asks. He says it like it’s a question he already knows the answer to. There’s the sounds of the man getting up, standing straight, and following him, but Anakin is walking much too fast to care.

He does care, however, when the files behind his back are plucked from his hands.

“Looking for a wife, are you?” Kenobi asks rhetorically, thumbing through the files.

Anakin whips around, hand already outstretched, but Kenobi ducks away. “Give those back,” he demands, stalking after him.

“I’m reading,” Kenobi says. “Too boring. Too spontaneous. Too cookie-cutter. Not rich enough. Owns a baking show, but only because of her title, you don’t want that sort of artificiality in your life.”

“Ahrt-e-fiss-i-a-lity,” Anakin mocks before he can stop himself. Kenobi looks over his shoulder with a lazy raised eyebrow, and Anakin wants to kill him.

He starts ascending the stairs and Anakin tears after him, tossing the idea of tackling him onto the floor out of his mind before it can completely form. It would be very satisfying though.

“All women,” Obi-Wan concludes as he reaches the top of the stairs. “Anakin,” his tone is…is disapproving almost. “We talked about this.”

Anakin wants to wrap his hands around Obi-Wan’s neck and squeeze. It is quite a feat of self-control that he does not. “Was that before or after you rejected me on the dancefloor?” he hisses at him angrily.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth as if to say something, but he pauses first and tilts his head. Anakin freezes as well when he hears the voices of a couple of maids down the hall.

Rumors have already begun to spread after the disastrous finale of Anakin’s birthday ball. He does not need to be caught arguing with Obi-Wan Kenobi right now, lest he feed more wood into those flames.

Without quite understanding why his actions are so bad, he blindly reaches out to the closest door and shoves both of them inside its opening.

“Princess, we have to stop meeting like this,” Obi-Wan says, pressed solidly against his front, the folders of all of Anakin’s possible wives the only thing keeping their chests from touching. “People will talk.”

Anakin feels his mouth drop open in outrage before he hits at Obi-Wan’s chest. “People are talking!” he hisses. “You—you rejected me! In front of everyone!”

“You weren’t in your right mind, Anakin,” Obi-Wan murmurs, letting himself be hit. Anakin doesn’t like that. Anakin wants Kenobi to fight back. “You were at least tipsy, on your way to fully sozzled. That sort of decision, it needs to be made fully sober. I refuse to take advantage of you like that.”

Anakin stares without seeing at Obi-Wan’s chest, bottom lip trembling slightly despite his best effort. “You were cruel,” he finally manages to say, slapping at Obi-Wan’s chest again. “You were cruel.”

Obi-Wan is silent for several seconds, before he lets out a little sigh. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I am. I—my grandfather was with me, you see. And it would be—if he knew that you held me in high regard, it would be terrible for you. For the crown. And I find myself…opposed to putting you in such a position.”

“Why?” Obi-Wan frowns at the question as if it’s especially offensive to him.

“Because I don’t like thinking about you in distress.”

“Oh, did you not see me after you rejected me in front of—”

“I said, my grandfather was next to me—”

“Oh, well if your grandfather was—”

“I didn’t expect you to do something so public—”

“You got me drunk in a closet and you—”

“I expected a bit more class—”

“I asked you to dance, I didn’t ask you to blow me in the throne room, for fuck’s—”

“Would you?” Obi-Wan is somehow so much closer than before, and Anakin’s hands fall to his shirt for a grip. “Would you ask that of me?”

Anakin falls silent, still. He has no idea what Obi-Wan wants, no idea what the man is after. It feels like all he can do is answer honestly, and the word is on the tip of his tongue when Obi-Wan speaks again. “I would,” he whispers like a secret between them. “If my prince wanted it of me. If I thought my lips wrapped around his length would halt his foolish search for a wife when we both know they’d never be able to give him what he needs—-”

“Can you shut up?” Anakin cries much too loudly, and Obi-Wan grins in the darkness of the closet. “Make me,” he requests teasingly, but Anakin has had enough of being teased by this man. Anakin will not take this any longer.

He sets about making him, yanking him closer to him until their mouths meet. Immediately, Anakin’s eyes slide shut because this is a kiss and he only knows one way to kiss someone: gently, softly.

But he isn’t feeling very gentle and soft towards Obi-Wan right now, and the lord definitely isn’t feeling the same if the way he bites at his lip is any indication. Anakin can’t stop the way he yelps, and when Obi-Wan takes advantage of his opened mouth, he can’t even say he’s surprised.

His yelp quickly turns into an embarrassingly loud moan, and he grips at Obi-Wan’s hair, shoving him back against the wall.

There’s a rushing waterfall of paper, as Obi-Wan drops the files in his hands in order to grab at Anakin’s waist and pull him in, pull him closer.

And that’s how the maid finds them on her journey to grab new linens for one of the bedrooms, liplocked and making out against the one part of the small space, Obi-Wan’s leg slipped between Anakin’s, while Anakin’s hands are clenched around his thighs, the smiling faces of Anakin’s potential wives laying discarded and forgotten on the floor. 

[mythoughtsxxblog]

Just finished watching The O.C.....

And I have a few thoughts and opinions about the characters and storylines

Ryan Atwood

Not gonna lie, I didn't really care for him the first season, but as the series went on I truly grew to love him. He is beyond loyal and is a damn precious angel. And he is funny despite what anyone says lol. His dry humor and sarcasm >>>> I know most think he's just this brooding character that's meant to save all the women in his life, but he's more than that. He's a great friend to Seth (their relationship was the best one on the show lol). And I know this is an unpopular opinion but he was so great with Taylor. I believe his true self was showcased in their relationship and I loved every bit of it. I have a thing for troubled male characters that deserve better. He fits this category perfectly lol. Also him in season 4 😍

Seth Cohen

Love this character and all his flaws with all my heart. I can admit, he was lowkey self absorbed and selfish at times. To the point where I wanted to punch my screen 💀 but overall, this character has a special place in my heart. He reminds me so much of Stiles Stilinski. Pretty sure he was the blueprint for Stiles lol. Also Adam Brody is so fucking good. This man knows how to play an awkward, sarcastic idiot so perfectly. And I mean idiot in the best way possible lol

Marissa Cooper

I am very indifferent on her tbh. At times I thought she was overly dramatic, but then other times I understood why she was like that. Her friendship with Johnny was very cute. I'm kind of mad they ended it so soon (*cardi b voice* WHAT WAS THE REASON?!!). They would've been a cute pair. Her relationship with Ryan, although very cute at times, was exhausting to watch. I really hate watching the back and forth, breaking up, getting back together storylines. It reminded me of Pacey/Joey. Pacey and Joey, although cute, was exhausting to watch. Her death was so damn unnecessary. They could've easily had her go with her dad and end her story arc there. But I guess the writers needed a way to have Ryan live without her. They're so uncreative.

Summer Roberts

She lowkey reminded me of Brooke Davis. Hard exterior, warm and welcoming interior. Didn't like her at first, but grew to love her. Her and Seth are adorable and aren't your stereotypical popular girl/nerdy boy trope. Like sure, Summer is popular and Seth not so much, but they balanced eachother so well. The upside down Spiderman scene is still iconic.

Taylor Townsend

LOVE. HER. I know this is probably an unpopular opinion, but she is hilarious. She brought out the best in Ryan and I love her for that. She is awkward, weird, and crazy. The best combination tbh.

The Parents

The Cohens - Although messy at times, I enjoyed their story arcs. Minus that bitch that came back and tried to get with Sandy. Their marriage wasn't this picture perfect story and I appreciated it. The way they took Ryan in >>

Julie Cooper - I fucking despised this woman at first. That storyline with Luke was unnecessary and disgusting. Wtf was with the shows in the early 2000s making adults sleep with underage children. Enough! By season 4 I grew to tolerate her and she was lowkey funny at times.

Other thoughts:

- Chris Pratt made guest appearances and I almost threw up

- I wanted a redemption arc for Trey Atwood so bad when he got out of jail. Like why tf did the writers ruin it by having him attack Marissa. I wanted a damn love triangle and we got that tragic shit 💀

- Johnny deserved better!!!!! This poor boy got shit thrown at him left and right.

- There was a brief moment where I lowkey wanted Theresa's kid to be Ryan's. Imagine Ryan with a kid 😭

- Taylor/Ryan > Marissa/Ryan

- "You saved me"

- BE RUNNING UP THAT ROAD, BE RUNNING UP THAT HILL, BE RUNNING UP THAT BUILDING 🎶

- Death Cab, that is all.

- They couldn't cast someone ugly to play Volchok??????

And I will end with this.....

[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter eleven: after you've gone

word count: ~12.6k

rating: m

warnings: canon-typical religious blasphemy, though it's in full-force here with joseph so i wanted it to be noted in the warnings. there are mentions of self-harm, both past and implied presently, and they're not treated very lightly. elliot is having a hard time.

notes: there's a lot of moving parts in this so i apologize in advance if it feels a bit slow, but everything felt really important to include and i wanted to make sure nothing got left out. thank you so much to my beta @starcrier who literally proofed this beast with all of the love in the world.

i won't ramble on too much, but i did want to say that the reception for the last two chapters really made my whole heart just explode and i wanted to thank you all! what an incredible experience it is getting to write these two gigantic idiots. <3

“I saw her. Our mor.”

Helmi cradled the phone between her shoulder and ear, scribbling absently on the side of the file she’d continued nosing through once she’d gotten back to the bunker. Like this, she felt far from Kajsa—farther than she had in the longest time. Maybe since they had welcomed her into the Family.

“Did you?” She stretched back against the truck’s seat, feet kicked up on the dash as she scanned the page, going over her own notes. Starvation, classical condition. On animals and people? In the back seat of the truck, Peaches rumbled her discontent at lack of attention; Helmi reached back and scratched her ears until the rumble turned into what she recognized as a more contented purr.

“Yes. She is doing well. Her color is just as Ase said, you know. Perfectly balanced. Poor John—I can see his suffering.”

Helmi hmm’d, the thoughtfulness matching the patient rumble Peaches had rewarded her affection with.

“Is Deputy Pratt behaving?”

“I should hope so. He has no reason to have any loyalty to the Seeds, outside of fear.”

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. Helmi was sure, in the very marrow of her bones, that Kajsa was smiling.

“And what did you give him, Helmi? To make him loyal?”

She considered. “A more impressive fear.” And then: “Also, I said I wouldn’t kill him.”

“That is just a more impressive fear bundled up pretty, my heart.”

“Mm,” Helmi replied in agreement. Whatever the case, she thought that Pratt had more to gain from fucking the Seeds over than he did by fucking them over—and that’s why Kajsa entrusted this sort of thing to her and didn’t do it herself, after all. If it had been Kajsa here, eyeing Pratt like a piece of lunchmeat, she’d have him drugged to the gills and barely aware of what was going on. Not being of use.

It’s why we make a perfect pair, something inside of her said, joy shared, joy doubled.

“Don’t rest on your laurels.”

Sorrow shared, sorrow halved.

Helmi sighed. “I’m not.”

“Keep putting pressure. I want them squirming, hjärtat.”

“I will.” She paused, sitting up in the truck and glancing out at the remaining members of the Family. Those that hadn’t given themselves a swift, clean death. After Kian’s face was crushed in, Kajsa had gathered them all and said, It’s going to be harder, from here. If you feel you cannot do it, if you think that you do not have the strength to answer our calling, then it is your time. We love you.

It had been the time for many. Morale had been—and still was—low. Ase’s death first, gut-wrenching and tragic, and then Kian’s; worse than the last. Worse, because while he had been grieving, while he had been suffering, he had still been their second-in-command. Meant to be infallible, even more so than Ase. He had been meant to carry them into their next life, after It was appeased. Contented. After It had turned the world to winter.

Now, more than ever, with only a handful of them left to huddle around their fires and sleep in the backs of cars, and kiss and laugh and hug each other in the inky black night, they felt like a ship adrift at sea.

Kajsa’s voice hummed in her ear, plastic and metal vibrating where it lay trapped between her head and shoulder. Helmi’s gaze swept away from the remaining Family members and turned her gaze back to the file. The Seeds were deeply rooted in this place—the tendrils of a tree that might be dead at the trunk but stayed for many decades after, if it wasn’t ripped out at the base.

“Did you hear me, Helmi?”

“No,” she replied truthfully. “I was distracted.”

“I am coming back,” Kajsa reiterated patiently.

“The others will be happy.”

“And what about you? Will you be happy?”

Helmi paused. She closed the file, dropped it back onto the dashboard and cranked the seat back so that she could stretch a little, her eyes tracing the tinny, ancient ceiling of the truck she’d lifted from Eden’s Gate. She exhaled, once, and then held her breath; closed her eyes, felt the ache of it between her ribs.

“I sense before me a lost lamb.”

“Not lost,” Helmi replied, her lungs tight. “Just—thinking.”

“Must I divine the dark cloud over your soul myself?”

She allowed her body to take air back in. “I wonder,” she murmured, “if it will be enough to appease the Father.”

“Do you wonder,” Kajsa hummed, “or do you worry?”

A moment of silence stretched. And then, the rich, melodic timbre of the Hierophant’s voice came through again, idle and pulled snug against her ear, like Kajsa was really right there again to say the words against her skin: “What will you do, if Staci Pratt defects despite your Machiavellian threats of harm so great he should never consider to incur it?”

“I don’t know,” Helmi replied uneasily. “It would depend on if he brought mor and the interloper, or if he just—”

“The answer, hjärtat, is that you do not know, because it has not been revealed to you yet.” Despite the interruption, Kajsa’s voice was pleasant and serene. Ever since Ase’s death, she’d been more tempered—like she was playing a role, filling a void. Helmi almost missed her cruelty. Like it was a creature comfort. “There is no use in wondering, because we will never know before it is our time to. We want for much. Whether or not we are given it remains to be seen. Our Father is a most...”

Her voice trailed off. Helmi tried to think of what words Kajsa might use; stringent, perhaps, ambitious, or even enigmatic—

“Wretched god,” Kajsa finished, a grin in her voice. “It does so love to watch us toil, does It not?”

“Yes,” she answered after a moment, because wretched resonated somewhere in her soul, somewhere in the marrow of her bones, reminding her why this had felt like home ever in the first place. Wretched, to watch them suffer, to give them so little information and let them suffer wreck after wreck.

In front of her, the dark of the forest swelled, breathed, reminded her: failure was not an option. Theirs was not a benevolent, forgiving God, the kind who would forgive sin if one only asked—the Father was wrathful, was vengeful, and would make them suffer their insolence and their ineptitude.

“I should get going. I imagine our mor will not be far behind, thanks to your ingenuity, and I want to be in Hope County to welcome her.”

“I am,” Helmi blurted out after a second of hesitation, “happy, that you’re coming back.”

There was a pause on the other end; and then, a soft breath, where Helmi thought maybe Kajsa was smiling again.

“Ingenting under solen är beständigt, my heart.”

The call clicked. Only empty air and static, then, buzzing faintly in the ear, the words dead in her mouth before she’d had the chance to say them back.

Nothing under the sun is lasting.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot was going to be sick. Nevermind the morning-after-dread of realizing she had caved in on her most basest animal desires—What, the man who’s perhaps lied to you the most tells you he’s never thought you’re crazy, and you let him fuck you? Come on, Elliot,—but listening to Pratt ramble nervously into the phone about how he didn’t realize everyone was gone, nobody stopped to look for him, nobody tried to call, he thought she had left too and she had, where was she? Was she okay?

“I’m fine,” she managed out. Guilt ripped through her sternum, burning hot and shameful. I’m fine, Pratt, don’t worry about me. Got well and truly railed last night, it’s fine. Oh, also, I’m going to have a baby. And I’m married. Don’t worry, you found out about the same time as me, just off a few weeks. “I’m at my mom’s.”

“In Georgia?”

“Yeah.” Elliot swallowed thickly. “Are you okay? You sound like shit.”

Pratt laughed uneasily on the other end of the line. “I’m with, uh—I’m with them.” He paused. “The Seeds. And their—the lawyer lady.”

“That doesn’t tell me if you’re okay,” she reiterated, more firmly.

He laughed again. “I’m on the phone with you, aren’t I?”

Frustrating. They might all be looming around him, waiting to hear what she was going to say. It was a trap, of course. Jacob or Joseph had done enough digging around in her past to find out they’d gone to school together, had gone to school dances, had basically dated—and they knew she’d evacuated the entirety of the Resistance otherwise. They were clearly laying a trap to get her to come back. But for what?

“Hey, um—” Staci cleared his throat. “Ell, there’s—a lot of bad stuff going on. There’s these people, and they’re—they’re just killing people, left and right, gutting them and sticking them up and—Jesus, they fucking split Miss Mabel open like a fish, and I’m—”

Oh, there it was; the sickness, the violent urge to throw up. The Family was supposed to be dead. They had been killing themselves off in pairs after Kian’s death, weren’t they? Elliot blinked rapidly, trying to calm the furious beating of her heart, the way it slammed against her rib cage and demanded penance.

Calloused fingers swept her hair to the side and squeezed at the juncture between her neck and shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. She closed her eyes tight, willing herself to accept it for what it was—John, comforting her, because even now he knew her well enough to see she was spiraling.

I can’t, is what she needed to say. I can’t come back, Staci, I can’t, not me and not my baby, my hands are already covered in blood I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—

“—I’m so fucking scared, Ell.” Pratt’s voice wobbled on the other end, hitting straight at the fresh welt of guilt in her chest, ripping and tearing at it.

I can’t—

“I don’t want to be alone—”

I’m sorry I can’t I’m sorry—

“—I’m sorry—”

“I’ll come,” she blurted out, her voice hoarse, the burn behind her eyes and in her nose a threat of oncoming tears. She couldn’t stand it—couldn’t bear to hear him like this, when this whole time he was supposed to have been safe. She’d let him down, and while she had a responsibility to herself, the responsibility to the others had always come first.

And, better still, was the tiny, tiny fragment of hope that the dark-haired woman with a mouth like broken glass would be left behind, too. The dog with the man’s face and the strands of her hair glinting between Its bloody teeth would stay here, in Weyfield. It would wait for her, but perhaps there would be some peace there, too.

It waits for you, It waits for us all, It will have you. As It gives, so too does It take.

“Tell them I’m coming back.” Elliot bit the words out through her teeth. “And tell them if I come back and you’re hurt, or dead, or—if there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to fucking kill them. Okay?”

“No need,” came Jacob’s voice over the phone. “You’re on speaker, Deputy Honeysett. We’re well acquainted with your particular brand of mania.”

“Great,” she snapped, feeling a vicious flush spread through her cheeks despite the fact that she didn’t feel bad at all for what she’d said. “You thought I was fucking manic before? I had nothing to lose, then. Imagine how much worse I’ll make your life now—”

John’s hand squeezed again. This time, she shot him a venomous look over her shoulder and shrugged him off. Elliot knotted her fingers in Boomer’s fur and prompted again, “Is that clear?”

The eldest Seed sounded like he was smiling when he said, “Crystal, Deputy.”

“Good.” She paused. “And don’t fucking call me that. I’m not a deputy, anymore.”

“Sure thing, hellcat.”

“Pratt—”

Jacob’s voice came again: “Have a safe trip.”

The phone call beeped once, twice, three times, and then ended. The hard knot of dread in the pit of her stomach did not lessen; she hit the redial button, and it went straight to voicemail. Again, and again, and again, her hands shaking as she thought wait, I didn’t get to say goodbye, I didn’t get to promise I’d be there, I’m coming Pratt, I’m coming please don’t be worried, before she shoved the phone into John’s grip.

“Call him back,” she demanded, “make him pick up the phone—”

“Elliot,” he began, “if he turned the phone off, I can’t—”

“Fuck you!” she snapped, coming to a stand and raking her fingers through her hair. “You fucking knew they had Pratt, didn’t you? You knew that he was still trapped there and he didn’t get out, and you fucking left him there, so that you could pull me back if it didn’t go the way you wanted—”

John stood too, setting the phone on the bedside table and lifting his hands. The gesture was meant to calm and soothe, see my hands? Here they are, no threat here, but all it did was make her angrier, stoke a fire inside of her that had apparently lain dormant since she’d left Hope County.

Elliot smacked his hands down. “Don’t treat me like some fucking animal, John.”

“I’m not,” he defended quickly, dropping his hands all the way back to his sides when Boomer barked twice, sharp and accusatory, hackles lifting. “I didn’t know Pratt was still there. I thought the Resistance had got him out, and I didn’t bother asking.”

“You should have bothered—”

“I’m just as displeased as you are,” John interjected dryly, the dark coloring of his tone implying that he was—but for perhaps a different reason. It struck her that he might, in fact, be so displeased because he was aware of their history, on some level. It did feel a little gratifying to know that he was squirming for such an insignificant reason.

“You fuckhead,” she spit. “You put a fucking baby in me and you still have the insecurity of a middle school boy.”

“We both know,” he replied tartly, “that our baby is not in any way binding you to me, Elliot. And is it so shocking, considering that the thing that I want most in the world is for you to come home, and you fight me at every turn—”

“Hope County isn’t my home anymore—”

“—but Staci Pratt calls you and cries a little into the phone, and you’re jumping at the bit to go back?”

“Fuck. Off,” Elliot bit out between her teeth, face flushing. “Pratt is my friend, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Right,” John agreed, “because you let the person you hate fuck you.”

Her mouth clamped shut, biting and swallowing back a wad of venom she thought might make her sick if she let it out. There was too much of it, the things that she wanted to say—fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou, I fucking hate you, you make me sick, if anything is wrong with Pratt I’ll kill your brothers and then I’ll fucking kill you too—but she didn’t say any of it.

Instead, she said, “Get out. I’m getting changed and we’re leaving.”

John sighed, passing a hand over his face for a moment like maybe he regretted what he’d said. “We can’t.”

She felt her voice spike, near incredulous hysteria: “Pardon?”

“Old Father Time of the Job Ineptitude mentioned he had Federal agents showing up out of nowhere,” he snapped. The words had her stomach twisting; her first thought was a tiny spike of happiness at the idea of Cameron Burke, and then it was quickly doused by the sharp reminder that she’d stolen his gun and ran with it. Because he thought she was crazy. Because he was going to put her behind bars.

John continued, “He seemed to be implying it was somehow related to me showing up, and by proxy you, and if we up and leave—”

“It’ll make it look more suspicious,” she finished, feeling a little numb. “Okay, so—what? How long do we have to wait?”

He scratched his cheek, his eyes flickering absently over the duvet on the bed, like he was trying to map it out in his own head. No doubt, he was trying to operate on multiple timelines—the timeline of Not Raising Suspicion, and whatever timeline Joseph had given him.

Some things really did never change.

“After your mother’s Christmas party,” he ventured finally. “It’s not quite Christmas—could look enough like we’re sticking around for enough holiday cheer to be passable before leaving again. Pritchard’s clearly not unfamiliar with your mother’s...”

His voice trailed off. He looked to her as though asking for permission to say something critical; when Elliot remained stonefaced and immovable, he finished, “...temperament.”

“Nice save.”

“Well,” he replied, humble as ever. “Anyway, that probably wouldn’t rouse suspicion. If it is Burke, and your house isn’t getting stormed right now, I have to think he’s here on unofficial business. Otherwise, why wouldn’t they just come and bust the door down and grab you?”

Elliot hoped that was the case. She hoped this meant that Burke was just trying to find her, and was not hunting her down at the behest of the government. If there was one thing that Joseph had been right about amidst all his doomsday-saying and whatnot, it was that according to the news, there was a big chance the government had bigger things on their hands. Bigger concerns than a tiny town in Montana and its cult inhabitants.

“Get out,” she said again. “So I can change.”

“You—” John sucked in a little breath, stopping himself from what was inevitably going to be stirring another argument; he lifted his hands again, this time in surrender. “Alright, Ell. I said you’d get anything you want, I’ll give it to you.”

“Chop-chop.”

“I’m going. Mind if I pull some clothes on before I walk out into the house owned by your mother, where she has almost assuredly been sipping her vodka martini since four AM?”

She felt her eyes narrow. “Fine.”

Turning, she crossed the bedroom into the master bath and shut the door behind her, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes until fine webbing scattered across the dark of her eyelids. This was the last thing she needed—and it felt, surely, traitorous and awful to think it, to think, this is the last thing I need, Pratt needing rescuing, when the only reason she’d felt comfortable leaving Hope County in the first place was because she thought the only people who were left were cultists.

Elliot dropped her hands from her eyes, blinking a few times until her vision cleared. In the mirror—much as it had been since coming back from Hope County—stood a girl that she thought looked like a stranger. Blushed cheeks and kiss-reddened lips, her neck littered with love marks, the healthy glow blooming up from beneath the WRATH scar on her chest, exposed by her loosely cinched robe.

That’s not me, she thought, pulling absently on a strand of red hair and swallowing thickly. I’m not that girl.

Her face was softer than before, more lively color rising up around her eyes and cheeks and mouth. More of her freckles had come out. There was a tiny, tiny—almost imperceptible—slope to her tummy, now, too.

Not me, came the thought again, more distressed this time, her brows pulling together at the center of her forehead. That’s not me. I’m not that girl. Who are you, pretty girl? Not me.

The woman and her dark hair—dark dark dark, like an oil slick, looming in the corner of her mind. Her mouth red as pomegranate and stretched like broken glass.

I hear stress is bad for the baby.

A knock came at the door. Elliot blinked, feeling unwell and unsure of how long she’d been standing there, her hand having dropped to cup the slope of her stomach experimentally. Women did that, right? When they were pregnant? Did it make them feel closer to the baby? Did it make them feel more protected?

Did she feel safer?

“Ell,” John said, nudging the door open, “your mother is...”

Pulling away from the door, she cinched the robe tight and busied herself at the sink, turning the water on. As he stepped into the bathroom, she could see John was now fully-dressed, freshly-showered. She’d been standing in front of the mirror trying to recognize the person staring back at her long enough for him to do that, it seemed.

“That was a quick shower,” she said briskly, splashing her face and rubbing absently at her cheek. She could feel John’s eyes on her through the mirror, even though she refused to meet them.

“I’ve always preferred it that way,” he replied casually. And then: “Get distracted?”

Yes, she thought, but didn’t say, because then the things he’d said last night that had made her feel sane and normal wouldn’t mean anything anymore. John would have said I don’t think you’re crazy and he’d have to take it back, because if she told him there was a stranger standing in her mirror, he would think she was crazy.

“It’s weird,” is what Elliot offered after a moment, trying to find a way to be honest and redirect, “to see a baby bump. Even if it’s small.” She cleared her throat and fished her toothbrush out of the holder. Continuing briskly, she added, “And the scar. I spent a lot of time avoiding it.”

John’s expression had done that funny thing that she supposed was softening at her words. He stepped forward; the ghost of his fingers trailing her ribs over the robe made her skin prickle with goosebumps.

“I’m not done being mad at you,” she warned him, eyes flickering to meet his gaze through the mirror.

“I know,” he replied, tone agreeable. “I just—”

The brunette paused then, waiting for her to stop him before he smoothed the warmth of his palm over her hip, across the expanse of her abdomen. It was painfully intimate in a way that didn’t imply sex—intimate, in the way that she felt seen, that she could see the relief coloring the edges of his expression.

John pressed his mouth to the back of her shoulder. “Just missed you,” he murmured after a moment. “Getting to touch you. Even just like this. Especially just like this—”

Something panged sharp and unforgiving in her chest. “Well, don’t get used to it,” she replied tightly, brushing his hand away from the baby bump after letting it linger for a moment. “And I don’t remember inviting you in.”

“Your mother was asking after you,” John said, by way of explanation, looking pleased from their little moment. Fucker. “She wanted to know if you’d be drinking coffee this morning. I think her exact words were, ‘Mr. Seed, would you ask my daughter if she’s going to take the risk of drinking coffee this morning? I know she shouldn’t be, with her condition—’”

“Ugh.”

“‘—but since we’re going to be picking out her dress for the Christmas party today, I could make an exception—’”

“Fuck me,” she muttered, wetting her toothbrush and putting the toothpaste on it. “Ask her if she can make it extra strong.”

“I’m actually enjoying being out of your mother’s ire for a minute.”

Elliot rolled her eyes. “No coffee for me.”

“Got it.” John headed for the bathroom door, and then paused again, turning to look at her. “Ell,” he began, “I really didn’t know—you know, about Pratt.”

That pesky little flutter of something agonizingly sweet—softness—in her chest flared again.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” is what she said, before she turned the toothbrush on and started scrubbing her teeth. That seemed enough of an answer for John, for once, because he left and closed the door quietly behind him after deliberating.

The minutes, and hours, and days—well, day or two—until they got back to Hope County were going to be something close to agony. She could only hope they had taken her seriously when she told them that she’d better come back to a Pratt in one piece.

I don’t want to be alone. Pratt’s voice echoed hauntingly in her head. She thought she could remember the sound of voices in the background—a woman’s, at least. Faith? Or John’s friend, Isolde? Surely Jacob and Joseph were there listening to him call her, too. She’d been so fucking stupid to let them get to her.

No, not stupid. Not stupid to want Pratt to feel safe, and like someone was coming back for him.

I’m sorry, she thought tiredly, as though the words could somehow get to him. I’m sorry, that it’s me you have to wait for.

I’m sorry that I won’t be the person you remembered.

I’m sorry.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You did so well, Staci.”

Faith’s voice jarred him out of the weird pause in time he’d been marinating in. It had been just a few seconds, maybe—Jacob and Joseph were talking in low voices, the dark-haired woman standing at the point of their little triangle with her arms crossed and her brows furrowed—that his brain had shut off, the distress in Elliot’s voice echoing eerily in his head. She’d sounded so upset. He wouldn’t have called, wouldn’t have started to ask her to come back, if he’d known how much she didn’t want to.

But that wasn’t true, either. He would have called, because Helmi had said, Either the Seeds are going to drag her back by her hair kicking and screaming, and eventually kill her, or she comes back and we keep her safe.

‘Safe’ had been the keyword there. He didn’t know how much he could take the woman at her word, but considering everything—well, it was better than trying to take the Seeds at their word.

Faith’s hand touched the back of his, startling him into a tiny jump. He cleared his throat. “Um—I wasn’t...Acting.”

“Still,” she replied sweetly, “I know it must have been hard.”

She was so polished—skin all dusted silver and moonlike, flushed with a little high color in her cheeks, her blonde hair tumbling around her face loosely. In the chapel, the air was tepid at best, and frigid at worst, keeping a little pink in everyone’s faces.

It was strange to look at her now. Her hands were soft; her skin unblemished. Just hours ago, he’d been sitting in the car, noticing the same kinds of details about Helmi—about how human she looked, hand slung over a steering wheel, her cracked phone plugged into the truck’s stereo and her chipped nail polish and the scars and bruises littering her knuckles. The way she’d shot him a toothy, wolfish grin as she cranked the volume up and said, What, Staci Pratt, you don’t like Blue Öyster Cult either?

In comparison, Faith didn’t feel human at all. She felt like a dream.

“Can—” Pratt came to a stand, rubbing his palms on the tops of his thighs. “Can I go? Lay down, or something?”

Three pairs of eyes snapped to him. The dark-haired woman, who Jacob kept referring to as Sol, completely ignored his question and looked at the redhead to say, “Has someone checked him for head trauma?”

“I’m not—concussed!” Pratt snapped, his voice wobbling. “I’m just tired.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed. He looked like maybe he wanted to say something, and then reconsidered, saying, “Dr. Hale will take a look at you and then sure, Peaches, you can rest.”

It took every ounce of his self-control to not tell Jacob to stop calling him that. He had to remember that as far as they were concerned, he hadn’t been taken in by the “other side”, he’d been sitting scared and meek like a good boy at the compound.

Pratt’s eyes darted, catching sight of the woman that Jacob gestured to with a free hand. Right. The Fall’s End vet. She’d been here for what—a little over a year? He couldn’t tell if she was being held captive by Eden’s Gate or if she was there by her own volition, though the few times he’d run into her before she’d seemed like a pretty even-keel person. Didn’t she have like, two degrees or something? What was she doing here?

He made his way to the back of the church, meeting the curly-haired blonde halfway. Definitely looked too clean to be a cultist. “You’re not a people doctor, right?” he asked uneasily, watching as her head cocked to the side and her mouth quirked in a bit of amusement.

“No, Mr. Pratt, I am not a people doctor.” She fell into step beside him, opening the chapel door for him. “But I do have first aid training, which I think is about as good as you’re going to get around these parts.”

“I didn’t get a concussion.”

“That’s good. When was the last time you ate?”

His mouth twisted in a frown, trailing after through the snow as the cold began to sink into his bones. She seemed awfully confident moving around the compound, if she wasn’t part of the cult. But if she was, what was she doing here? How did—?

Pain bloomed behind his eyes, a fresh headache sinking into his nerves. Too much. It was too much confusion, about Elliot (pregnant? And John Seed was with her?) and about the Family and about all of these—these people that he didn’t really recognize hanging around the Seeds. And the compound was so quiet. Where was everyone? Had the Family really taken that many of Eden’s Gate out?

“Mr. Pratt?”

The woman opened a door into a bunkhouse that glowed with golden light from within and radiated heat. Two long-haired shepherds lay on the floor at the foot of the bed, lifting long faces and peering at him with dark eyes. He stepped inside and cleared his throat.

“Uh, a day, maybe,” he replied after a minute. Taking a seat when she gestured for him to, he shifted uncomfortably as she set a first aid kid on the cushion beside him and pulled one of the wooden chairs up in front of him.

“And slept?” She blew a curl out of her face and opened the kit, fishing around to find some alcohol wipes and Neosporin. He guessed he was a bit worse for wear than he’d thought, initially; not that he’d been taking great care of himself, even when it had just been him and Dani. She’d encouraged him to stay high, not stay better.

Fuck, I’m such an idiot.

He let out a little hiss when she pressed one of the alcohol wipes to a cut on his cheek.

“The same,” he replied, reaching up and brushing her hand away. “What—what are you doing here, doctor?”

“Arden is fine.” She sat back, regarding him curiously. “I’m cleaning that cut, Mr. Pratt. It looks agitated.”

“No, I—” Pratt let out a little breath. “I mean here. In the compound.”

Arden stared at him for a moment, like she didn’t understand why he was asking her that question. She lifted her hand and arched a brow inquisitively; when he nodded shortly, she leaned forward again, balancing her free hand on his shoulder and using the other to gently dab at the cut.

“I’ve spent the last month or so holed up in my house,” she explained to him. “Me, and the dogs, I mean.”

A little smile ghosted over her lips, and despite himself, Pratt felt a wry smile tugging at his own. It was difficult not to feel relaxed, when Arden moved with so much surety. In the glow of the radiators ticking away and the warm yellow light, especially.

“Mostly reading. They had assigned one of the boys to me—Santiago. I think he’s John’s man. He doesn’t strike me as one of Joseph or Faith’s.”

Pratt made a little noise of agreement, because he knew exactly what she was talking about. She dropped the alcohol wipes to the side and reached over for the Neosporin, dabbing some onto her finger and then reaching back up to resume her work.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment. “That you got—stuck, I mean. Here.”

“Oh, you don’t need to apologize, Mr. Pratt.”

“I feel partially responsible,” he admitted, feeling some of the tension flee his shoulders. “You know, being law enforcement and all—”

“Hold still, please.”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I guess what I mean is—sometimes it feels like a real failing on our part. All of those people, I...”

He paused, and Arden leaned back, giving him a pat on the knee. “That’s alright, Mr. Pratt,” and her voice bloomed with comfort. “Where was I?”

“Up at your house, with the dogs and maybe one of John’s men.”

“Right. I wasn’t allowed to leave, you know, on account of the—” She gestured with an elegant hand. “Cult running amok.”

He nodded. “Cult number two.”

Arden smiled, and continued, “And then just a few days ago, after one of them started killing those folks in Fall’s End, Jacob came up to get me.”

The way she said it made him feel, a little uneasily, that maybe he was misreading it. Jacob came up to get me did not sound like Jacob came to pick me up because I’m his prisoner.

And then she said, “He was worried, you know. Only having a radio up there. I know how to use a gun, but I’d prefer not to, if I don’t have to, and—”

“Sorry,” he blurted out, “but are you—”

She blinked light eyes at him, almost owlishly, like she didn’t understand the question. “Am I...?”

“With? Them?” Pratt gestured towards where the chapel lay, beyond the bunkhouse walls. “The—Eden’s Gate?”

“Oh!” Arden laughed, almost sheepishly; he felt a nervous little laugh bubbling out of him too, almost hoping for the relief of her assuring him that she was, in fact, not in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.

She came to a stand and pulled a bottle of ibuprofen and a granola bar out of the kit, dropping them in his hand.

“Eat the bar before you take the ibuprofen,” she told him, “or it’ll—well, I’m sure you know. Upset stomach, and all that. Do you want to take a shower?”

Pratt’s fingers curled around the ibuprofen bottle. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m sorry,” Arden replied, not sounding very sorry at all, “I guess I just thought it a bit silly. Who else would I be “with”?”

His stomach somersaulted, sinking viciously. Suddenly, the granola bar—which had certainly been sitting in the kit for who knew how long—looked even less appetizing than before. While his vision swam for a second, the woman carried on conversationally, as though she had not just revealed herself to—

Well, to be in league with the Darwinian psycho that had spent the last few months mindfucking every resident he could get his hands on.

“But—they think the world is ending,” Pratt blurted out, lifting his eyes to look at her finally. “And—doctor, all the people they killed, and—”

“Don’t strain yourself, Mr. Pratt. You’ve been under quite a bit of duress as of late, I think, and it would be best to try and keep those stress levels down.” She moved to the small pantry beside the bathroom, shuffling around and producing a few towels, leaning into the bathroom to set them on the counter. “Though, you do bring up a funny point—have you been listening to the news? I suppose you haven’t. I remember listening to the news before all of this business went down and thinking that the world had ended a long time ago. We were just a bit behind, all the way out here. Do you want to take a shower?”

Blinking furiously, Pratt searched his brain for the answer; he muddled through the disappointment raking down his spine, the delicate little hope that had been fostered at the prospect of finding someone who was kind and not under the Seeds’ thumb being crushed beneath the weight of the reality of his situation.

“Yes please,” he managed out, his voice hoarse.

“Alright. Eat that bar first, so you don’t pass out in the hot water. And Mr. Pratt?”

“Y—” He had clumsily ripped open the granola bar and shoved half into his mouth, the fear of being seen as disobedient when Jacob Seed was within radius flickering like a wildfire through his body. He swallowed thickly, the dry food feeling like it was sticking to the inside of his mouth. “Um, yes?”

Her expression colored sympathetic, Arden reached down and fished a water bottle out of the case, dropping it in his hand.

“The honorific isn’t necessary,” she told him. “Remember, Arden is just fine.”

“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled. “I mean—Arden.”

She smiled, this time with teeth. “Good. You holler if you need me.”

I won’t, he thought, even though she was probably preferable to anyone else coming to his rescue.

Maybe he really would rather be dead.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Scarlet insisted that John stay at the house while they went to the boutique. It was all a big show of his mother-in-law attempting, he thought, to be polite, though she failed miserably at it; and as much as John wanted to argue that it would probably be best if he came along—considering their late-night visitor—he could tell when a battle was a lost one, and when it wasn’t.

“Do you think you can do that, Mr. Seed?” she asked, pulling the objectively ostentatious fur coat around her shoulders and buttoning it. “Remain in my home for a few hours, without causing me any problems?”

He said, “I think I can certainly give it a shot,” to which the blonde rolled her eyes.

“Please do more than that.”

“Rest assured, I am fully capable of behaving myself, Mrs. Honeysett.”

He couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Every second he spent in her presence, being reminded of how little she liked him given how much she didn’t know about him—or care to get to know about him, anyway—he thought, I cannot fucking wait to get back to Hope County and the resurgence of the Family. I cannot wait until that is my only fucking problem. Anyone else and she would have been thoroughly cleansed; clearly, Wrath ran in the family. Just the thought of it made his fingers itch.

Elliot had looked tired already, standing at the door and letting her mother go first. As soon as Scarlet was out the door, carefully picking her way down the front steps, John’s hand went to Ell’s hip; her lashes fluttered at the contact, but she didn’t jerk away; only tensed, considering the act of balking and pulling away from him but not yet committing. So there had been progress.

Her free hand came to his shoulder, resting there uncertainly. “Please don’t do anything to my mother’s house.”

“As much as I would love to, I will refrain from my wretched impulses. I am a man of God, after all.” He grimaced. “Do you think she’ll like me more if things are immaculate?”

“Ha-ha. She certainly will not.” She paused, letting out a little breath. “Okay. Back in an hour.”

He felt a smile tug at his mouth. “Ambitious.” His hand drifted to the small of her back, and he said, “Ell, before you go—”

“John, I don’t—”

Elliot turned to look at him at the same time that he stepped forward, closing what little distance there was and rapidly; she blinked, and her eyes flickered to his mouth instinctively, like she was expecting it—like she’d gotten used to the affection when he closed in on her like that. The gesture sent a little thrill through his stomach.

Mine.

“Don’t let her stress you out,” John murmured, keeping his voice low between just the two of them. “You’ll look good in whatever you pick.”

She turned her face away, cheeks going pink. “What’s this, huh? Still trying to make up for being a complete fuckhead this morning?”

He grinned. “You really have gotten brattier.”

“Goodbye, John,” she said, and then he leaned in and kissed her; the connection made every part of him sigh, collectively, as though he’d just been waiting for it.

Waiting for her.

Yes yes yes, it all said when she didn’t pull away, his fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater at the small of her back as her hand slipped from his shoulder to his chest, yes, mine all mine.

Elliot did pull back after a moment, putting a bit of space between them—though it seemed more to catch her breath than anything else. She only pulled back enough for their eyes to meet; John’s gaze darted downward, watching pearly teeth as they tugged at her lower lip, worrying it there for a moment.

“To answer your question,” he continued as casually as he could, “that’s not how I intend on making that up to you.”

“So you agree?” Elliot asked. Her voice came out evenly, despite the color blooming underneath the freckles on her cheeks. “You were being a complete fuckhead this morning?”

“I did so miss our banter.”

“Bunny,” Scarlet called impatiently from the driveway, “the boutique is going to get crowded if we don’t get there when it opens.”

“I’m coming!” Her gaze darted back to him. “The best way to make it up to me would be to say the words out loud,” Elliot informed him as she inched toward the door. “So that baby can hear them, too. At least you’ll have been more honest around our child than with me, if we’re keeping a running tally, and we should—”

He tugged her back from the doorway again, lighter, more playful as he went in to kiss her a second time; but she pulled back, just out of his reach, hand planted firmly on his chest.

Elliot said, “I told you not to get used to it.”

“I’m not,” he answered lightly, “just taking what I can get.”

“Elliot.”

“Coming!” Elliot cinched her coat up more snug, closer to her throat and where the scar lay expertly over her sternum, and snagged the keys off of the counter to the beat-up Honda Civic John had lifted from Eden’s Gate. Right. He couldn’t wait to hear Scarlet’s input on that car ride.

The redhead made it down two steps before she paused, turning and looking at John and going, “Um, bye,” in a tone that was more sheepish than he anticipated; it was almost shy, and it caught him so off-guard that he didn’t even get the chance to muster a response before she was making her way across the snowy driveway.

“Drive safe,” John called, once he’d gathered his senses a bit more. Elliot glanced at him over her shoulder and then ducked into the car, closing the door and beginning to pull her way down the drive. He waited until they’d turned onto the freshly plowed road before he turned back into the house and closed the front door behind him.

Boomer had seated himself in front of the window, letting out a little whine as his tail swept along the floor.

“C’mon, furry sentinel,” he sighed, not risking putting his hand within biting reach. “Just you and me today.”

The Heeler whined again, apparently thoroughly displeased at this news, and stayed rooted at the window to watch for his girl to come home.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he hit the redial button on the number they’d gotten a call from that morning and waited as the phone rang, pacing around the polished living room. It rang enough times as he idly adjusted glasses on a bar cart that he thought for certain no one would pick up—and then the phone clicked, and a warm voice came through.

“Hi, John.”

He blinked in surprise. “Hello, Faith. How’d you get this phone?”

“Isolde passed it to me when she saw your call. She wanted me to tell you that she’s too busy to talk to you.”

A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sounds like everything’s operating as normal, then.”

“I suppose.” Faith paused. “Are you coming home soon?”

“I am.”

“With Elliot?”

“Yes, she—” John cleared his throat and made an effort to sound as unbothered as possible. “She’s very concerned about Deputy Pratt’s well-being.”

“We’re taking good care of him. Will you tell her that? Better than he’d be getting out there, anyway,” and she said the word out there with such a surprising amount of venom that John realized he’d nearly forgotten about the Family’s reappearance. Well, there couldn’t be that many of them left, could there?

And then Faith said, “A lot of us are dead, John.”

His hand went to the mantle for a little support as he leaned against it. There was a bit of a bite to Faith’s voice—almost accusatory. A lot of us are dead, she said, as he stood in the plush home of his mother-in-law while they went dress shopping for a Christmas party. It occurred to him that none of his siblings—nor Isolde—were aware of what they’d been dealing with the last couple of days; they must have felt like he was getting off easy.

“The Father says we only have a little while longer,” she continued, “and that if we can’t fix this in time, we won’t wait for you. He’s been alone, a lot. Talking to God. Praying for more time, for you.”

The words made his stomach wrench, a little. He would have felt worse if he didn’t know already that there was an exit plan in place, one that Elliot was already on board for. “We’re only here for another day, and then we’re leaving” John replied. “The sheriff mentioned some—Federal agents. I don’t want to rouse suspicion and bring them down on us again.”

“Do you think it’s Burke?”

“Maybe.” He pressed his forehead against the stone mantle. “Probably. No one’s come storming in yet.”

“I hope it’s him. I hope he follows you all the way back here.” And then, darker: “He has a lot to apologize for.”

John made a low noise of agreement. It felt good to have a conversation with someone who seemed to be on the same side as him, for once—no bickering with Scarlet, no bickering with Elliot, and no bickering with Isolde. As of late, it seemed he was only capable of incurring arguments; though that did seem to be changing quickly with his wife.

“We’re having a service soon. Did you want me to tell Joseph anything?”

“Ah, no, that’s alright. I just wanted to let you know we had a plan.”

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“No,” John said again, more quickly and with a bout of unease sprinting up his spine. “No, that’s alright. I’ll let you go. We’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Alright.” Faith’s voice lightened when she added, “Tell Elliot I said hello.”

Bad idea, he thought, but said, “Of course,” and hit the end call button. It wasn’t until his entire body relaxed that he realized he’d been fully tensed, waiting for some kind of verbal blow—and though there had been a few, he felt...

Fine.

I feel fine.

It was fine. Everything was fine. Joseph was praying for more time for them. They’d make it back without a hitch. And then, when the world ended, and took the remainder of the Family with them—

Well, that would be all the better.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“My children.”

The heaters rattled, clicking in the lukewarm air in a steady, mechanical heartbeat. Candles lit throughout the chapel drenched the members of Eden’s Gate in a strange, golden glow, and as Joseph’s voice carried all the way to the back where Staci sat between Jacob and Arden. He could see in the front row sat Faith and the dark-haired woman—who he’d come to understand was Isolde Khan, John’s old business partner—and there was a moment where Joseph’s eyes fixed on her before they lifted back to the congregation.

“God has truly been testing us,” the man continued, pacing away from the altar the front, hands folded behind him. “As you know, I have spent a lot of time in silence and solitude so that I might be the most open to receiving from Him. For the longest time, I thought—had we done something wrong? Had I led us astray? Were we being punished?”

An uneasy murmur rippled throughout the crowd. In the front, Pratt could see Isolde writing something down in a notebook; he wished he was closer, so he could see what it was—what was so interesting that she was taking notes now, of all times? What could she possibly be doing?

Preparing for the worst-case scenario, he thought idly, shifting in his seat. Jacob’s eyes cut over to him and he cleared his throat. The shower had done nothing to ease his nerves.

“But I’ll tell you—devout, and loyal, we have not been left to the wayside.” Joseph stopped, pressing a hand onto a woman’s shoulder, squeezing. “I have heard His voice. I have received His word. We are not only followers of God’s word—we are His soldiers.”

The noise that passed through the congregation this time was brighter, agreements—it must have felt good. Not just passive sheep, to be shepherded; soldiers. Capable of violence. And they were.

“We are His warriors.”

The woman Joseph’s hand was on was getting teary-eyed, and when he departed from her to sidle his way down the aisle, she all but collapsed in on herself, folding in half to bury her face in her hands. Another attestation of acknowledgment rippled around him, louder.

“This world is a wretched, vile machine, taking in and spitting out sin, flooding our garden with locusts,” the Prophet continued, his voice lifting in volume. “We are, my children, the only people who have the great fortune of seeing this—of knowing what no one else in the world seems capable of understanding. God has told me—”

Sick, Pratt thought dizzily, I’m going to be sick.

“—that a life of bliss awaits us, if we can only...”

Joseph paused, as though he needed to look for the words, as though he hadn’t been reciting this all day in preparation for the sermon; Pratt knew that he must, the assured cadence of his voice coming so firmly that there was no way it wasn’t rehearsed.

“...look past the dread, and the fear,” he continued earnestly, allowing his hand to be taken by another member, “because fear is the language of the Devil—if we can look past it, and dedicate ourselves fully to His cause, there is only happiness and serenity waiting for us on the other side of this.”

“How do we do it, Father?” a man to the other side of Jacob cried out, his voice a panicked fever-pitch. “How do we show Him we’re devoted?”

Joseph’s head turned. His gaze landed on Pratt, lingering before lifting to the congregant. “We’ve got to stop the machine.”

Optimism flooded the crowd. An easy solution. Stop the machine, like it was nothing. Like they weren’t dealing with a group of people who killed as easily as they did.

“Throw your bodies upon the gears, upon the wheels, upon all the apparatus,” Joseph intoned dutifully, pacing back toward the front. “Whatever it takes to bring the machine to a grinding halt. We can no longer passively take part in the End—we are warriors of God, and our divine right is not instinctively endowed. It is earned. And we will show that we have earned it by exterminating these interlopers invading our garden.”

Pratt’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Eden’s Gate members came to a stand around him; loomed in his vision; eclipsed what little murky light reached him. Cheers and applause rolling around in his head. He thought for sure he’d heard this all somewhere, before—

Oh, yes. And you've got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you're free, the machine will be prevented from working at all! The irony of Joseph lifting lines from an activist’s speech was not lost on him.

A heavy hand gripped the collar of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. “Stand up,” Jacob muttered. “Good posture’s important.”

He steadied himself on the pew ahead of him. Amidst the chatter of the congregation, eventually quieted down by Joseph’s patience at the front of the chapel, he could hear renewed excitement. More life had been breathed into the peggies than he’d seen in a long time—well, considering that he’d only been here roughly a day, and the whole place felt like a ghost town even now, that was saying something.

“Please,” Joseph called lightly, “join me in prayer.”

Heads bowed. Pratt let his chin drop to his chest, but his eyes didn’t close; his gaze darted to his right, where Arden stood, hands clasped politely in front of her. Her head did not bow for prayer.

He was only vaguely aware of the words coming out of Joseph’s mouth, redirecting his eyes back to the floorboards beneath his worn shoes. Lord, we pray that you might show us guidance and wisdom in these uncertain times; show us how to be most like you, for only you are perfect...

Elliot was going to come back to this. She was going to come back to this, and he was going to have to figure out how to get her out of here without any of the Seeds noticing. Helmi had said, meet me out back, by the river, in three nights, but he couldn’t keep track. Had it been one night? Two? Less than one?

“I am your Father,” Joseph was saying. “You are my Children. Together, and only together, will we march through the Gates of Eden.”

A rousing amen echoed around him. They milled about, chatting excitedly—perhaps delighted to have a focus for their ire, for their agitation. The members of Eden’s Gate looked worse than Pratt remembered. Dirtier. Thinner. More exhausted. He thought that it must be nice to have a purpose—

Fuck me, not that shit again.

He filed out of the row behind Arden, and with Jacob behind him, following her to the front where Isolde and Joseph stood. They were speaking in low tones, bundled close together; she tapped her ten against the front of her notepad in what looked like an agitated tick, but he couldn’t hear what it was she was saying. By the time they were close that he might have heard, Joseph lifted his head from where he’d bent a little to speak closely and looked at him, smiling.

“It was nice to see your face in the crowd this day, Deputy Pratt,” he said, his voice warm. “Did you enjoy the sermon?”

Pratt opened his mouth, and then closed it. He didn’t want to play this game.

“Go on, Peaches,” Jacob prompted, clapping his shoulder.

The nickname sparked something angry inside of him, like dragging a match against the sandpaper side of the box. If there’s anything wrong with you, I’m going to kill them, Elliot had said.

Pratt turned his gaze to Joseph. “I thought the Mario Savio part was a bit much.”

A surprised, abrupt laugh barked out of Jacob. Joseph’s expression remained flat and serene. In fact, the only person who seemed to have any negative opinion about his words was Isolde, narrowing her eyes as she turned to look at him fully.

“We’re not exactly looking to hit notes with the intellectuals in the crowd, Deputy Pratt,” she informed him coolly. “They don’t care who said it first. They care who said it better.”

“Y—” Pratt swallowed. “Okay, well—”

“‘Okay, well’ shut the fuck up,” she snapped. “Or I’ll have Jacob take you out back and put you down like Old Yeller.”

“You can’t,” he protested quickly, “Elliot said—”

“Do you think I care in the least what some woman five states away said?” Isolde cut over him quickly, the elegant, soft roll of her accent a strange and unsettling juxtaposition to her words. “I’m getting this ship in fit fucking order, and that means I don’t need you inspiring dissent. Anyone with an opinion that is less than glowing, radiant, gorgeous—they get taken care of, whatever that means. Got it?”

Pratt closed his mouth tightly, until the pressure was beginning to build between his molars. I just have to make it until Elliot gets here, and then—and then I’ll—then I can get—

He took in a little breath. “Yes.”

“Peachy.” Isolde flashed a smile that was all-too-saccharine, and then turned to Joseph. “Let’s sit.”

“Of course.”

They departed to a pew just to the left of them. Jacob was grinning at him, wolfish.

“Thought about telling you she wrote it,” he said, “but that was much more entertaining.”

“You look pale, Staci,” added Arden, her voice light as it redirected from Jacob’s apparent joy at his suffering. “Maybe you should go lay down. I don’t want you straining any of those injuries.”

Okay, he thought, and maybe the words came out of him but he couldn’t tell; he couldn’t tell anymore, but he did want to go lay down. Lay down, and close his eyes, and sleep until Elliot got back.

He’d never been happier at the prospect of seeing an ex-girlfriend.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When they arrived at the boutique, Sylvia was standing outside, bouncing on the balls of her feet in what Elliot could only assume was an attempt to get warm. It was difficult, to focus on something as inane and arbitrary as dress shopping when she knew that Pratt was back in Hope County, dealing with God-knew-what the Seeds were throwing at him.

Well, the Seeds. And more. The Family, who were supposed to be dead, and—

I hear stress is bad for the baby. A familiar accent, wasn’t it?

“Well, are you just gonna sit in there all day or what?” her mother asked, having stepped out of the passenger side.

“Did you invite Sylvia?”

Scarlet sighed. “I thought it might be nice, for you.”

It was an unexpectedly sincere gesture on her mother’s part. She swallowed a thick emotion down, clearing her throat and managing out, “It—is, mama, thank you,” before she got out of the car and took the keys with her, heading towards the front doors of the main street store.

“Howdy, Freckles!” Sylvia greeted her warmly, throwing her arms around her in a tight hug. “Been a few. Wyatt’s still got your Jeep, he’s been runnin’ it a few minutes a day to make sure the battery doesn’t go bad.” She smiled brightly, turning to Elliot’s mother. “Mrs. Honeysett, you look mighty lovely.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Sylvia tugged the door to the boutique open, ushering them inside so that she could trail in after. The inside of the store was toasty warm, making Elliot regret having worn a scarf, but it was too late now—the coat and scarf combination were doing the work to keep her scar covered.

“I just love this place,” Scarlet sighed, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “What do you think, Elliot? Maybe something blue. I’d put you in green, but with that red hair, you’d look like a Christmas ornament. Blue’s a nice winter color—very fashionable.”

“Sure, mama,” Elliot replied, brushing her fingers along the silk of one of the dresses. The last time she’d been in anything that blue and nice had been back in Hope County. At her “baptism”. The same one Burke had been dragged to, the same one that John had held her under for just a little too long for, maybe distracted by the Marshal’s arrival back then.

“Psst.” The sound of Via’s voice caught her attention, pulling her from the waking memory. The blonde had pulled what appeared to be the most atrocious Christmas gown that could have been looked at off of the rack, holding it up and lifting her eyebrows as Scarlet chatted enthusiastically with the store’s saleswoman.

“Stop it,” Elliot said, fighting back a smile. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, dead serious, Freckles.”

“It has mistletoe on it, Via.”

“How else am I supposed to fetch a husband, if not by readily-accessible entrapment?”

Well, she thought a little dryly, that is how John got a wife.

It was odd, to think of the moment with anything less than hostility—to have come to a point where there were things more pressing than a marriage that, in the end, might not matter anyway. John had said that he knew the baby didn’t mean she’d take him back; had acknowledged there was no guarantee. For once, he’d shown up in her life with every intention laid bare for her to see.

Maybe not every intention. But she’d root them all out, eventually, and pretend like it hadn’t become something of a game, to catch John in a lie and watch him squirm.

She let the boutique’s owner show her around, clearly making quite a show for her mother, and politely turned down any suggestions for a deep v or off-the-shoulder type of garment. Sylvia had picked out a few; most blue, some blush, a few red, and then loaded some into Elliot’s arms.

“Try ‘em on!” she chirped. “Yes, even the green ones. Maybe your mama doesn’t want an Elliot Christmas ornament, but I do.”

Elliot heaved a sigh, though it was only half-sincere—anything delivered with Sylvia’s bright, cheery smile, she was hard-pressed to feel anything less than good about. Maybe that was dangerous, to be so comfortable with someone.

Or maybe, she thought, closing the dressing room door behind her, that’s just how having friends are. You remember what that was like.

She did. As she undressed and zipped the back of one of the red dresses Sylvia had selected—thoughtfully aware of the fact that she’d want most of her chest covered—she regarded herself in the mirror. There was that stranger again, flushed cheeks and bright eyes staring back at her. A familiar nose shape, a familiar slope of her cheekbones—but the rest of her. Where had she gone?

With one hand she pushed the door open, the other one lifting the back train of the dress as little as she walked out. A grimace had planted itself on her face, even despite Sylvia’s elaborate applause at her appearance.

“Oh, bunny, you look darling,” her mother sighed, having turned to take a look. “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?”

“Not big on the sparkles,” she admitted.

“I like them. You’ve always looked good in red, though. That fair complexion of your father’s.”

Sylvia grinned. “Try on a green one. I wanna imagine how you’ll look on my tree!”

Elliot stuck her tongue out at the blonde, turning around and scurrying back into the changing room. There were a few more dresses—even a green one—that were in the running, but eventually, she’d settled on a floor-length piece, dark blue velvet and halter-topped to get the most sternum coverage. When she’d redressed and rejoined the group outside, her mother was beaming as she gossiped with the boutique owner.

“Elliot’s quite modest,” her mother said conversationally, “and she’s already married, you know.”

“Thank you, mother,” Elliot sighed, a little smile fighting its way onto her face.

“Whatever are you still wearing your coat for? Your face is all red.”

“I’m—” She paused, swallowing. “Still cold.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Cold? It’s eighty degrees in here. And your face is all red.”

Sylvia had glanced up from across the store, neck-deep in dresses of a warmer shade. Elliot could feel the eyes on her—her friend, her mother, the boutique owner—and she cleared her throat and tugged absently at the tag on the dress.

“It’s fine,” she said after a minute.

“Well, at least take your scarf off.”

“I think it’s a lovely scarf,” the owner tried, a little helplessly.

“Mother, it’s—I’m fine—”

But her mother moved too quickly for her to realize what was happening; her mother’s hand unwound the scarf with expert ease, and then froze, her eyes fixed on what Elliot thought assuredly was the little of her WRATH scar, revealed.

Her stomach rolled. Heat flooded her body, worse than before—it was the kind of sticky-wet heat that came with the threat of throwing up, the kind that crept up the spine and gripped by the nape of the neck. Elliot felt her lashes flutter; she dropped the dress abruptly and yanked the scarf out of her mother’s hands to wind it securely around her neck again. The boutique owner had quickly turned to the clothing rack, as though something very emergent had occurred on the inanimate objects.

Stupid. She was so stupid. She should have just worn a sweater. She shouldn’t have looked at her scar that morning and thought, maybe it is something to love, she shouldn’t have ever risked the chance that her mother would see it, stupidstupidstupid—

“My God,” Scarlet said tightly, the tone of her voice washing Elliot with shame. “What did you do?”

I’m sorry, she wanted to say, automatically. Mama, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m not good anymore, I’m not—

“Phew, I sure am dressed-out,” Sylvia announced, having come over. “I’ll have to go home and weigh my options. Ell, you wanna head outside for some air?”

“I think that’s best,” her mother replied curtly, before Elliot could even think to formulate a sentence. “I’ll finish up in here.”

She thought about trying to say something—trying to explain, maybe, what it was that had happened. But how could she? Her mother had suffered through the years she’d inflicted pain on herself, after daddy and after Mason, and she had told her mother she was better, now. Healed. Good. What could she say, to make it alright?

Because there was no world where she could say, I didn’t want it, and mean it.

Via’s hand fit snugly in hers, tugging her lightly out through the front door of the boutique onto the street. It wasn’t until she took in a lungful of cold, dry air that she realized she’d been holding her breath; her lungs ached, her head swimming, and she was gripping Via’s hand too tightly.

“Hey,” Sylvia said softly, “s’okay.”

It’s not, she thought miserably, it’s not okay, I’m not okay, I want to go—

Where? Where could she go?

I want—

Nowhere? Anywhere?

—to go—

“Home,” she managed out unsteadily, “I should go home—”

Sylvia gave her hand a squeeze. “You want I should give your mama a ride back to the house?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, sniffing. “Yes, please.”

“Okay, Freckles. Sure. You just—maybe you just take a little drive for yourself, collect your thoughts.” Via paused, and then leaned a little to catch Elliot’s eyes; though her vision blurred from the threat of tears, the blonde still smiled a little. “You gonna be okay all by yourself?”

It was a strange question to ask, but Elliot knew what she meant. Are you safe? Alone?

“Yeah,” Ell replied in a thick, watery mumble. “I am.”

“Okay. Can you give me a call when you get home?”

She nodded weakly. Via pulled her into a hug, tight and gentle all at once, enough to make the dam break; just for a little, just for a minute, the tears streaked down her cheeks and caught up in the fabric of the scarf where it wadded against her jaw.

My God, what did you do?

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, pulling back and sucking in a sharp little breath. “Um, I’m really—s-sorry—”

But Via shook her head firmly and brushed some of the hair back from Elliot’s face, wet from her tears. “Don’t apologize. Go get a little breather.”

She fished the keys out of Elliot’s pocket for her, putting them in her hand and hesitating.

“Promise you’ll call,” she reiterated.

Elliot nodded. “I—I promise.”

“Okay. No take-backs.”

“No take-backs.”

Via gave her another hug before ushering her towards the car. As she climbed in and turned the key, her hands shaking, she thought about the way her mother had looked at the scar—with disgust. Horror. Shame. Via hadn’t looked at her like that, when she’d seen it. She’d seemed embarrassed, at having put Elliot in such a position; but not like that. She hadn’t looked horrified.

John didn’t look at it like that. He’d spent a lot of time last night, tracing the shape of the scar with his eyes, with his mouth, reverent and adoring. Makes you hungry, doesn’t it?

At least leaving would be that much easier.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They came back separately.

When John heard the front door open, he’d been starting a pot of coffee in the kitchen. He poked his head around the archway to look out in the foyer, only to find Scarlet standing there, furiously unbuttoning her coat and dropping her gloves into the drawer. Two dress bags hung on the coat rack.

“Ell outside?” he asked casually, coming around.

“Certainly not,” Scarlet replied tartly. “She’s—”

And then the woman let out a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment—for the first time, Scarlet Honeysett looked to be composing herself, which he thought she was nearly incapable of losing sight of. It seemed even the impenetrable armor of the Honeysett matriarch had its own weaknesses after all.

His tiny little thrill at the sight of Scarlet looking troubled was short-lived, however, because she said, “My daughter walked into the boutique sporting this—wretched scar—”

Oh, he thought, suddenly.

“—never been so humiliated in my whole life—”

Oh, no, because he knew exactly what she was talking about and Elliot would be—

“—have no doubt, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet bit out viciously, “that scar is new and you have certainly not influenced her away from such activities.”

He needed to find Elliot. She would be distraught; why hadn’t she come home with her mother? And why wasn’t Scarlet more pressed concerning her daughter’s well-being?

“And where is she?” John asked, ignoring the stinging anger bubbling in his chest. Wretched scar, she’d said. Like it wasn’t beautiful. Like it wasn’t gorgeous. Like he hadn’t spent a whole night looking at it, running his hands and mouth over it, knowing that Elliot had looked at him and wanted it and trusted him and if there was something more devoted, it was carrying someone’s child. “Elliot? Where is she?”

“Taking a moment to regain her senses,” the blonde replied sharply. “She has vowed to be home soon. Mr. Seed—”

He had gone to reach for his coat, pausing at her words and looking at her expectantly.

Scarlet twisted the gloves in her hands for a moment, her brows pulling together.

“I just think,” she finally said, “that as her husband, you are responsible for her as much as I am. You have to be taking care of her when I’m not around.”

“I do,” he replied.

“Evidence says contrary,” Scarlet snapped. “She has come back to me with more—damage—”

The sound of a car pulling up outside snapped John’s attention elsewhere. He knew that if he stayed much longer in the conversation, they would be leaving sooner than what they had planned, if only because Scarlet wouldn’t tolerate him in the house for the things that he wanted to say to her. Damage, he wanted to say, that is only as bad as it is because it’s compounding on your incessant need to brush aside her problems like they’re nothing, like she didn’t need help then.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, pulling his coat on and opening the door. The rush of cold air bit at his face and hands; Boomer came rushing out around his legs, springing down the steps and hurrying to the driver’s side of the Honda. John was only vaguely aware of the door closing behind him—and it didn’t matter, anyway.

She didn’t open the door when Boomer got there, scrabbling at it for her eagerly. She kept her hands on the top of the steering wheel and pressed her forehead into it, the engine ticking as it cooled. When John got there, he reached for the door handle to tug it open. Elliot hit the lock button.

“Ell,” John said, “open the door.”

She lifted her head tiredly from the steering wheel. Where her hand sat over the lock button, her fingers trembled a little, and her face was flushed—not with health, but with the sickly red of feverish, panicked crying.

“Baby,” he tried again, a little more urgently, putting his hand on the glass of the window, “Boomer wants to see you.”

Elliot’s eyes were fixed on his jacket. “Would you—” She stopped, her voice muffled by the glass, and then she took a deep breath and said, “Would you even be here if I wasn’t pregnant?”

“What?” John blinked at her.

“If I didn’t have the baby,” she tried again, her voice thick and watery with unshed tears, that pouty lower lip trembling, “would you have even come for me?”

He stared at her. It had never occurred to him, that there might be a world in her head where he didn’t come for her, where he didn’t find her, where he didn’t try and bring her back.

“Of course I would,” John said, drawing her eyes to him. “I love you, Elliot.” And then, more urgently: “I love you, with or without the baby.”

She looked away from him, then, staring out the other side of the window, fingers curling uselessly against the steering wheel even as the keys lay in the passenger seat—like she wanted to run. Like she wanted to floor it, and go somewhere, anywhere.

“Open the door, Ell.” He swallowed thickly. “Won’t you?”

The door lock clicked. He tugged at the handle and it opened with ease, Boomer instantly shoving his face into Elliot’s side and whining, tail wagging so furiously his whole body moved with it. John pushed the door open the rest of the way and reached for her, and her hand caught his wrist and pulled, and she buried her face into his chest and trembled like a leaf in a breeze.

“I’m so tired,” she moaned miserably into his chest, hiccupping with grief, “I want to go home.”

John wrapped his arms around her, one hand cradling the back of her head and keeping her tugged close.

“I know,” he said. “We’ll go. We will, I promise, Ell, okay?”

“Please—” The redhead pulled back to look at him. “I can’t—you can’t—lie to me, anymore—”

“I know,” John said again, a little helplessly, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone. She was clutching him so tightly he was sure her nails would leave marks on his skin, even through the fabric of his clothes.

“I won’t.”

[adelaidedrubman]

4,14,21,22 and 29 for the romance asks for John and Jestiny?

thank you lydia!!! apologies for these taking a while and for rambling answers!

4. Their favorite physical feature on each other? 

answered here!

14. Is their anything they associate with each other?

answered here!

21. Personally, do you think they are a good couple? 

oh fuck no oh god no not even a little. while i do actually plan on having them eventually develop into a healthier, more stable dynamic in their main storyline, i think they always maintain a certain level of codependence that would not be good in any real life relationship. and in every universe i’ve created for them so far even if they do get to a point of healthy mutual nurturing, the initial spark that brings them together is usually toxic enough that the happiness they eventually get really can’t justify the damage they do in the beginning and the fact the relationship like, actively hurts several innocent third parties as well sksjsksgk. 

the most benign universe i have for them is probably their no cult au and even then they aren’t like healthy because they get way too attached way too quickly. (the basic premise is jessie wanders in during a party, breaks his shit, passes out, wakes up and bickers with him some more the next morning, but just... never leaves.)

i’ll grant they do have a high capacity for mutual understanding and a lot of underlying similarities that could make them compatible and also balance each other nicely at times, but... most of the time that just makes them bring out the worst in each other.

22. From the outside looking in, what is their dynamic like? 

answered here!

29. What are your favorite moments that happen between them? 

aaaaah so this is hard to answer completely right now because my favorite moments are actually coming up in some of the next chapters of their fic and i don’t want to spoil it, but of everything that’s happened so far, it’s probably the end of their dinner date in wildfire when jessie stops to give a little speech like “look buddy i amn just... a normall gurl... average. leave me alone.” and john’s like “lie. dishonesty penalty invoked.”

because it’s sweet in it’s own fucked up way and is really representative of the dynamic they develop, because like 1) there was really no reason for jessie to stick around and give that speech in the first place. she should have just taken her shit and left. but she’s incapable of shutting up around him and has to make her point. 2) she not only wasn’t actually lying to him during that speech, she did in her own roundabout way confess her greatest fear: that she’s really just completely mediocre. 3) john matching her “intimacy but filter it through a complicated mind game so we don’t have to be vulnerable” beat for beat to say “actually no that’s not true deputy” with his own dumb dramatic system (and bonus points for it forcing her to stare at his fingers again). 4) the fact jessie turned around to look at him at all when he called for her to wait. small detail, but again, she really should have just gotten out of there and not prolonged that interaction. 5) the fact at least three innocent parties were being forced to witness or participate in their theatrics. 6) jessie lowkey obsessing over it later.

also in wildfire honorable mentions to jessie taking time off scavenging to lay around and chat with john on the radio and dreamily wonder what he’s doing at the moment because i love making these atrocious assholes who both have immeasurable blood on their hands act like lovesick middle schoolers and to jessie getting stuck in a hole she dug and refusing to take john’s hand to let him help pull her up but being fine with grabbing at his thigh to scurry up his leg like a squirrel climbing a tree. romance.

in no reaping au my favorite moment is probably them pretending they aren’t talking to each other by yelling at poor, scared staci pratt who’s just trying to do his job while these assholes use him as a conduit to have an entire screaming argument about the details of cattle ranching laws which neither of them even really care about that much.

[zer0miedo]

Okay I’m gonna ramble in your ask box lol.

Lots of people who are in Liz’s favor seem to place complete blame on Reddington for her death. What do you think of this? I personally don’t want to blame him completely because, while not coming into her life could’ve prevented all the tragedy and chaos that defined Liz’s life from happening, we also wouldn’t have a show if he hadn’t come into her life.

The people on Team Liz say that Red asking her to kill him is incredibly selfish. While I can see the logic in that argument, I don’t think that Red’s intentions were selfish.

What I think is that he basically gaslit himself for three decades. He said as much in his monologue to Dembe. But I do think it’s fucked up, nonetheless. Asking your pseudo-daughter to kill you and your pseudo-son to help is not right, even if you ARE dying.

(Why didn’t Dembe and Liz fight against this? Like really fight against it? I would have!)

To be completely honest, the episode really fucked me up. I don’t know what to think. Red is my fave, so how could I blame him? On the other hand, the Liz fans also have a very good point. Aaaaaaagh!

This show, man. 🤦🏻‍♀️

Never in my life has a TV show fucked me up so badly.

You know what’s REALLY hilarious? I actually have a WIP where both Liz and Tom have died at the hands of Ian Garvey and Red swoops in to raise Agnes himself. Never did I think that Agnes would actually become an orphan in canon.

Speaking of which, that poor girl. Agnes is gonna have to go to therapy when she’s older, mark my words. Red would pay for the therapy himself.

Omgggg I will take any opportunity to rant about the blacklist! Thaaaaanks

I think Red is definitely to blame for setting it all in motion by reintroducing himself into her life.

But also at some point we have to acknowledge that she played a big part in her own death. She continously ignored Red's warnings and was told time and time again how dangerous it was to look into her past. Yet she did it anyways. She started opening all these doors that put her (and all the people she loved) in danger.

In my opinion the characters are BOTH extremely selfish and stubborn. Which is a bad combo for one character to have let alone the 2 main characters lmao. Makes for a good show tho.

*****

I can totally see how people view Red's proposition as selfish. I get it.

But I also understand why he did it. Like you said Red is 100% a spy first, person second. AND THIS IS SOMETHING IVE WANTED TO TALK ABOUT FOR SO LONG. I HAVE EXAMPLES.

He views life as one big mission. He has fully committed himself to that mindset of "the mission comes first". When Madeleine Pratt gave information up to spare Red from being tortured. He said during his talk with Cooper after something along the lines of "in a moment of weakness, she gave me the coordinates." Most normal people wouldn't see concern for another person's well-being as weakness. But he does!!!

Same with that conversation he has with Tom when they're being hunted by Ian Garvey. He calls Tom unreliable. Tom says "I fell in love" and he responds "that's no excuse".

Reddington was fine with asking Liz to kill him and asking Dembe to help bc if he was in either of their shoes HE WOULD HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT!!!

Its fucked up but like.... he's a fucked up guy. I don't know if redarina is true or not, but either way its obvious that his past is full of darkness and tragedy.

And to an extent (this is me going off script btw bc maybe I'm just feeding into my own headcannons) I think Dembe was more willing to go through with the plan because he's been in Red's world longer. He's bound to be at least a little fucked up and mission oriented because of how much time he's spent around Red ever since he was an impressionable youth.

As much as Dembe has influenced Reddington's life by helping him see the good in the world, it works the other way around too. Sorry but I could talk about Red and Dembe's relationship ALL DAY LONG BRO.

This show has me really messed up and honestly I'm still obsessed with it. I cant wait for s9!!

PLEASE YOUR FIC 💀💀💀 Atleast you might have some actual material to inspire you next season lmao. Cant wait to read it, if you post it!!

ALSO DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON AGNES THAT POOR CHILD I WILL CRY. DONT TEST ME. SHE'S GOING TO BE MESSED UP FOR LIFE.

[revchainsaw]

Bumblebee (2018)

Good Evening worshippers, and welcome! Today the Cult of Cult goes a little more mainstream than usual. It's been a while since i've tackled a big Hollywood superhero film. But I do believe that these sorts of films will be remembered fondly my small groups of people in the future, especially the smaller films that are being overshadowed by the big bad MCU, films like 2018s Bumblebee.

The Messsage

Bumblebee was originally released as a prequel to the Transformers franchise that had started all the way back in 2007. However, reboots had really hit the market as a way to breath new life into struggling franchises, and the Transformers series had already gone to just about every absurd extreme you could imagine. No changes were made to the movie as it was released, but with it's more childish and heartfelt tone, and a new aesthetic that was softer, smoother, and all around just generally more pleasing to the eye, I think it was a wise choice to rebrand Bumblebee as a new beginning.

Our story is of two friends from two very different worlds and how they came together. Our first character is Bumblebee, then known as B- number sign/it doesn't really matter. Not yet Bumblebee is a soldier set with securing a safe location for the Autobots to regroup and make their home as they suffer a pretty serious defeat on cybertron at the hands of the tyrannical Decepticons. Optimus Prime, here again voiced by Peter Cullen and looking so much more like himself, assigns this task to Bumblebee promising him that they will meet him there when the time comes. Then Optimus fucks off for the rest of the run time making way for our little hero.

Bumblebee lands on Earth and is immediately set upon by John Cena and his military goon squad. It probably would have been wise for Bumblebee to avoid John Cena but in his defense, he couldn't see him. Hardy har har. In his attempt to flee his voice box is damaged, he seeks sanctuary by taking the form of a run down little VW bug, and suffers from amnesia.

Then we have Charlie. Charlie is not like other girls. She likes cars, all the retro music, which wasn't retro when the movie takes place, so I'm supposed to just think she's a rocker but it kinda seems like she'll listen to just about anything. I think in 2018 liking Motorhead and The Smiths (who are used ad nauseum in this movie) is perfectly common, but I feel like in the 80s that was a much different and much older attitude to take.

Anyway Charlie's poor family lives in a super fucking nice house and are poor because the dialogue keeps insisting they are so it must be true despite all the shit they have that actually poor people would sell blood and teeth to attain, but hell, this is Hollywood and Hollywood poor is like regular people upper middle class. Charlies family is so poor that instead of giving her a one time graduation/birthday present to buy a part for a car she already has, they just give her a moped, She also spends all her time at a pull apart where the manager (who might be her uncle that wasn't super clear) is willing to just give her a Volkswagen so I don't understand why she didn't already have the project car up and running. Whatever, it's a plot contrivance. All you need to know is that Charlie is tenacious and hard around the edges cuz her dad is dead and she's not yet mature enough to process that in a healthy way. Maybe her character arch will teach her to let others in, we'll have to find out.

There's also a wacky nerd named Memo, and some bad guys, and John Cena. They are all also pretty archetypal and contrived and don't really do anything of note that isn't just filling a beat that this kind of movie needs to walk. Charlie starts Bumblebee up, discovers he's a robot and the two begin to bond. Charlie learns to make a friend, and bumblebee is learning about himself. They get into hijinks and get revenge on a bully girl who makes Regina George look like a saint, she pretty much only picks on Charlie exclusively for having a dead dad.

The moment Bumblebee is woken back up, some technology goof em up that both he and Charlie are unaware of brings two Decepticon baddies into the picture. I don't remember their names, but since I love The Venture Brothers let's say they can be "Jet Boy and Jet Girl". Jet Boy and Jet Girl are sometimes cars, sometimes various flying military vehicles, and they make friends with the deep state and plan to get all the adrenochrome from all the orphans, or just to go find Bumblebee and beat his ass good cuz their bad guys. Let me tell y'all though, Jet Boy and Jet Girl are so bad that they don't even care that the government is listening when they reveal that they are planning on bringing a Decepticon Invasion and after they rough up Bumblebee real good they are going to destroy all life on this planet. So they start by killing a military scientist.

John Cena is after Bumblebee and he's homies with Jet Boy and Jet Girl until the military scientist butt dials him and he hears the evil plan. John Cena goes from heel to face and helps Bumblebee and Charlie save the day. It's a giant CG clusterfuck climax a la any superhero film in the last 10 years and I basically stopped watching. BumbleBee pulls a Hellraiser on Jet Boy, and then he hits Jet Girl with a freaking boat. Charlie uses her diving skills do dive down and save him, but he's a Giant Robot and he was okay and it was literally pointless for her to to except as a way to show that her character has completed her arch by doing the thing that was representative of her connection with her lost father.

Bumblebee turns into the Camaro from the first movie, meets up with Optimus prime, and the stage is set for this prequel to squeeze more prequels out. So it wasn't very creative, but was it bad? Let's find out.

Please Stand to receive the Benediction.

Best Aspect: Transform the Franchise

Bumblebee was directed by Travis Knight of Laika fame and it shows. This movie marks a stylistic change in the transformers franchise, as in it doesn't look like utter dog shit, but it also represents in many ways a tonal shift. It does hold on to a lot of gross sleaze that has unfortunately been forcibly jammed into the DNA of the franchise but it also attempts to be a more heartfelt entry. The characters of Bumblebee might all be sort of a waste of time, but at least they are doing something with emotions, even if the emotions of the characters are only explored as deeply as a children's cartoon I'm glad they are there. In the previous installments the only thing the characters did between running from action piece to seizure inducing action piece was drool over underage girls like a bunch of chimpanzees at the facility where they test experimental E.D. meds. It was nice to see that at least somewhat tampered. This transformers movie feels more like it's for kids and young teenagers, and strangely that more friendly tone makes for a much less juvenile product.

Worst Aspect: Remember I Love the 80s from the 2000s

I hope you really like Stranger Things. I do, but because Stranger Things was so successful it' s going to be everywhere. Not true Stranger Things just 80s nostalgia porn. This 80s nostalgia is going to be forced on you whether you like it or not, and it's not going to be fun. It's gonna be in your shows, in your music, in your Sunday like Bacon in 2010. It's that or Marvel Franchise Brand Whedonisms. Bumblebee is that brave movie that says, "Why not both?" It would seem fitting that a property as quintessentially 80s as Transformers should feel completely comfortable doing a period piece set in the 80's but it's so fucking half hearted it's depressing. It wasn't done to appreciate the roots of the IP, it was done to cash in on a trend and it feels it. All they did was throw up a date and insufferably force an 80s soundtrack down your throat as if that was enough to convince you that this movie needed to be set during this time. Other than that you could have told me this film was set in 2007 and I couldn't tell you any different.

Best Character: Charlie's an Angel

I liked Charlie. Sure her Arc is predictable, her taste is dumb, and she isn't exactly a master of her own destiny to any degree. But at least she is a woman in a transformers movie who's got something going on. Sure she's defined entirely by grief, but that sure is better than pretending that being able to work on cars is a feminist character trait instead of a weird fetish thing. They certainly do that thing with Charlie, but at least it's not the only thing they throw at the wall. Bumblebee is by no means out of the woods in this department, but it garners a lot of goodwill for trying. Like a racist uncle who just started his journey out of ignorance, but hasn't yet realized he has to stop asking mortifying questions to the barista at Starbucks. Okay, maybe that's an extreme metaphor. I'm saying that perhaps Charlie is not a great character but she's a great character for a Transfomers movie.

Worst Character: It's JOOOOHHHNNNN CEEEENA!!!!

Why is John Cena in this movie? I don't hate the guy, but his character seems pointless. You could remove him from the movie completely and replace him with any one of the random military goons at any point and it changes nothing. What was with that dumb salute at the end? It seems like they put him in this movie in post and it was just to pump up cast list. I wish he was given anything to work with. I can't remember his characters name, and it's not like John Cena did a bad job, I was just annoyed every time they kept giving him hero shots. I felt like I was watching a trailer for a different movie.

Best Actor: Optimal Primo!

Every time Peter Cullen speaks I want to listen. There's a reason they haven't had Chris Pratt or somebody with a bigger name come in and take over the role at this point. He's why the audience keep coming back. Peter Cullen IS Optimus Prime, and there's no changing that. He also wins twice. He's the best actor in the movie AND he's barely in the movie. Good call Peter.

Worst Actor: Mean Girls 2, Meaner and Girlier

I don't want to be cruel so I'm not going to go into to much detail, but there's an actress in this film who's performance is so mustache twirlingly evil and stupid that it ruined my suspension of disbelief when i knew going in that i was about to endure a 2 hour toy commercial about robots that turn into cars. Beldar Conehead was a more convincing human being than Tina.

Best Effect: Goo Be Gone

I really appreciated when the bad guys shot the government nerd into a blast of snot. That was pretty fun for me. Best part of the movie hands down.

Worst Effect: Live Action?

Bumblebee is a cartoon. It's a great looking cartoon but it doesn't sell itself that way. If we were doing a Roger Rabbit thing I'd have no gripes. However, I think CG is just getting worse. I'm criticizing this and it's still lightyears better than the previous entry's on the franchise. No transformation or fight sequence in Bumble Bee had me straining to make sense of what I was looking at. I think it was a great idea to start using some basic shapes and outlines to these characters, and return somewhat to their 80s designs. But at certain points, especially when there were no humans in the shot, i was pretty convinced I was watching Clone Wars. There may not be anyway around this, as the Transformers concept might not be able to be pulled off in any more effective manner. It's a minor gripe, but I just didn't think it looked like anything other than a very expensive cartoon, and in this franchise that's a compliment, because it least it looked like SOMETHING!

Best Scene: Space Opera

I am not a Transformers fan. I missed the boat on the cartoon as a kid. I would sometimes catch it at friends houses but I was more into Batman, Star Wars, and Ninja Turtles. By the time I came onto the scene the world had moved on to Beast Wars. I did one day arbitrarily decide that my favorite Transformer was Sound Wave. He looked great in this. I am a big fan of the return to form with a lot of the character designs in this. They really did keep the things that worked from the other adaptations, and they are steadily removing the things that didn't. For this reason, the scenes on Cybertron, particularly the battle with Soundwave (i prefer for personal reasons) looked great and were exciting to watch. I remember thinking Cybertron used to look like a Marilyn Manson shot a music video from inside to dumpster. This is so much better.

Worst Scene: Blocking the Box

There's a scene in Bumblebee where Charlie's family decides the best way to save their daughter was to cause a pile up of vehicles in an intersection, and it's pure contrived writing that saved any character in that sequence from being killed in a horrific traffic accident. It was stupid, played for laughs, and it wasn't exciting as much as it was anxiety inducing. I also thought that there was no reason the covert military group covering up extraterrestrial life wouldn't just disappear this family of fucking morons in their little piece of shit car. The logic of the scene was just so childish like, "No they won't hit me, I'm a good person."

Summary

Bumblebee may be remembered fondly in a decade. I think especially if the Transformers franchise were to end here. It didn't get the publicity of the other films, and that really is a shame. For my money, this was the best Transformers movie so far. I was very tempted to give Bumblebee a C, it does just enough to right what was wrong from the other movies to make me appreciate all that work. This movie has heart, and if you are at all into Transformers then l think you should see it. It's still pretty stupid, and pretty basic. It's not offering anything new to the genre, and it feels like a commercial for more movies. I really wish we could just get movies that want to tell a story. I thought it over and decided that it wasn't fair not to grade Bumblebee on it's own merits. Bumblebee is substantially better than the films that preceded it, but that's not saying a lot, when the films that preceded it are joyless exercises in self abuse.

Overall Grade: D

[honey-hippie-harper]

Little Nightmare Took a Gun...

ADSFGHSDFGHAJ OKAY, FIRST OF ALL THIS IS A GIFT FOR @chiyuki-hiro BC I SAW @healing-winston-pratt AND OMG, HAPPY BIRTHDAY :’) <3

Just wanted to do something for you :’). I hope you have a GREAT day today! <3 :’) and I know you like Winston, so I figured that...yeah.

I hope you like this <3.

It was mildly based on “Maps” by the Fun Home musical. Happy birthday, again <3 (eat a lot of cake, or whatever thing like to eat during your birthday, and always remember to have fun afsghja <3)

Little Nightmare Took a Gun...

“Captain Chromium must die.”

“Say what?”

“He must die.” While Little Jean...Nova, yes. Little Nova (Jean was a no-no. She didn’t like Jean. She had never liked Jean. If she did, she would’ve told him), spoke, Ingrid was peeling a pineapple, which was yellow, yellow, very yellow. Almost too yellow. It probably tasted like garbage because all the bright fruits had something bad in them.

Winston had something personal going on against that particular pineapple. Threatening him by saying today they would share a pineapple for dinner was one thing, but keeping their word was another.

He was going to call that pineapple Phineas.

Phineas the Pineapple. Yes.

Why were they called pineapples, anyway?

They didn’t look like apples at all.

Weird.

Ingrid kept on peeling the pineapple, using a knife, not staring at Little Nova for a second. She didn’t seem interested. But, again, Ingrid never seemed interested in anything at all, besides her own thing, like...slashing, and cutting and making boom-boom sounds.

Ingrid could create explosions at will, which was a power as pretty as her personality.

Boom-boom.

Kaboom.

That’s why nobody liked her.

Kaboom.

It’s not that the others were interested, either. In fact, Phobia wasn’t even here, because they liked to be out there, scaring people to death, or talking to Ace, because Phobia was nothing but a dirty, dirty, noisy bootlicker, who was made of smoke. Like the smoke from a chimney. Though, they more likely weren’t smoke from a chimney, because if they were, they would be made of bricks.

Ingrid kept on peeling Phineas the Pineapple. Its skin was falling off.

Poor Phineas the Pineapple.

Maybe it had a family, back at home. Maybe it had a wife and two daughters, and one of the daughters was a baby. Maybe it had been the one who had made Ace Anarchy’s helmet, and Ingrid was peeling its skin off. Phineas the Pineapple was dying, and maybe it had an abusive brother back at home who used it as a punching bag, waiting for it to come back so he could abuse him again.

Poor, poor Phineas the Pineapple.

Maybe it had a life.

But Ingrid didn’t care about that, did she?

No, she didn’t. Of course she didn’t.

“I think pretty much everyone here agrees on that. I was asking you why are you bringing that up, if I wasn’t clear enough.” She said, and Little Nova flinched.

She was so little. So tiny and so very small. She didn’t look her age at all.

Maybe it was only the fact she was surrounded by old people, in a meeting she had called in for.

They were gathered in Leroy’s wagon, and Leroy was old, and had a lot of scars, and had no brows and his wagon smelled better than Winston’s but worse than Honey’s, who was also old and was laying on the pillow mountain Leroy used as his bed every night, only to complain about having backache in the morning, like the old man he was.

Honey never complained about having backache, but she was always in pain, and her face often looked like a racoon, with all that black liquid running down her cheeks.

Leroy was drinking something from a bottle, while Honey played a boring game in a cellphone they kept in the tunnels. Little Nova had stolen it from someone and it was full of cat pictures. Pictures of very ugly cats, to Winston’s taste. Yuck.

“I mean now. Captain Chromium must die now.”

Captain Chromium must die.

Like that creepy song.

That creepy old song Winston hated.

Lizzie Borden took an axe…

“Now? As in: At this very moment?” Ingrid stopped murdering Phineas the Pineapple for a second and, nonchalantly, cracked her neck by placing one hand at the side of her head, and the hand she had the knife on by her chin. “Do you expect us to break into his house and just..?”

“No.” Little Nova cut her off. She was sitting in the center of the wagon, cross-legged. If she moved her hand a little, she would’ve touched Honey, because the space was limited.

It was like living inside of a cocoon, but less fun, Winston supposed.

At least caterpillars knew they would be pretty when they managed to escape the cocoon.

No.

At least they had the chance to escape the cocoon at some point.

“What I mean, in case I wasn’t being clear…”

“You weren’t.”

“We should start putting the plan together…”

Lizzie Borden took an axe…

“Revenge shouldn’t be denied. It’s their fault my parents are gone. It’s their fault Evie is gone. It’s their fault we’re trapped down here. Like sewer rats...”

And gave her mother forty whacks…

“And you should just let me do that. I’m old enough. I’m ready to do it…It’s what I’ve been raised for, isn’t it?...”

When she realized what she had done…

“All my life, you’ve been preparing me for this. To avenge them. To avenge us. To avenge Ace. My uncle. I’ve been training the majority of my life. Why can’t you just let me get this over with already?”

“Do you have any idea of what are you supposed to do, Nightmare? Do you have the faintest  idea of what it takes?”

“Yes.”

She gave her father forty-one.

Little Nova.

Oh, Little Nova. Dearest Little Nova.

Nightmare.

Dearest Little Nightmare, which she liked more than Jean but hated more than Nova.

But Little Nightmare was okay.

If it wasn’t, she would’ve told him. He had taught her that. He had taught her to let people know when she was uncomfortable. Because they were friends.

They were friends.

They were.

Right?

She held Ingrid’s gaze, fiercely, though Winston could see her knuckles shaking, as if she were very cold.

In retrospect, maybe she was cold, and it was pretty shitty of them to have her here without a blanket, because she was a child who happened to be cold. Hence, she needed a blanket.

Why wasn’t anybody bringing a blanket for her?

Like, Winston would’ve done it, but he didn’t know where Leroy kept the blankets, and if he tried to look for them, then they would scream at him and he didn’t want to be screamed at today, because that was rude and rude people put Winston in a bad mood, which was rude too.

Putting people in a bad mood was rude.

Little Nova...Nightmare kept on looking into Ingrid’s eyes.

“What’s your plan, then?” Ingrid smiled sideways.

It wasn’t a question, but a dare, because Ingrid was being as rude as she would’ve been if she had screamed at Winston.

Little Nightmare’s scarred brow quivered.

“We shoot him in the eye.”

“Your real plan, Nova. I refuse to believe you’re that big of a dumbass. What kind of answer is that?” Ingrid mocked her, going back at torturing Phineas the Pineapple, who would be eaten for dinner because, indeed, they were living down here like sewer rats.

Something was rotting, just like down in the sewers.

“We shoot him in the eye.” Little Nightmare repeated herself, this time in a voice that didn’t sound like hers’, but like the voice of a firm and scary persona instead.

Leroy did pay more attention to her, and so did Honey, whose fingers stopped moving through the screen. Ingrid kept on peeling, but she directed a glare towards Nova, to tell her she was listening...and, as for Winston…

He was already listening way before Little Nightmare became grey.

“Do you think I’m kidding?” Little Nightmare scoffed. “Or are you dumb enough to believe he also has chrome in his eyeballs?”

“Woah.” Ingrid laughed, arching an eyebrow in a sharp way. “You call me dumb one more time, and it’s over for you, kid.”

“I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You won’t be alive anymore if you call me dumb again, either.”

A dark shadow passed through Little Nightmare’s face, as she straightened her back, in an attempt to look bigger. Or braver. Or to compensate something that, at the moment, she didn’t have.

“I think his eyes would work.” She rephrased it, as if it hadn’t been clear enough before. “Eyes are a sensible area, and nobody has ever tried to go for the eyes. If we try to shoot him there, it could work. The impact of the bullet or the venom will enter his system, going through the chrome layer, and it will later reach his brain, which will be enough to kill him.”

And, with that being said, Winston realized how funny this whole situation was.

More than funny, it was hilarious. More than hilarious, it was hysterical.

It was every single fun thing at the same time, which caused Winston to scoff. And the scoff turned into a giggle. And the giggle turned into a chuckle. And the chuckle turned into a wheezing laugh.

Wheezing, wheezing, wheezing.

Like he was out of air.

“What are you even laughing at now?”

What wasn’t he laughing at now.

Everyone was just so funny.

But there was something right there, building at the back of Winston’s brain, kicking his way out, demanding to be expressed.

Do it, Winston.

Do it, do it, do it.

And he did, because his recurrent question always was: What would Hettie do  in this situation?

Hettie would’ve spoken, obviously.

Hettie was loud. Hettie often told him to speak. Winston liked Hettie.

Sometimes.

“Little Nightmare took a gun…” He wheezed again. “Shot the Captain forty times...when she realized what she had done...she shot the Warden forty-one.”

Little Nightmare frowned in disgust, because disgust was Little Nightmare’s favorite emotion. A few years ago, it was joy and sadness. But not now.

Now, Little Nightmare was always disgusted.

It almost seemed like she liked to be disgusted.

To be disgusted at him.

To be disgusted at everyone.

Her expression always said ew.

Winston wished it wasn’t like that.

“I’m...not even going to try to decipher what the fuck you're talking about now.” Honey started getting up, getting on her knees on top of the pillows, while trying to comb her curls with her fingers. Though, at this point, they didn’t really look that much like curls, because her hair was greasy. Little Nightmare’s was too, and that’s why she had tried to tie it, though the greasy locks of hair were constantly in her face. Leroy’s looked greasy too, as well as Winston’s. Ingrid was doing just fine. According to her, washing it daily was more damaging than it was beneficial for her type of hair.

Winston still held faint memories of the day Honey forced Leroy and him to drag a stolen bathtub down here, into the tunnels. The bathtub was still there, and sometimes they used it, by turns, when they managed to convince Winston to drag buckets of water from the surface, one by one, until it was enough to fill the bathtub. Leroy had become lazy over time, and wouldn’t help. In fact, he would refuse to help.

He also had faint memories about the nightly trip to the lake, many, many years ago...or maybe it had been two years ago. Or two days ago. Or a few days ago, though that wasn’t possible, because everyone’s hair was greasy, and it wouldn’t be greasy if they had been at the lake. Maybe it had been a few weeks ago. Maybe it hadn’t happened at all, and Winston had made it up because he could.

 He remembered having gone to the lake when the sun was setting, taking their self-care stuff with them, to use the lake as their personal bathtub. Little Nightmare’s towel remained on the floor until she got out of the water. The same water Winston didn’t get into, because he didn’t feel like it. Because he didn’t like it. Because there were too many people in there, including Little Nightmare herself, obviously.

She knew how to swim and, conveniently, she was also very short, so she had to swim in order not to drown. Ingrid was helping her wash her hair, violently scratching her scalp with her fingertips like she would’ve washed a piece of clothing by hand, until Little Nightmare...Little Nova, took a fistful of foam from her own head and slapped Ingrid with it, telling her to stop that shit (very, very nasty vocabulary. Very unkind. Not pretty. Not cool). Ingrid then defended herself, and Honey was next, while trying to separate them, because Ingrid went ahead and threw water at her, because water directly thrown into a witch’s face was enough to melt her (Winston, to this day, wondered if she was serious about it. Melting witches with water sounded fun).

Winston heard the splashing of water. The screeching. The groaning. The screaming. The screaming he later realized was laughing.

They were laughing, even when Honey fell backwards and Ingrid barely managed to catch her by the arm and pull her forward before she could dive deep into the water.

Leroy, who was next to Winston (or maybe he wasn’t. He didn’t know if the memory was true or not), asked what was happening in there when he heard the silence. Little Nightmare then laughed again. And they laughed, even Honey, as she washed the swollen scratch Ingrid’s nails had left on her skin so it wouldn’t get infected, expressing how unfunny the whole situation was while laughing her head off.

That had been funny.

Very funny.

Winston would’ve liked to be a part of it, while not wanting it to be so at the same time.

But if the memory was true, then he knew he had been part of the s’mores, with the tiniest bit of chocolate and old cookies that, fortunately, didn’t taste as bad as they looked.

When the weather became colder, they went back to the tunnels, wrapped up in blankets. And Winston remembered fun.

Though he didn’t know what the source of fun had been, nor why they had decided not to talk about how they had had fun while showering in the lake.

They didn’t go to the lake anymore these days. And since Winston refused to fill the bathtub on his own, they didn’t bathe there anymore, either. Everybody showered at night, travelling half an hour, once or twice a week, to an old gas station that had showers. In Winston’s case, not always.

No, not always. He didn’t like it.

And half an hour was too much.

Too much.

“But I must say, I’m impressed.” Honey continued, giggling gracefully. “Sometimes it’s a good thing you don’t sleep, Nightmare. Imagine if you did. I feel you would be the type of gal who would wake up in the morning and just say ‘Wow. I’m going to come up with a way to kill myself that is so dumb…’

“Kill myself?” Little Nova...Nightmare, Nova, Nightmare, spat. “Dumb?” She dragged the words out of her mouth again, this time twice as annoyed and mad.

“How...how is that dumb? Isn’t this what I’ve been training for? To take down the Council? To kill Captain Chromium in order to take down the Council? To help my uncle? The only person who’s been there for me? The only person who ever cared about my family?” Little Nova hissed.

Caring.

Caring.

Everybody wanted to be cared for.

She, in particular, needed and craved to be cared for.

Winston cared.

He did.

Hadn’t he been clear enough?

How clear did you have to be to care? Maybe clear as glass, or maybe as clear as unpolluted water, or as an unpolluted sky. When he was younger, Winston read somewhere that there were places where the sky was so clean the Milky Way could be seen at night.

Maybe you had to be one of her parents for her to finally notice you cared, and Winston wasn’t. David and Tala were, and they both happened to be dead as fuck at this point.

Caring, caring, caring.

Dead.

Bang.

Winston didn’t know where Tala was, but he was pretty sure David was in the Milky Way.

Maybe they could go together and look for him in the Milky Way.

"The Renegades took everything from me. It's my turn to take everything from them. We have to take Gatlon back and give it right back to the person it belongs. My un--"

"Hey, Nova?"

As her train of thought crashed against a dead end, Little Nova flinched and stared at him. Her frown was deep as the ocean.

Deep, deep.

Very deep.

She was disgusted.

"What?"

"Don't you wanna run away to New Mexico?"

She was frowning so deep her forehead was turning yellow; yellow as Phineas the Pineapple, and Phineas the Pineapple's blood was bright yellow. But Little Nova and Phineas the Pineapple weren't the same people, which didn’t make sense for many reasons, though Winston couldn’t think of any

Was everything inside of Phineas the Pineapple that yellow? Probably.

Maybe Phineas the Pineapple had yellow insides. Its lungs were yellow, its ribs were yellow, its stomach was yellow, its intestines were yellow, its heart was yellow.

Heart.

Little Nova had a heart too.

Winston wondered where she had inherited her heart from. Did it look more like Tala's or David's?

He could never answer that.

But he knew it didn't look like Ace's.

Little Nova's heart wasn't that empty.

Sometimes it was, when she stared at Winston like that.

But it wasn’t important, because Winston always forgave her, even if she never said sorry.

She didn’t need to.

"Are you making fun of me, Winston?"

"He is, yeah. Of all of us, actually. Why New Mexico?"

Little Nova's gaze shifted to Honey, who was still knelt down on the pillows, but this time she was smiling, as Ingrid arched an eyebrow and Leroy rolled his eyes.

"There are plenty of prettier places we could run away to, not New Mexico. We're not that desperate."

"We aren't?" Leroy crossed his arms over his chest. "Are you sure about that?"

“What do you mean we are?”

“What do you mean we aren’t?”

Winston’s eyes danced from one side to the other. First to Leroy, then to Honey, then to Leroy again.

Little Nova, on the other hand, was only glaring at Honey, because people were too used to choose who could do wrong and who couldn’t. Everyone had their person whom they thought could do no wrong. In Nova’s case, it wasn’t Winston.

In Winston’s case, it was Nova.

Little, little, tiny Nova.

They were friends.

They had been, at least.

Not so long ago.

Well…

Winston hoped it hadn’t been that long ago.

Sometimes everything seemed to be happening at the same time, and it was either too fast or awfully slow, with any sort of in between.

“We could leave the country. I travelled to Mexico with Leroy once. It was lovely.”

“You’re globally known, in case you don’t remember.”

“Pssh. Nobody cares, little Nightmare. Literally nobody but the Renegades care, so don’t let that haunt you. Still, we can live in confinement, if you like.”

Little Nightmare was so mad she was starting to pinch her own arm. Pinch. Pinch. Pinch. As if she were made of dough.

“It’s better than crappy tunnels with no water, if you ask me.”

“And what about Ace?” Little Nova challenged her, but before she could answer, Leroy took the words out of her mouth.

“We put him in the trunk so we can force him to come with us. He likes trunks. I don’t think he has any problem with being in one himself.”

“And how are you planning to illegally cross? Because I suppose…”

“We take him out and we carry him. He’s pretty underweight. At this point, even Ingrid weights more than him.”

“He’s also kinda ill. Maybe he won’t even make it. And if he does, then we get him a feeding tube so he takes his meds. If he fights, we…”

“Stop. Now you’re talking bullshit.” Little Nova seemed to be trying to remain calm, but her entire everything was quivering, along with her willpower not to lose her chill.

“Just trying to educate you.” Leroy said, shrugging, nonchalantly.  “That whole plan sounded like plain nonsense and gibberish, didn’t it?”

Little Nova clicked her tongue, chuckling a little, sarcastically.

“What could possibly make you believe that, Leroy?”

“Then, you answer my question now.” He declared in a hoarse, monotonous voice. “How are you planning to shoot Captain Chromium in the eye?”

Winston didn’t understand the question, mostly because the Mexico plan did make sense, and it could work.

They just were explaining it wrong. There were too many elements in the picture. Too many, and they couldn’t fit each one of them in there. Some had to go and that was just the plain truth.

They didn’t need Ace.

Winston wasn’t sure why, but he knew they didn’t. A thought that only became stronger when Ingrid decided this wasn’t interesting enough for her to pay attention to it, and so she returned to her task of mutilating poor, harmless Phineas the Pineapple. Swish. Swish. Swish.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

Everything was yellow.

A nasty shade of yellow.

It reminded him of Ace, to a certain extent.

Not Phineas the Pineapple.

The knife.

Caring, caring, caring.

Was he the one who cared about Little Nova?

Was he, for real?

Was he?

Because if he was, then Winston couldn’t find a reason why.

And if he couldn’t find a reason why, it must mean they didn’t need to take him with them at all.

Phineas the Pineapple was too kind to be Ace, but at the same time, it was so yellow that Winston could tell it was rotting inside, if not already rotten. Just like Ace.

Simultaneously, he was the knife. But the knife would’ve been nothing if Ace had been the pineapple.

Because if Ace had been Phineas the Pineapple, then he would’ve swallowed the knife.

He would’ve swallowed Ingrid too.

How nasty.

How awful.

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It is, Nova.”

“IT’S NOT! YOU JUST WANTED TO MAKE ME MAD!” Little Nova was red.

Skies, she was so red. And she was also blue. And she was purple.

“If we were to run away, I would’ve made sure EVERYONE could come, just like I’m going to manage to make this plan work!”

“What plan?” Honey spoke this time. Her glossy lips arching into a smile, and her nail on her chin, barely touching her skin at all.

“Uhm?” She hummed, when Little Nova was left with no response. “What plan, sweetness? We’re all ears.”

What plan, indeed?

Because, to put it lightly, Winston was lost. He didn’t know what plan they were referring to now. He didn’t know if they were talking about the running away plan, or the Captain Chromium plan. Either way, he liked running away better.

Again, everything would fall into place if they just left Ace here.

They didn’t need him.

Little Nova didn’t need him as much as she thought she did.

As for Captain Chromium…

As for the caring part…

As for the everything part…

Following Little Nova’s logic...Following Little Nightmare’s logic, also…

Somebody must die.

On that, they were on the same page.

But for all he cared, knowing Little Nova was among that “all”, Winston knew that someone wasn’t the Captain.

A little, maybe.

But not as much as Little Nova thought.

First they had to dive deep into the issue. Deep as they could.

Then, they had to scratch on the details, like panicked stray cats.

Then, they had to look into what they could see, and find a way to see what they couldn’t.

There were some things Little Nova didn’t know, not just about life, or about the surface, or about them, or about herself.

There were things Little Nova claimed she knew, when in reality she didn’t and that was dangerous and blinding like a burning, endless flame that was destroying all her insides, piece by piece, limb by limb, organ by organ.

First, she had to look into the right direction, which was also the one she refused to look into.

Then, Ace Anarchy had to die.

Ace Anarchy must die.

Ace Anarchy must die.

Because Phineas the Pineapple had a wife and two daughters.

Ace Anarchy must die.

He must die, die, die.

Harder than he had died before.

“Who’s gonna tell her?”

Because, if not them...who?

All the eyes directed towards him, again.

They weren’t happy.

Maybe they knew what Winston was talking about, which made him happy, but not that much.

He didn’t like it when people stared at him like that. Why was everyone so rude all the time?

Just...why?

“What did you say?” Nova asked.

Nor carefully, or slowly.

She just asked, in a very Little Nova way.

Fast and impatient.

“I said: Who’s gonna tell you?”

“Who’s gonna tell me what?”

“That’s exactly why you should know.” He sang, giggling and rocking himself back and forth, crossing his legs and grabbing his ankles. Little Nova seemed annoyed, Leroy was just staring, and Honey was massaging the bridge of her nose, with her eyes closed.

Ingrid, on the other hand, was squeezing the knife. Phineas the Pineapple was dead next to her, in a nasty old bowl.

Winston tilted his head to the side, staring directly at said bowl, containing Phineas the Pineapple’s dismembered corpse.

The unreclaimed grave said “Tala Artino & Evelyn Artino”, which should mean they had put Evelyn back into Tala’s stomach. David’s grave was next to it, alone. They hadn’t put any baby inside of him, because the other baby was standing right here, staring at Winston with hate.

The space around those graves was small.

Winston would’ve drawn a circle around the two, the same shape as that bowl, which was now Phineas the Pineapple’s resting place, and that would’ve been enough. They would’ve fit perfectly, the three of them.

But, no matter what they did, they would be still part of another, bigger circle, in which Little Nova was trapped too, alongside Little Nightmare.

“He’s the center of a circle.” Winston concluded, smiling widely. “...but I…” He raised a finger.

“...I can draw a circle. I can draw a smaller circle…” He formed a circle with his thumb and his index, and placed it around his right eye. “...around him...and I can trap him there, like a mouse....”

Little Nova’s expression became sharper.

“...And when I trap him in that circle...his whole life will fit inside.”

And they would all be free.

But he wasn’t going to tell her that.

“The spot where they...died…” Winston placed both his hand right in front of him, trying to calculate the distance by imagining the scale. “....is south….”

The bird nest was south.

Though, as far as Winston understood, the space in the building where the bird nest was located had been sealed, because nobody wanted to live with ghosts.

“....he absorbed their lives too. Yes. We could draw a circle around you too, Little Nova. If only you knew.”

And the sound of the bees right behind him made him straighten his back, to avoid the stingers, but the coldness and wetness overshadowed that sensation.

Upon lowering his gaze, he saw the sharp, shiny blade in which his chin was resting on.

Ingrid’s brown eyes were feeding from his soul, as the gunpowder odor emanated from her, and her knuckles became pale.

Yet, the only thing Winston could focus on, was the smell of rotting pineapple juice, impregnated on the blade.

Phineas the Pineapple.

“Don’t slash my throat with that knife, Ingrid.” He said, in an extremely high-pitched voice. “It’s already bleeding.”

He saw the fear, and saw the terror of the moment Ingrid understood. And as the knife fell to the ground, she came closer. Her cold, calloused hands around his throat, and his hands around her wrists.

“And you’re going down with them.” She whispered.

Then Leroy lifted her up.

That didn’t relief nor annoy him.

He knew he wouldn’t die today. And, certainly, not to Ingrid’s hands.

But a part of him did die, when his eyes laid on Nova, who was now faintly touching Honey’s hand, which at the same time was placed on her shoulder, running her thumb through her skin.

“Get out.” She said.

“Get out.” She commanded.

“Get out.” she pleaded.

And if she didn’t want to see, then there was nothing Winston could show her. Nothing at all he could do for her.

But Little Nova would know someday.

And when she knew, Ace Anarchy would fall.

Winston would wait for that day.

Winston would wait for her.

Because, fortunately, a circle was not enough to fit Little Nova’s life inside yet.

[the-other-art-blog]

Little Men thoughts part 8: The Brookes

This is such a sad post.

John Brooke

John dies and it’s the most heartbreaking thing that happens to the family after Beth’s passing. I just would have like to see more of him in this book. Although, Louisa had a hard time writing about the people who were gone so I understand why she couldn’t include him more.

Fritz does say he lost his best friend.

Mr. Bhaer went hastily away quite bowed with grief, for in John Brooke he had lost both friend and brother, and there was no one left to take his place.

I would have also liked some words from Laurie. He wasn’t the best student and yet John had to bear it cause he needed the money. But he also played a part in making a man out of Laurie. And both Fritz and Laurie learned a lot from John’s parenting. I would have liked seeing the men interacting more.

I found in an article about Alf Whitman this extract from a letter that John Pratt (real life John Brooke) wrote about his marriage:

Our life together has been so beneficial, so satisfying, so peaceful so pure & happy that it seems to me almost as if we were designed by Providence for one another, & the hopes and wishes I used to recount to you have far more than been realized, so much so that there is nothing left for me to ask for, our life is one long day of sunshine.

The boys called him “the best” and he certainly was. Meg won the lottery by marrying him. He was such a hard working man and he really gave Meg everything she needed, even leaving her free of debts. I suppose he always knew he would die soon.

Meg

That letter, previously quoted, was supposed to be sent by Anna (real life Meg), but since she did it late, she added,

John and I plod along happily in our little home, daily finding how very little is necessary when one has plenty of love in the cupboard. My dear old man grows gooder & handsomer & happier every day and I really can’t see that we have much left to desire in this world.

When you have someone like that, losing them must be unbearable.

Meg is such a strong woman. Honestly, I hate every time people say she (and Amy) contended herself with a domestic life. In reality she got everything she wanted. Not every woman wants to participate in a revolution and that’s ok! Some dream of a cozy home to share with a partner and kids. It doesn’t make their lives any less relevant.

Most people pay attention to either Amy&Laurie or Jo&Fritz. I know I did, but after reading those letter I won’t make the same mistake. Meg and John’s story is equally important and epic!

I suppose that just as John was a model for Fritz and Laurie, Meg was a model for her younger sisters. They also had Marmee but a sister is a different kind of connection.

Meg became a widow at 30 years old (maybe 31 or 32) with three kids, one of which will barely have memories of him. And I’m sure she’s dying inside and at times she wants to actually die.

When John died, Anna wrote to Alf,

All looks dark to me, and at times I feel that I cannot live.

But the way she composed herself during the funeral was remarkable.

"Dear Jo, the love that has blest me for ten happy years supports me still. It could not die, and John is more my own than ever,"

In my experience, funerals are the moment when you’re numb. The loss has just happened and there’s so much happening. There’s preparation to be made and you have be polite to the attendants (and then the mass and the rosaries in Catholic tradition), and everything just moves so fast. It’s the days that follow that are horrible. It’s when you actually feel there’s someone missing.

It’s in moments like this where religion really helps people and why it’s never going to go away. That belief that they’re going to be separated for a while, but they’ll meet again must have help Meg to accept his death and find comfort in her kids and family.

Daisy and Josie

I already talked about Daisy in Part 2, and I repeat I would have liked to see her grieving, but I understand why the focus in on Demi. There’s an episode in Modern Family where Alex’s boyfriend confesses that his biggest worry is to not be as good as Phil, cause he is such a wonderful man and dad. Oh boy, John really set the bar incredibly high for Nat and Josie’s future husband.

Josie is really only mentioned here, thought she must be a year younger that Bess, so like 3 years old. So, to correct my post from a few weeks ago. The March women were pregnant in  consecutive years!!! Can you imagine that?! First Amy, then Meg and lastly Jo. Jesus, those poor men haha.

Demi

In Little Women Chapter 45 it is stated that the twins are advanced. Demi became a bookworm, sure her aunt Jo is super proud. Plus, he definitely uses Sherlock’s technique of a ‘mind palace’! And he bonded with his grandfather because of this.

All the times where he mispronounces something is so cute and reminded me so much of Amy in LW.

“a sackerryfice”

“an arrygory”

It’s really fun. Honestly, not just him, but every time a kid mispronounces something :3

There this idea of “the man of the house”. So John’s death really forces him to grow up, especially when he has a mother and two sisters to take care of. There’s no brother who might help him. He has cousins and uncles but it’s not the same. It breaks my heart when Jo finds him crying at night.

Part 1: Jo and Fritz,

Part 2: the girls at Plumfield

Part 3: Nat Blake

Part 4: Laurie

Part 5: Jo and Laurie

Part 6: Bess Laurence

Part 7: Amy Laurence

[thefanficmonster]

Always Here

Connor Walsh & Michaela Pratt (How To Get Away With Murder)

Warnings: MAJOR TW: Rape, Trauma, PTSD, Swearing

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationship

Summary: Following the less than poor advice of her ‘friends’ Michela finds herself at the apartment and in the hands of a piece of scum eager to take advantage of her. Connor is not having any of it, rushing to her rescue and impatient to teach the bastard a lesson, punish him for the horrible, disgusting thing he did to his friend.

Requested by Anon as a birthday fic. Hello dear, happy birthday! Hope you have the best one yet! Sorry for the downer of a fic for such a happy day in your life (I was genuinely surprised when you requested such an angsty fic but I’m not complaining) hope you enjoy the read nonetheless. Enjoy your special day, hope you have a ton of fun and make great memories! Lots of love, Vy ❤

“Nah, I think you’re judging him too heavily.“ Laurel comments, taking a sip from the coffee cup on her desk, “He seemed rather nice when I got to talk to him last week. He seems to be really into you too.“

“Well, just because he’s into me doesn’t mean I’m into him.“ Michaela points out, irritation in her voice and a shudder running down her spine at the memory of the creep Laurel talked her into meeting a week ago - Charles Mahoney. Michaela immediately felt the oddest and creepiest vibes coming off the guy, but Laurel was persistent and Michaela tried to talk herself into trusting her friend’s judgement, despite her gut screaming at her to get out of the situation, accompanied by the alarm going off wildly in her head. The guy didn’t do anything to set off those alarms and he wasn’t acting like a creep per se but as Michaela put it when complaining to Connor later that same day: He seemed like a creep trying to act and behave like a normal person would. Connor noted the odd feeling he had in regards of that guy.

It was something about his demeanor, but not something she could pin-point to Laurel and use as concrete evidence that her gut was right. And, as a lawyer, she knew that without concrete evidence she wouldn’t get anywhere with that argument.

“Or it just means you’re too picky.“ Laurel swoops the file out of Michaela’s hands, earning herself a death glare from her friend, “Who says you have to date the guy? Just have some fun, a couple of drinks. Maybe a hook-up if you’re feeling it. Who knows where that might lead?“ She sits back down and flips open the file, eyes skimming over the text as if the discussion is over on her part.

Michaela’s about to complain when Asher decides to share his two cents on the subject, “Right! I agree with Laurel, he seemed like a nice guy. To be fair, we didn’t get to talk much, but he seems like a cool dude. Easy on the eyes too, not gonna lie.“

Michaela rolls her eyes, having heard enough about this Mahoney guy from these two. In fact, they’ve been playing this game of persuasion for two days now, neither of them giving a concrete reason on why they were doing it. Although, she might have a guess on their intentions: a few too many drinks one night and she ended up spilling her guts on how lonely she feels sometimes. She did her best in that drunken state to pack the emphasis on ‘sometimes’ but Asher and Laurel seem to have brushed past that bit, seeing as how they’ve made it their personal duty to play matchmakers. If only their choice of guys to pair her with wasn’t so crappy, they may have come in handy to fill the nights she didn’t have any work to do and really felt the lack of company setting in.

Seeing no other way to get the two off her back for good other than feed into their attempts and humor their ideas, Michaela sighs exasperatedly, resting her forehead in the palm of her hand as she speaks, “Will you get off my case if I give him a call and go out with him tonight?”

Asher opens his mouth but Laurel cuts him off before he can throw their chances of succeeding with this in the water, “Permanently. A lawyer’s word.” She nods, giving Michaela a tight-lipped smile that’s supposed to represent faux innocence which instead hides her fondness of her success at last.

“A lawyer’s word doesn’t mean much.“ Michaela mutters under her breath but pulls out her phone nonetheless, standing up to exit into the hallway to make the phone call to Charles Mahoney. She stops in her tracks, turning on her heel to face Laurel once more before exiting the room, “We need a safe-word, just in case.“ She snaps her fingers, trying to get a simple word to come to mind for the purpose of a GTFO signal.

Laurel suddenly gets an idea, “How does ‘trophy’ sound to you?”

Michaela can’t help the shiver that runs down her spine, “Like a nightmare and a ton of bad memories.” She replies bitterly, knitting her brows together in a displeased frown.

Her friend tilts her head to the side, “Then it’s perfect.”

She contemplates Laurel’s reply for a second. Well, contemplates the whole situation and the decision she’s about to make. Sure, it might not be final and she could still cancel if she changes her mind later on, but it’s still a borderline ridiculous move to make. But, when compared to finally being given some peace from the pesky Asher and Laurel, she finds spending a few hours with Mahoney to be worth it. 

So, with that, Michaela turns back around, heading out in the hallway to make the phone call she has no idea will lead to the worst moments of her life.

                                                             *  *  *

“Oh shit!“ Laurel curses, quickly disconnecting her phone from the charger where she had left it while her and Asher went to buy some dinner for the rest of the team to enjoy back at the office after Annalise had called in they were on their way and they had some important news to share with them. Some concerning news, if her voice was anything to go by.

“What’s up?“ Asher asks, setting the plastic bags he’s been carrying on his desk.

“Missed calls and texts from Michaela. Twenty seven of them, almost all saying ‘Trophy’.“ Laurel replies with a sigh that’s a mix of frustration and concern. The call goes to voicemail almost right away which only fuels the concern as she taps the button to call again. “Shit, she’s not answering.“

“She’s texted and called me too.“ Asher says, taking a look at his phone, “She could be in danger.“

“I know, Asher! I know she could be in danger!“ Laurel snaps, squeezing the phone tightly, pressing it against her ear, swearing and fighting the urge to slam it on the floor when the second call also goes to voicemail, “Damn it!“

Just then, the door to the office opens and in walks Connor, closely followed by Annalise and Frank who he ran into on his way in. The mention of a ‘she’ that could be in danger immediately puts him on edge as his eyes skim over the room, looking for his frenemy - Michaela Pratt. ‘On-edge’ is replaced by an early onset of panic when he takes in her absence, connecting the dots that the ‘she’ Laurel was referring to is indeed her. But, just to be safe and avoid a false alarm, he decides to fake nonchalance and ask:  “Danger? What’s going on here?“ He tilts his head, his gaze switching from Laurel who’s still trying to reach Michaela to Asher who is doing his best to avoid eye-contact with anyone in the room.

Annalise cuts the crap, way less nonchalant than him, “Where’s Miss Pratt? Didn’t I tell you all to stay in one spot?“

Laurel looks to Asher for backup, but when she realizes she’s clearly not gonna get any, she turns back to look at Annalise, feeling as though she’s shrinking under the woman’s intense and powerful gaze. “I-it’s my fault. Michaela left before you called and...”

“And she’s now gonna come back! Call her and tell her to return her ass here as soon as possible!“ Annalise cuts her off, her eyes glinting with anger the Keating 5 were so used to seeing yet were terrified of just the same no matter how many times they saw it.

“Well, that’s the thing. She left two hours ago to meet with Mahoney and she isn’t picking up her phone and...“ Laurel trails off, the words dying down in her throat, failing to reach or leave her mouth.

“And we think she could be in danger.“ Asher whispers, finally finding it in himself to speak up despite feeling guilty as all hell.

Annalise’s eyes widen as her heart drops, a sickening feeling overcoming her in the form of cold sweat covering her whole body at once, “YOU THINK?!” She snaps, eyes briefly blurred by tears. “You think she could be in danger when she’s in the hands of a fucking rapist?!”

The phone slips from Laurel’s hand, falling to the floor with a crash at the sound of that word. Asher’s reaction is not different by much - he becomes but a frozen statue in his spot, both him and Laurel looking at Annalise with deer-caught-in-headlights looks and pale faces that suggest Annalise’s heart isn’t the only one that’s dropped. Fear, guilt and despair has paralyzed the two in their spot, unable to think of something to do. Unable to find it in themselves to move.

One person, however, doesn’t remain paralyzed. He takes action, driven by his protective instinct that has set off all the alarms in his head and has sent shots of adrenaline pumping through his veins at a rapid pace. With trembling hands, Connor pulls out his phone, the one calm part of his brain reminding him of his pact with Michaela to always share their location with each other. Opening the app, he reads the address out loud. “Where is that place?!” He snaps, unable to contain his anger that’s blended in with the dreadful sense of fear for his friend’s safety and well-being which are most definitely at a huge risk at this very moment.

“The fucker’s apartment.“ Frank replies, looking up from his own phone where he had looked up the address Connor read out.

Without a second to spare, ignoring the fact his blood’s run cold and the numbness in his face and limbs, Connor takes off, running out of the office and straight to his car, closely followed by the rest of them.

“Connor, wait!“ Annalise attempts to stop him, but you cannot stop a hurricane with your bare hands. And this hurricane is a raging beast with a mission to save his friend and teach the fucker who’d dare touch her or harm her a lesson in the form of beating him bloody.

‘God, please tell me I’m not too late‘, he chants to himself silently, praying for the first time in a long while. ‘Please, keep her safe just a little longer, then I’ll take over.’

Little does he know, the worst has already happened.

                                                              *  *  *

Michaela feels herself coming back to her senses. She doesn’t want to wake up though. She wants for her eyes to remain closed and for her to perish, never again to be seen by the world outside of this apartment that to her now represents hell on Earth. Her survival instincts are kicking in but rather lowly and slowly, almost as if they’re afraid of scaring her or making her snap. So, instead of making an effort to move, she stays completely still and listens, takes in her surroundings. She can’t see much without turning her head which is facing the ceiling, but she’s too afraid to do so. As if her body has been rigged with explosives and the tiniest movement could set them off.

The first thing she hears is the sound of a shower running not too far away. The sound is faint but not faint enough, and neither is the humming that’s accompanying it. She recognizes the tune, she’s recently heard it. With a slight tilt of her head she catches a glimpse of a coffee table which has red wine spilled on it, one wineglass has fallen over and is still dripping tiny red drops alike blood on the carpeted floor. She vaguely recognizes the setting and she feels sickened looking at it, but it takes her a moment or two to place exactly why she feels that way.

And then it hits her.

The tune the voice is humming, she heard it in a bar earlier. The bar she went out to have drinks at. With Charles Mahoney. The Charles Mahoney who then persuaded her into going back to his apartment for a continuation of their drinking session. She remembers the repulsion she felt at the thought of going, but she wasn’t receiving any help from neither Laurel nor Asher whom she has texted and called countless times. So, she succumbed, regretting every step she took that led her closer to his apartment. Her gut was screaming at her the whole time, repeating over and over how bad of an idea that was and how she should make up some bullshit excuse and ditch the situation.

But she didn’t.

And he took advantage of it. Of her body, her tipsy vulnerability. Of her.

It was my fault

With that horribly wrong thought in mind, tears rush to Michaela’s eyes prickling them, begging to escape and relieve the tiniest portion of her pain. She allows them to, the silent tears slowly turning into suppressed sobs that escape her aching chest as she continues lying on that couch, helpless and in pain that cannot be healed or seen.

Her sobs come to an abrupt halt when a round of aggressive and loud knocks, or rather bangs are delivered to the front door that right beside the living room. She only then becomes aware of the subsiding of the running water in the shower. She renders herself silent, faking unconsciousness when she hears the bathroom door open, followed by hurried footsteps coming down the hall, passing the living room and stopping at the front door.

Charles had expected many things, but what he didn’t see coming was the punch that sent him falling to the floor with a broken nose as soon as he opened the door. He didn’t even get a good view of the person but he recognized the voice that called out to the girl he had raped barely an hour prior.

“Michaela!“ Connor shouted, his chest aching, heart racing so loud he could hear it in his ears. He rushed down the hall but stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the living room where he found who he was looking for. And he found her in a state that broke his heart, “Michaela! Oh God, I’m too late! Fuck!“

Hearing the familiar voice of her friend, Michaela’s eyes snap open, catching sight of Connor’s concerned face hovering over hers. “Connor.” Her coarse voice barely makes it out of her throat in the form of a choked up sob.

Grabbing a blanket from the nearby armchair, Connor wraps it around Michaela covering her almost completely naked her body. Securing the blanket in place, he takes her face in his hands, directing her gaze to his eyes to prevent her from looking anywhere else, prevent her from seeing anything that will further confirm what has happened to her. “It’s ok, you’re ok now. I’m here. I’m here, Michaela and I will never leave you again, ok? You hear me? Focus on my voice, ok? It’s over, he can’t hurt you ever again. The cops are on their way...”

“Hands in the air! Get up! Search the apartment!“ Just as Connor says that, the urgent shouts of cops come from the hall, startling Michaela while also giving her the smallest spec of relief as she once again breaks out in a fit of uncontrollable sobs that are the result of that mix of trauma, emptiness, relief and disgust.

Connor wraps his arms around her pulling her close and resting her head on his chest, not making any attempts at subduing her cries, aware that she needs to get it out of her system before having to face and deal with anything else.

“Michaela?!“ The shout of her own name doesn’t get registered by her, but Connor hears it and feels rage building inside of him when he sees Laurel, Asher, Annalise and Frank enter the living room, “Oh God, Michaela, I’m so sor-“

“You’ve done enough damage!“ He snaps at her, the message meant for Asher as well, “Leave her alone, she’s had it with you and you bright ideas!“

Just then, a cop approaches him and Michaela. He’s not spared Connor’s death glare either, but he doesn’t allow himself to be too intimidated by it, “Sir, we’ll need to take Miss Pratt to a hospital and then to the station to give a statement.“

The rage continues bubbling up inside of him but forces himself to stay calm, seeing as how he’s talking to an officer, “You really think she’s fit for an examination and questioning right now? Can’t you see how traumatized she is?”

“It’s procedure, sir. We must follow a very strict protocol in these situations. Miss Pratt needs a proper examination and all harm done to her needs to be aided and handled properly.“ The officer makes another attempt at persuading the distressed Connor whose arms are still wrapped around the trembling Michaela who suddenly raises her head off his chest, placing her hand there instead.

“It’s ok, Connor. I-I can handle it. But...“ she trails off, a stray tear escaping her eye again.

“But what? Tell me, what do you need?“ he takes her hands in his, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.

She inhales shakily before replying, “Could you stay with me? I mean, could you come with me for...well, for it all. I don’t wanna go through it alone.” She bites her lips, still looking down where their hands are connected, unable to look him in the eyes because of how weak and pathetic she feels that request was.

“Of course, Michaela. I wasn’t planning on leaving even if you tried chasing me away.“ He gives her hands a reassuringly, “I’m always gonna be here for you, ok? Never forget that.“

That finally gets Michaela to look up and allow her eyes to meet his. Fresh tears have welled up in her eyes, having grown emotional because of Connor’s words as she whispers a barely-audible, ‘Thank you.’ which says a lot more than just her gratitude for him accepting her request.

It shows how grateful she is to have a friend like him, to have him as a friend. How thankful she is he found her and is willing to stay with her through the nauseating experience she’s about to endure. How happy she is to have found a safe haven in his embrace - his arms serving as a barrier, keeping her safe and shielded from the world that has harmed her so many times and will continue doing so. She’s just glad she won’t have to heal her wounds on her own, all alone. She’ll never have to deal with anything by herself, cause she has him - someone she trusts. Those people have been rare in her life - the trustworthy ones - Connor has the privilege to be one of them. One day, he might even hear her say it, not that he needs to hear it to know though.

That’s what their friendship is - a connection that doesn’t require verbal communication in order to reach an understanding. Even if that understanding has more often than not been ‘agree to disagree’. Still, a friendship as strong as a fortress nonetheless.

[phrynewrites]

6 and/or 50 for Branjie please?

Thanks for the prompt! Here’s a little snippet from The Audit (i.e. the rewrite of DOPS) Enjoy! 

6: “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

50. “That looks like it hurts.” 

“So,” Brooke says, the greeting slashing like a knife as she closes the conference room door behind her, trying to hide her irritation at Director Oddly’s whole staff meeting in her office. She pauses, cocking a brow as she waits for them to quiet and face her.

She clears her throat, growing exasperated. But still, Silky doesn’t stop talking about her unresolved Venmo requests from when she covered drinks at bar trivia last night. 

“I have cut all funding from the…” Brooke glances down at her clipboard, squinting at her own tiny, slanted handwriting. “Lanmore Learnmore project. I will also be cutting at least one person from this staff monthly, until this department is comprised only of essential staff—” 

She continues talking over various objections with ease, learning long ago to block out the outcries of those who’ve never consulted their own budget, spent wildly, without consideration for their constituents’ tax dollar while truly increasing quality of life. In her experience, local governments experience less public backlash from their citizens when essential services are enhanced and fat is trimmed from budgets—even forty-five dollars saved per household is pleasing; most people think they can spend their forty-five dollars better than their government could.

So yes, she heard Yvie’s “fucking god,” muttered against her blazer sleeve and saw Scarlet drop her pen under the table, just for an excuse to not face Brooke as she announced lay-offs, and she knew Silky was rolling her eyes to the back of head at least six times over, while making no attempt to hide her scowl. 

But she stops once she hears a choked cry from across the room, namely, from Vanessa, who looks folded up in Brooke’s cushy desk chair, pulling Brooke’s cardigan off of the back of her chair and crumpling it in her lap. 

Brooke huffs. She’d have to send it straight to the dry cleaner. Maybe she should find one in town. Maybe she could wait until she got back to Richmond. 

“There’s nothing to cry about. It’s the truth of the situation, which you all put yourselves in.” Brooke points around the room with her pen. “Maybe if you all performed your jobs properly, cognizant of the budget you were provided, and frankly don’t deserve, I wouldn’t have to be here and we wouldn’t have to do this.”

“What the fuck, lady?” Yvie springs out of her chair, before Scarlet and A’Keria pull her back down by either shoulder. 

“I’m not crying, you’re crying. Fuck you.” Vanjie’s voice is small and swallowed up in herself. Nothing more than a quivering call across the table.

“Am I?” Brooke looks back at her from the side of her eyes, finding it difficult to look at the woman head on. “Look, it’s not personal. Numbers aren’t personal. Miss Mateo.” 

“Well, it’s personal when you’re cutting someone’s whole program, which helps people learn the job skills they need to rebuild their lives,” Nina poses, even toned, even as Vanessa crushed her hand in hers. “And you try to fire one of our friends every month.”

Brooke took a deep inhale. Friends. As if they won’t turn on one another the minute she leaves the conference room, trying to outperform each other to keep their jobs. Maybe then they’d actually perform the job they've been paid to perform for years, most of them, with either poor or unverified results.

“You’re destroying what she built her whole career on. Of course she’s upset,” Silky adds.

“I gotta get out of here. I gotta go now.” Vanjie pushes the chair out and throws the cardigan down on the table before haphazardly gathering her notebook and phone. As she stands, her phone slips out of her hands, rattling to the floor. She can't decide whether to pick it up or run, instead deciding to do both poorly. She doesn’t notice Brooke’s laptop charger lying across the carpet, running at full speed, tripping over the taut cable, her elbow slamming into the wheels of Yvie’s chair, her face slamming into Scarlet’s with a sharp grunt. 

Vanjie pulls her face back, squinting at the carpet. She can’t tell if that red stain has always been there, and if so, what’d it’d be from. Maybe from the last Christmas party, when Scarlet was standing on the table, barefoot, hanging up all of those string lights, already deep into a box of Chardonnay, and slipped off, expecting to be caught by her girlfriend, and instead crashing down like a rag doll thrown against the window by an angry toddler, earning herself a cut above her eyebrow. 

Vanjie swipes her hand across her face, trying to clear her mind, only to see red again. 

Brooke sucks at her front teeth. “Oh, that looks like it hurts.” 

“Yeah of course it would fucking hurt,” Yvie shouts back, sparking a series of outbursts, mostly from Silky, who pledged to find Brooke’s ‘fancy ass car’ and take all the stuffing out of her cushy, leather seats for hurting Vanjie, and A’keria, who decided that tomorrow, every single day, she’d do one thing to ruin Brooke’s day until it all mounted up and she’d have no choice but to quit, or have a complete break down in the office. Nina pries Vanjie off of the carpet. Scarlet stands up, trying to calm down all of the yelling, looking like Chris Pratt trying to round up the raptors in Jurassic Park, and faring about as well as he did, alternating between asking everyone to sit back down and telling Vanjie to make sure she doesn’t have a broken nose because, god, that thing looks fucked up. 

“Enough!” Brooke bellows, making the room feel cramped with her command. She’s pleased as each head snaps up. 

Vanjie braces herself against the window as Silky tosses Brooke’s cardigan over to Nina, who presses it against Vanjie’s gushing nose. 

Brooke will have to find a dry cleaner here, she supposes. 

“Now, someone take her to the ER—” 

“None of us have our cars,” Silky says, as though it were obvious. 

Brooke tears away from her bloody cardigan and the foolish woman holding it, wracked by heaving tears. “And why wouldn’t any one of you have a car. How did you get here? To your place of work? 

“Well, we were at bar trivia last night, which y’all all owe me for covering pitchers and mozzarella sticks. So me, Kiki, Vanj and Scarlet were out late and then Ubered to work,” Silky explains before taking a sip of her coffee. 

“But your shirt is…” 

“We keep spare work clothes at our desks. Ever since 2017,” Scarlet says easily. 

Nina turns the cardigan to press a clean bit against Vanjie, revealing a candy red blotch on it. “I was at Monet’s, working on the health fair, so she drove me with her.” 

Brooke has no idea who Monet was, or why this whole table of women were leering at Nina with a childish “ooooh,” as though Nina were just called to the principal’s office. She turns to Yvie, unclasping her palms to welcome her response. 

“I just…” Yvie turns scarlet. “Yesterday night I just...had a late night. Slept over with someone, and just, got a ride from her house.” It tumbles out, earning another chorus of oohs. 

Brooke shakes her head, face falling for a moment, zeroing in on Scarlet’s hand, still resting on Yvie’s forearm. “Wait, you two aren’t, you know?” 

This time, Brooke cuts off the peanut gallery as it begins to fire up, leaving Scarlet looking like a ghost of herself, wide eyed and stirring, and Yvie suddenly very interested in her finger nails. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m taking you to the hospital,” Brooke says, nodding in Vanjie’s direction. “But don’t be mistaken, when I get back, I’m filing the reallocation paperwork for your program and drafting a severance package.” 

[dickytwister]

J and L for elliot and T and Z for duncan >:00

aaaa thank you >:))

elliot

J: Joy

1. what makes them happy?

before the events of the game, when he gets to hope county, he finds happiness in very small things like seeing his plants are ✨thriving✨, being allowed to pet people’s dogs, having his own place to sleep in and his own desk at the sheriff’s station,,, he’s overall just happy to be there u know?? after the arrest, though, it’s much harder to be actually happy about things, but he still smiles when dogs in fall’s end run to him or when he finds a good song on the radio

2. who makes them happy?

kim and nick have been his friends since he got to hope county and it always makes him happy to spend time with them, especially since they got carmina and he can be A Dad for a little while ;w; even though they bitch a lot, he and staci are good friends and elliot loves hanging out with him and joey,,, and in the end being with john makes him happier than it makes him stressed, especially after they leave the bunkers, and he gets to be not only A Dad, but also An Annoying Husband 😎😎

3. are there any songs that bring them joy?

god okay so before the arrest he’d do karaoke in the spread eagle bc i decided that’s just a thing they do and like any song he could yell like a dumbass,, rebel yell by billy idol,,, holding out for a hero by bonnie tyler,,, funkytown by lipps inc,,, sometimes when he’s busy sewing his clothes or his ghillie suit he hums them and tap his foot to the rhythm and it makes him a bit happier uwu

4. are they happy often?

when you look at his life in general he,,, rlly doesn’t look happy that often asdlkjgl the major part of his life has been fuck up after fuck up and he got to a point where he didn’t think he could get up again, but the more he grows and fights the happier he gets ;w; he’s happy much more often when he gets to be himself without responsibilities and guilt weighing down on him

5. what brings them the most joy in the world?

it rlly would be just hanging out with the people he loves?? like if he could be surrounded by all the people he cares for and just watch them interact and talk and smile he’d be at his happiest, knowing they’re all safe and just as happy

L: Lemons

1. what is their favorite fruit?

raspberries!! godtier fruit honestly

2. what is their least favorite fruit?

pears,,,, 

3. are there any foods they hate?

not rlly?? he’s kinda gotten used to eating tasteless food or food that’s kinda like,,, meh,,, but one thing he’d only eat at gunpoint is spaghetti squash

4. do they have any food intolerances?

mystery meat <3

5. what is their favorite food?

his mother’s beef stew ewo,,, she’d make it for him when he was sick or sad and it still comforts him

duncan

T: Truth

1. are they honest?

he’s honest to a certain point, but he doesn’t see any harm in a white lie here and then. he’d rather lie than hurt someone’s feelings with his honesty BUT when he’s on the job he’s usually very honest and will tell people the truth, tho he’ll try to be tactful when it comes to bad news 

2. can they tell if someone is lying?

depending on how good the person is at hiding their emotions on their face, he’ll be able to tell whether they’re lying or not, but he usually trusts that people will be honest with him lest it makes his job a lil difficult ngfdhl

3. is it obvious when they’re lying?

a big lie?? oh yea big times asldkjgl he has a very expressive face and doesn’t like lying about important stuff so he usually kinda just looks away but that’s a major tell that he’s, in fact, lying HHHH but he can throw little lies here and there without anyone paying attention to it

4. have they lied about anything they regret lying about?

hmmm,,, gonna sound cheesy for a sec but he regrets telling staci he wasn't in love with him,,, he's the kinda guy who falls in love hard and fast and he didn't want to scare him off, plus he didn't want to risk fucking up bc of the poor models he's had, so he lied and now during the events of the game he regrets not telling pratt how he actually felt bc he doesn't know if he'll get the chance to do it ;-;

5. have they told truths that have been spread against their will?

okay this one is on him bc he told adelaide abt his crush on staci and adelaide just,,, immediately told everyone at the spread eagle he didn’t mind mind but he was still shocked when sharky randomly tried to give him relationship advice out of nowhere

Z: Zebra

1. what’s their favorite animal?

the rottweiler!! he used to have one when he lived with his dad and they took her with them when they went hunting <3

2. do they like animals?

he rlly does, and he loves reading abt animals on the internet (sometimes gets lost on wikipedia for hours reading abt some obscure animal no one’s heard about) 

3. cats or dogs?

why choose when you can have both,,,

4. what’s their dream pet?

he rlly wants a pig and a cow >:(( big cuddle potential

5. do they have any pets at the moment?

he has a fish called jean-christophe 👁👄👁 he’s the kinda fool who shoves his hand in the aquarium to pet his fish,,, madman

ask me the abc's of my ocs 💚

[roc-thoughtblog]

Sense and Sensibility Readthrough Part 19

Chapter 22, Pages 111-119

Hubris is defined as not taking your medication for the week and assuming you'd still have a productive time. It's only 5pm Wednesday so it's not too late to humble myself.

Previously, the Miss Steeles were introduced. The older is very much into beaux, and the younger is very often socially mortified by the former. Elinor is disapproves, but, they mysteriously know Eddie Ferrars, so perhaps she will have to put up with them until they give up the goods.

Not that her opinion matters too greatly when Sir Middleton never runs out of social plans. :'D

Also, thank you for telling me beaux is plural of beau!

Commenting from after having read the chapter: Oh, Elinor...

Readthrough below.

Chapter 22

MARIANNE, WHO never had much tolerance for anything like [...]

And this first sentence goes the whole first paragraph for a whopping 11 lines! It's not exclusively about Marianne's intolerances but there's still quite a lot of that. The second half is about how the Steele sisters prefer Elinor because Marianne is just that standoffish with them but I wonder if there's a literary purpose to cramming all that information into one sentence? It's certainly taxing to get my mind around, though I'm not really sure that's reflective of the Steeles when it's partially about Marianne. Perhaps all parties are exhausting?

In Lucy Steele, the younger sister, Elinor finds a companion of natural wit and intelligence, but lacking in any formal education; though I assume by "illiterate" Austen means that Lucy is simply not versed in literature, as opposed to outright illiterate.

She still doesn't like her.

Seems she also finds Lucy to be flippant and lacking any consistency of opinion, and maybe also attention-seeky. Also that they can't really talk about anything interesting to Elinor as she's not educated enough to share any tastes. That's... a shame that Elinor takes this stance. She reads Lucy's constant flattery of everything as insincerety but I don't have any reason not to think Lucy is just a genuinely positive person about everything. Personally, I would call nearabouts everyone I meet really nice, but that doesn't mean I don't think it's true! As you can see as I try to defy the interpretations of almost every character that has been described unflatteringly by the Dashwood sisters. :'D

Except Mr. Palmer, I have no good interpretations of Mr. Palmer.

Also, just because she's not formally educated doesn't mean she can't be fun to talk to! Engage people on their interests Elinor, not just your personal tastes! Well, I say all this but it's not as though I always live up to my ideal of open sociability.

Lucy asks Elinor if she knows Mrs. Ferrars, Eddie's mother. Elinor is reticent to reveal that she thinks his mother is uh, controlling, but does I think truthfully respond that she's never met the lady in person.

Elinor replies without explicit dialogue a lot, which in the Dashwood sisters I've started to take as signifying instances where not merely do they have nothing interesting to say for the reader to read, but also that they are not invested enough in their conversation partner enough to give a proper reply. Elinor does this a little bit here to Lucy, until, that is, Lucy really catches her interest. Now it's ALL DIALOGUE.

See, Lucy really genuinely wants to know about Mrs. Ferrars, surprising Elinor indeed, who's still hung up on the question of how the Steeles are connected to the Ferrars.

"But if I dared not tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present - but the time may come - how soon it will come must depend upon herself - when we may be very intimately connected."

Oh. Oooooohhhh no. Oooooooh boy. Hmm. Yes. Well. I remember Eddie has a more successful (younger?) brother, but I feel like this isn't a fake-out just to give Elinor a heart attack and then move on. Somebody familiar with Austen and queer readings correct me on this, but I also don't see the remote possibility that this is implying Miss Steele is hooking up with Eddie's mother. So.........

I'm sitting here having not turned to the next page yet. Good heavens! indeed, Elinor.

"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. Robert Ferrars - I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."

T-there it is. And Eddie has the hair ring too, doesn't sound one-sided... could still be parental setup, but Lucy apparently doesn't know nearly enough about Mrs. Ferrars...

What Elinor felt at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of assertion attended it.

Oh no. As painful as it is strong? Poor Elinor, that's going to hurt when the shock wears off...

A moment of silence for Elinor before I continue, which I'm going to take a short walk on.

So Elinor's... outwardly taking it well. Lucy continues her explanation.

FOUR YEARS.

FOUR YEARS.

LUCY AND EDDIE HAVE BEEN ENGAGED FOUR YEARS.

EDWARD AND LUCY HAVE KEPT THEIR ENGAGEMENT A SECRET FOR FOUR YEARS.

"May I ask if your engagement is long standing?" "We have been engaged these four years."

FOUR YEARS.

ELINOR NEVER HAD A CHANCE.

"I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters -"

SHE WAS JUST A FRIEND. SHE WAS JUST   A   F R I E N D.

S H E   W A S   L I K E   A   S I S T E R   T O   H I M.

Alright. Well I needed to process that a bit too.

See, it's one thing for me to expect that Eddie was already engaged to somebody else. I would've been ready for that. Maybe he just moved on after Elinor was gone or something. I would've been like "yep, yeah that was expected." But FOUR YEARS. HE WAS ALREADY ENGAGED FOUR YEARS AGO.

How does this recontextualise the earlier parts of the novel? It was a hundred pages ago I don't even remember! Was this all the Dashwoods' imaginations? Am I going to go back and find out the narrative very specifically refused to state anything except that the Dashwoods thought this to be the case? Was Edward leading Elinor along the whole time? Did he know?? He seemed to be feeling guilt or shame or something so he must know about Elinor's feelings right??? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

ANyway.

So it's been a secret the whole time. Of Lucy's family only Anne Steele knows, and considering Edward I imagine literally nobody knows in general. Lucy and Edward have known each other for many years, ever since Edward stayed with her uncle Mr. Pratt, whom I don't recall coming up at all before but I wouldn't be surprised if he was name-dropped once in the beginning. Edward is so reticent about himself that Elinor barely knows/remembers anything about Mr. Pratt's existence.

I'm taking these quotes thoroughly out of order because I have been knocked out of order, but I want to highlight this;

Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude:

The forced calm, trying to suppress the adrenaline early, trying to keep up the mask of the disaffected. It was obvious enough that Lucy noticed and stopped mid-sentence to wait for her. Oh Elinor. How fast is her heart beating? Where has her breath gone? And "tolerably well concealed" is not "concealed." She's speaking slowly and carefully, before she's even calmed down. How much shakiness is still audible in her words? How taut has each syllable been stretched, to maintain control? Where was the misplaced pause, a necessity to find the next word?

"May- may I ask if your engagement has been long standing?" "May  I ask   if   your   engagement   has been long- long standing?" "May I   ask   if your engagement has been longstanding?"

Anyway.

Elinor's in either the denial stage or the bargaining stage. Well it's a lot to spring on her, we can't all have omniescent narrative security from beyond the fourth wall.

"Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him." “Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said;

PFFHAHA. Well, Elinor's composure is well and truly gone. If there's one positive thing that might come out of love triangles (positive negotiation sort, not toxic rivalry) it would be the sincere solidarity over the best qualities of the subject of their competitive affections. Though it doesn't seem like Elinor is disposed to be friends with Lucy, sadly...

I think Lucy just wants to be friends, but, uh, well. On the one hand I don't know how sensitive she's being right now really but on the other hand, I dunno how you can sensitively break it to someone that their crush has actually been your fiance for FOUR YEARS. Like, if Eddie knew, this is something he shoulda nipped in the bud long ago.

I think I've already spent an hour trying to process everything here.

The secrecy of the engagement makes sense too. I don't think Eddie's mother would ever have approved of any engagement without thorough vetting of the suitor's prospects. A secret youthful engagement must therefore remain very secret. No wonder Lucy's so concerned about Mrs. Ferrars now, too. And Eddie's only known the Dashwoods with the context of his sister hovering nearby, just ready to be generally Fanny. If information about Lucy had gotten out to Marianne that would already be a risk, but there was MARGARET too, and that sure worked out for Elinor. No wonder the Dashwoods heard nothing.

...

Elinor could tank this if she leaked the engagement. Please don't do that Elinor, it- oh no. Elinor won't do that. What if Marianne does it on Elinor's behalf? Oh no oh no. I hope that doesn't happen. Lucy's a nice girl. :(

Come to think of it, as far as underhanded deals go, there is a possibility that Lucy is actually faking this information, knowing that Elinor is interested in Edward, in order to drive her away. That... wouldn't be the case would it...? But he does have the hair ring... It's not like she pressed her into an engagement right...? AM I BARGAINING ON ELINOR'S BEHALF?

Lucy demonstrably proves she's talking about Edward Ferrars and nobody else by showing Elinor a picture of her beau. A thought, considering how much Edward has spoken to Lucy of the Dashwoods, no wonder she was so keen to meet them.

And Lucy is so happy to be able to confide in Elinor because she has noone else besides Anne, who is understandably a liablity in terms of secrecy, and gives poor advice in general. How fortunate to have somebody so level-headed as Elinor! Edward's name coming up at all from Sir Middleton did mortify her at the possibility of beans being spilled. Lucy is so stressed that the secrecy is such that she barely gets to see Edward at all, and never knows what will be of her future. Please Lucy, you know the context of Edward's being mentioned at all, spare a thought for Elinor. :(

Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.

... Yeah.

"Sometimes," continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely. [...] What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood?"

Uh. Wrong person to ask. Elinor sure thinks so too. Ah but Lucy even explains why he's been despirited. So it's not as much any guilt or shame so much as stress about his future with Lucy. It does also explain him leaving in a hurry with no explanation, anything related to Lucy would have no explanation given.

And Lucy shows Elinor a letter sent to her by Edward; now all doubts are cleared. She also explains that the hair-set ring is hers, asking her if she had seen it;

"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond anything she had ever felt before."

After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was at liberty to think and be wretched.

Poor Elinor. "at liberty to think and be wretched" is also a very nice line to end a chapter on. I've definitely felt that before too.

Well.

This chapter. A lot happened here. What's Marianne going to find out next about Willoughby when the Palmers return?? We still don't know about Brandon's daughter!!

I understand now too why the chapter with the Palmers got sandwiched between the preceding chapters and the introduction of the Steeles, and why the transition seemed strangely long. The lack of information lulls a false sense of security, and also it's a small buffer in the pacing to not immediately just, roll reveals onto the reader.

I can think of Lucy as nothing but earnest at least, though, quite insensitive to Elinor's feelings in a way that should have been obvious. Umm. I don't know what to say or think about Edward right now. He's barely appeared really, I can't get a read on him. Floating the idea at the end that Lucy is not secure in her engagement, and also that it could be easily broken by the secret getting out, does... leave the whole consequences of this reveal up in the air really. It's thoroughly within Elinor's power to break them up, but...

Ah, my minds a bit overloaded now and I've gone way overtime so I'll leave the rest to consider next time after I've digested it a bit.

Poor Elinor.

[writerrain]

A new world - merthur Thank you.

Thank you anon :)

A new world

Arthur wants to go hunting, even if, from different sources, there is the news that some powerful sorcerer is making his way to Camelot. Merlin isn’t exactly thrilled at the idea, but he follows his king, complaining the entire time and scaring off all the wild animals.

Of course, Merlin’s prattle doesn’t only scare off the game, but also attracts unwanted attention. In this case, the sorcerer’s.

Merlin and Arthur have barely the time to realize that he’s behind them before he starts casting a spell. With no time to react, Merlin throws himself in the way, shielding Arthur from whatever the sorcerer has casted, taking a direct hit.

Once Merlin regains his senses - because apparently he has passed out - he realizes that he is still in the forest, even if he is in a different place, closer to Camelot. Arthur is right next to him, cradling him softly, something that makes Merlin turn as red as his neckerchief. The proximity is not exactly new, but the care Arthur is putting in it, the attentions he is giving to Merlin? They’re new, for sure.

Suddenly, Merlin remembers the sorcerer, and he stands up, abruptly, asking Arthur where the sorcerer is. Arthur reassures him, telling him that there was no sorcerer around, and that Merlin had passed out after falling from the horse.

Truth be told, their horses are peacefully waiting for them not too far from where Merlin was resting. Yet it doesn’t make sense, because Arthur and him had gone hunting without horses. 

Merlin tells Arthur exactly this, and Arthur laughs, saying that hit might have scrambled his head more than first thought. No, they hadn’t gone hunting. They had been having a pic nic.

Which is something else that doesn’t make sense, because it’s only the two of them, and they don’t have pic nics. Not without a princess that Arthur can woo in the mean time, anyway.

Merlin’s reply makes Arthur laugh even more, even if Merlin fails to see what’s so funny about it. But the way Arthur says he hasn’t had the intention to woo a princess for years now, Merlin makes the poor manservant blush again.

They decide that Gaius will be the only one able to tell if Merlin is safe or if he has a concussion, so they get on the horses (and Arthur, who has never in his life helped Merlin on a horse to take the pleasure to make fun of him while he tried to get on one, is right next to Merlin to make sure he’s safely on the saddle).

During the way back, Merlin studies everything around him. It feels just so real. If Arthur hadn’t been that weird around him, he might even have believed the story of the fall. Yet, he didn’t feel like someone who had fallen from a horse. He had no aching bones, and even his head didn’t hurt that much. His chest, a little bit. Because he had been hit with a spell. He knew it. The burn he felt where the impact had happened was proof enough of that. Yet, everything around him seemed to prove that Arthur was right.

Arthur even helped him to get off of the horse, something that no stable boy appeared to find unusual. The only one who thought it was out of the ordinary was Merlin.

It would have helped if Arthur had stopped fussing over him on the way to Gaius’ chamber, and if he hadn’t used his royal prattness to make his way into the room, interrupting a consultation, only to demand that Gaius visit Merlin immediately.

A quick check from Gaius told that Merlin was well, at least physically. To apologize for Arthur’s behavior, Merlin offered his help to gaius for the next patients, promising Arthur to come into his chambers with dinner later. Merlin tried not to dwell on Arthur’s “Yeah, where else would you want to have dinner?”

Once they were without Arthur, Merlin explained the situation to Gaius. They both come to the conclusion that the spell must have brought Merlin into a whole new world, that both to Gaius and him felt real, but that probably wasn’t.

Merlin leaves Gaius only after his promise to help him, and he gets into Arthur’s chambers. To find out that they are also his chambers.

Because apparently, in this world, they are a thing. A kind of an official thing, considering that Merlin is wearing a ring he hadn’t noticed until that moment, as if his body had been used to it.

Sleeping next to Arthur, who insists on cuddling on all things, is one of oddest experiences in Merlin’s life. And waking up in Arthur’s arms, knowing this is not true, is nothing short of torture.

But the biggest surprise is that not only Arthur knows about his magic, but he also insists on Merlin training him in said art, otherwise how could he ever defend himself?

The moment Arthur shows Merlin that he can actually summun flames out of thin air, Merlin passes out. Which is a reaction that scares the shit out of Arthur, to whom Merlin is forced to confess everything.

Arthur takes it on himself to find a way to return Merlin to “his Arthur”. It’s very sweet, Merlin thinks, or at least it would be if it wasn’t the complete opposite of what his Arthur would do. This Arthur tells him he’s wrong, because if Merlin’s Arthur is even half of who he is, he is doing everything he can, in the real world, to have Merlin back. Even if maybe they’re still king and manservant and not king and consort. No matter who Merlin is or where he is, he is the most important person in Arthur’s eyes.

Gaius, Arthur, and Merlin spend all the afternoon looking up in the books they have available for something that they could do to bring Melrin back, something that makes tears get in his eyes. 

Well into the night, finally, Merlin feels a tug in his chest, exactly where the spell had hit him. Gaius says that someone in the real world must have found a way to reverse the spell, and all they have to do is wait.

And that’s what Merlin does, and the world around him fades slowly. The last thing he sees is Arthur, the love and the tears in his eyes squeezing Merlin’s heart. The last thing Merlin remembers about the new world he has visited is something Arthur has whispered in the last moment possible: “Tell him the truth.”

Arthur’s eyes are the first thing that Merlin can focus on while coming out of the fog in his brain. They’re almost exactly the same, with tears and love - but that might just be Merlin seeing things - and worry in them. 

Once he comes back to consciousness, Arthur hugs him tight, and even if it feels weird and new, Merlin knows that this is the real thing; how could he have ever thought that the other Arthur had been the real one?

Gaius is there as well, smiling soft and proud at them. Merlin asks him for explanations, but it’s Arthur who answers.

The sorcerer hadn’t been looking for Arthur, as everybody thought, but for Emrys. But he had found Merlin instead. The sorcerer’s goal was to take Emrys away from Arthur, so that he wouldn’t be protected by the most powerful warlock who ever walked the earth. The idea was to trap Emrys in a world where he could have everything his heart most desired, a world from which he would have never wanted to part. But he had got Merlin, and Arthur had thought that he had lost Merlin forever, which explained the very manly tears he was definitely not shedding.

Gaius - and where the hell had Gaius gone? - had said that True Love’s kiss would be the only way to bring Merlin back, but only if Merlin really wanted to go back. And for the longest time Arthur had thought that he wouldn’t come back, because it had taken hours for Merlin to finally wake up, and Arthur was rambling for the first time in his life, adrenaline and relief making it impossible to stop the king from babbling.

Merlin stopped him, asking who was the person who had kissed him back to reality. He was sure it hadn’t been Gaius, but he did want to hear it from Arthur. Who became suddenly silent, averting his gaze.

So Merlin told him the truth. He told Arthur that no, the sorcerer hadn’t missed his target at all. Merlin told him about the world he had found himself in. About their rings. About him training Arthur so that he could defend himself both with his sword and a bit of magic. He told him about what the other Arthur said, that no matter what Merlin would always be the most important for any Arthur Pendragon. And how for Merlin Arthur had been the most important person for many years.

During Merlin’s speech, Arthur slowly turns his gaze to his manservant, never trying to butt in, always quiet. So, Merlin is fairly surprised that, after a moment of silence, all that Arthur does is slowly lean in to kiss him, a kiss so sweet that Merlin feels tears sting his eyes.

With the promise of making Merlin’s wished new world into reality, Arthur kisses him again. And again. And again.