#charles is the only other sane person in this game

[arthursfuckinghat]

Full disclosure, I'm still on chapter 6 but I wanted to say a few things:

Arthur isn't a mindless killer. If he is mass murdering civilians, that's your choice.

Arthur knows that pain is not currency that you can exchange, and causing it only builds a debt - the kind he can't pay off.

He says it himself, "Revenge is a fool's game" - He writes constantly about his remorse in the journal.

Led by Dutch, the Van Der Linde gang have been chasing the feeling of living by their own terms so much that it's killing them. Pursuing that high has only left them to run forever, from those who want to clip their wings of freedom for the sake of law.

The O'Driscoll and Cornwall feud is a scapegoat for Dutch to get revenge for himself and his pride, he uses his charismatic rhetoric to sway the gang and justify all his actions. If they don't obey, they get named and shamed. Dutch labeling the gang as a family and treating them as such has conditioned them to know not to disappoint him, especially Arthur.

Arthur was taught not to bite the hand that feeds him, even when he wasn't fed.

The days of stealing from the rich and giving to the poor are long gone. Their way of living is outdated and they're running out of land to run away to.

This pursuit of freedom, once idealised, has become a desperate attempt to survive in a world that doesn't want them.

Their hearts have always been in the right place, but their guns were misguided by Dutch.

That loyalty has killed them.

[protect-namine]

I am about to start a neji route (because I feel that I need at least three playthroughs to fully understand neji and his plays, so I can't leave him for last). so my thoughts on this may change, but for the moment, my thesis is that neji and kisa are the same kind of thespian, just in different fonts.

(I am slightly exaggerating kisa'a character here. there are hints and I do think pushing the envelope of what her character could be is part of what makes kisa... kisa. as I'll explain later, for better and worse, kisa is constrained by the conventions of being an otome heroine.)

anyway. in essence. neji turns Other Persons into stories,

and kisa turns Other Persons into performances,

while they both simultaneously run away from, avoid, or sacrifice Becoming Persons themselves, for the sake of theater

or maybe it's the other way around. something something discovery if not recognition of the self through the other... except they're both unreliable narrators so who's to say if the recognition actually takes hold, really. kisa at least is a little bit self aware. neji, on the other hand, deals with realizations of the self through writing, without actually processing them (e.g. ms robin, domina, etc).

I keep thinking about (novel) kisa closing her eyes and feeling like her sense of self would melt away until tsuki centers her and gives her theater as a way to heal from the grief of losing her mother. it happens again during tsuki's univeil performance: kisa curling in on herself and tsuki pulling her back to theater as way to help kisa move forward with her dreams. pretending to be others is more fun than being herself.

and then there is neji (insert spiderman pointing at spiderman meme). but in his case, he would rather play eccentric roles, caricatures, comic relief, than be a Person With Depth on stage. neji is always either a seer of some kind (a fortune teller, a ghost who sees 10 seconds into the future) or a bit character (employee A), or... whatever he initially planned for domina. he is the mechanic behind the stage, but never the lead actor. his vulnerabilities do not need to "stolen" for the story, though others' are fair game.

kisa does not think about gender as it applies to herself in her daily life (mostly) and only sees it through the lens of acting and theater. how does she act mukai vs maiden, charles vs chicchi? the same way that neji does not think about the motifs and characters he writes as a window to himself, but rather as objects to be put on stage. rukiora is based on a younger neji, mary jane is I Am Death: Revisited (mary jane is to takihime as gashadokuro is to jacob), sissia is always meant to be the foil to I Am Death. but neji doeen't really understand that just like how he didn't understand oh rama havenna. sissia (kisa route, jack jeanne ver) is to kisa as domina is to neji.

literally kisa at her most extreme is just theater thoughts 24/7

kisa "I don't like being me; I'd rather be other people" tachibana 🤝 kokuto "I need to experiment and witness visions I can't create or I'll die" neji: this is a totally sane and Normal way to cope with abandonment and grief 👍

(it is not implied in the game, but since kisa turned to theater to cope with grief as a child, I wonder if the reason she never looks too deeply into tsuki's disappearance is because she's once again using theater as an excuse to conveniently Not Think About It. out of sight, out of mind. tsuki must be doing well, wherever he is, whatever it is he's doing.)

there is also the meta perspective of how kisa in-game inhabits a role where the player can (and is expected to) self-insert. otome dictates that protagonist kisa must be malleable to the player (who can choose to focus on a variety of relationships in her stead), and the plot dictates that actor kisa must be malleable to her stage roles (jack or jeanne, maiden or hero, flower or vessel), and novel kisa dictates that kisa must malleable to pretending to be other people because it's more preferable to being herself.

every thought she has about herself must be tied to acting, somehow. kisa's personhood is defined through stagecraft. she is the maiden, and mukai, and charles, and chicchi, and sissia. she can romance anyone in the school, of the player's choosing. she can be jack, and jeanne, and jack jeanne. don't get me wrong; kisa is her own character and has a strongly defined personality, but the story also demands for her to be malleable. a painting and a blank canvass at the same time.

neji externalizes where kisa internalizes. where kisa Must Perform™ to function and to avoid herself, neji Must Create™ to function and to avoid himself. scriptwriter neji dictates that neji must use everything at his disposal — his memories, his classmates, his obscure knowledge — as inspiration for stories. director neji dictates that he must use everything he knows about his actors — their complexes, their relationships, their weaknesses and strengths — as inspiration for stories. from the cook (mitsuki) needing apricots for a recipe and wanting to harvest honey from a beehive, to mary jane (fumi) being good at sewing and wanting an equal in jacob. suzu and sou fighting and developing a rivalry leads to jire and fugio fighting over chicchi. kai limits himself as a vessel in hasekura, and kai learns to embrace his desires as the priest. from the water/ocean/drowning themes, to rukiora being based on neji's younger self, and her family life and relationship with domina.

every thought neji has must be tied to stories, somehow. neji's personhood is scattered through stagecraft. the more you read his plays and lyrics, the more you get a glimpse of who he is. it is to the point that neji himself doesn't... really see how his stories reflect himself. ms robin being a "random" song the jazz lounge singer sings thay hasekura and ando can dance to, oh rama havenna being a so-so throwaway play that neji doesn't understand why it's entertaining. lmao. neji, please.

and this is why when problems arise, neji becomes a demanding director and kisa becomes a chameleon actor with a shaky sense of self (we don't really see this a lot because jack jeanne is not that dark of a story and kisa is still an otome heroine of an uplifting game, but it's a reasonable conclusion if you push hard on the kisa from neji's "good morning" exercise, or kisa going ham on method acting as charles. kinda wish the game explored more of that. I think a very stressed kisa can get lost in method acting, just as a very stressed neji is almost paralyzed by the fear of the death of talent).

idk where I was going with this. just. them. they have the same issues, just in different fonts. and I think that's actually what first attracts neji to kisa. kisa "steals" (to borrow neji's own words) just like him. kisa is a fountain of inspiration, an ever changing muse. and neji provides kisa with an endless amount of prompts and characters for her to inhabit. kisa does like to play pretend a lot. that's why she's in theater!

kisa and neji: Art Imitates Life people stuck in a Life Imitates Art video game

ANYWAY usual disclaimer that I'm jotting down livebloghing thoughts and I know some spoilers to neji's route but I'm only just about to actualy start his playthrough so. yeah. this was drafted all the way back in may lol, opinions may change and all that

[f0point5]

I’ve been a bit back and forth on Max F. I know there’s lots who love him but there is a vocal minority who don’t. I will say that he’s one of the few friends Lando has had since he was little that didn’t take it out on Lando when Lando progressed through the ranks quickly.

I think realistically Lando has probably done more for Max from an outsider’s perspective. When Max left Renault academy in 2020 (?) he said he wasn’t in a good place mentally and got stuck in a rut. So Lando convinced him to start streaming and had him join Quadrant. On the other hand, he’s probably the best out of Lando’s friends. He won’t talk about Lando’s personal life, supports his racing and kinda keeps him a bit sane.

He won’t leak Lando’s whereabouts if they’re away or he’s away and they still play video games when they’re on opposite sides of the world. Look I can definitely see where the issue comes from for people but I don’t think it’s any different to Charles having Joris on the books with an ever changing resume of skills 🤣

Thing is, if Lando is happy then we can’t really judge, right? Because we don’t know what goes on.

But like I said, the vibes are off for me. Max definitely doesn’t bait Lando out and keeps his confidences but I also just get the feeling that he’d like to share more idk why. Like the only thing keeping quiet is job security. Also, he and his gf give such “habibi come to dubai” vibes to me. Idk he just gives off the vibe that his existence shadows Lando. I’m not sure if I could have a friend whose job is quite that dependent on my existence. I’d always be looking over my shoulder.

But hey this is just from watching a few videos of him. I don’t know the guy. It’s just…an essence

[collymore]

Has Kate Middleton as yet, quite mastered the skill of walking on water as well?

By Stanley Collymore

Kate Middleton giving her brats a normal life oozes her dreadfully and risibly literally infatuated father-in-law, discernibly self-evidently literally undoubtedly no classic father himself evidently, by any sane means and who by his own admission had a really lousy upbringing with distinctly pathetically hopeless parents, simply as he himself, clearly unquestionably subsequently became when crucially he too, evidently became a biological father and purported parent of sorts! So Charles' recommendations I'll not take as gospel logically to what Kate is doing! Anyway, it's all essentially a load of bullshit! A normal life literally enjoyed by these sprogs? Truly what planet does Charles' actually solitary brain cell reside on? Fittingly Normal would clearly be, to automatically go to the local council operated school!

Playing games or just relaxing with other children of the same age in a local park and simply without having armed security routinely in tow. Effectively, very unquestionably simply having the undoubted freedom while growing up and undeniably also in adulthood to essentially determine and literally make one's own choices in life, rather than being obviously so indoctrinated in as to what one can't or shouldn’t do. And it crucially sure as Hell, simply isn't remotely normal to live in a bubble of privilege, where you effectively specifically dream up PR projects, or essentially have your numerous lackeys quite distinctively do that for you, simply to boost your own discernibly non competitive but basically and unquestionably all the same that self-entitled ego of yours!

(C) Stanley V. Collymore 14 November 2023.

Author's Remarks: It's a contradiction in terms of reality to equate to Britain a standardized form of normality, since apart from being a deeply entrenched class imbued society Britain is likewise a very  impermeable mongrel based society which each strand of this construct clinging on most tenaciously to what it not only considers is specifically its own but quite ironically in this process as well, what obviously in their myopic interpretation is unquestionably not only best for where such groups do essentially reside but equally as well similarly for Britain also

So there's no earthly way that an out rightly, thoroughly class obsessive and an intensely fixated social climbing mare like Kate Middleton would ever have wanted to either personally, or have it consciously or arbitrarily done, as regards what she would unquestionably consider as the obvious societal dumbing down of her children inflicted on them, relative to any socializing by them with those whom they evidently perceive as and essentially patronizingly regard as the inferior plebeian, serf masses; nor would William, come to that!

Since the discernibly obvious, social mores that they themselves, as well as the entire Windsor family, regard as so imperative to them individually and likewise collectively, live on unchangeably in their delusional exposition of all things; and accounts for what they undoubtedly rather firmly believe makes them most exceptionally what they are. And for them or anyone else to overlook that would undeniably be a most horrid pollution of everything they rightfully and righteously stand for and divinely represent!

As for Charles' effusive, exaggerated and self-indulgent feelings of tenderness for his daughter-in-law Kate, I've no problem whatsoever with that, as he presumably knows her personally while I don't relish any notion on my part to do so. However, my Bajan upbringing instinctively triggers an alarm button internally in me whenever someone exaggeratedly lauds another person and does so on the flimsiest of pretexts and with no conclusive evidence to substantiate their trifling discourse.

And on a personal note and something quite relevant to me, in every Barbadian school, firmly and prominently emblazoned on the wall of that school's Assembly Hall, where school assemblies with their Christian religious content are unfailingly held and other communal activities similarly held also, there's this prominent sign: "Cleanliness is next to godliness!" A statement that every Bajan child, past and present, knows by heart so deeply embedded is it and what it literally as well as psychologically means to us Bajans individually and collectively as a nation. In two words then: Personal Hygiene!

So reverting again to Charles Windsor and my full awareness of what tampons are and most essentially used for, I can't really take any man seriously regarding what he says and wants that utterance to be universally regarded as distinctively significant when that same male person has a most bizarre and very unhygienic fetish about used and self-evidently unhygienic tampons that were undoubtedly used by his married mistress, while he himself was also legally married to another woman, who he treated most appallingly. So frankly, Charles' sentiments pertaining to Kate Middleton, even if true, strike no empathetic resonance with this thoroughly mentally liberated British/Bajan!

[cblgblog]

Sorry I’m advance but one of my other favorite accounts just reblogged a Tony scene and people are talking about Civil War and how it made them Stan Tony, and how when they watch that movie they hate team cap👀 Then someone was all about how he was sleep deprived and how much pressure he was under and couldn’t understand how people didn’t like Tony because. Someone literally said that when someone says they don’t like Tony in Civil War they say “did you watch the same movie as me.” I’m baffled. Oddly enough someone else said, “he just wants to help everyone.” Sorry for the rant but I think people forget about what the accords are and what it would mean for people. Side note, I hope you’re having a great day/night 😀

No sorry needed!

I feel you man, I do. Honestly, I’ve unfollowed people based on similar posts when I was in especially Done moods, so.

Look on the one hand, the movie would’ve been a narrative failure if everyone was in favor of one side or the other, right? The whole point of the damn thing—besides giving the Mouse overlords more money—was to spark discussion, debate. Which, yeah, we’ll call that the tame description for what actually happened. But just, the thing was meant to split the fanbase so in that regard…winning? Thanks, I guess?

Film is also very obviously subjective, different strokes for different folks, so yeah, ten people can watch a movie and none of them are gonna see the exact same film. Let’s try to remember that this is, in theory anyway, a good thing. I just read a professional film review yesterday where I had the same reaction. What film were you watching, dude? Incidentally his reviewing partner said the same thing.

So honestly, no, they weren’t watching the same film as you or I or anyone else, because everyone brings their own biases and experiences and knowledge and interests into a thing, and that’s always going to flavor how it’s viewed. Again, let’s try to remember that this is good. In theory. Heavy on the theory.

That out of the way? Let’s get into Tony specifically so his uber stans can find this and scream at me on anon as though I just shot RDJ with a nuke.

Oh yeah, he was stressed. Oh, he was sleep deprived. Yeah, I’ve heard that. And that it’s Pepper’s fault, if she hadn’t left the poor baby, if she was there to rein him in, he’d be fine dammit, leave the baby alone!

Here’s the thing. You know who gets a pass on their shit behavior when they’re upset or tired? Actual babies. Actual babies and toddlers, and children, up to a point. Because they actually cannot always help themselves. Their bodies and brains are different, they have not learned better.

When you’re a 50-year-old man who’s supposedly the world’s bestest superhero, who wants, wants to be in charge of protecting the whole world? You need a little more self-control than that. The sleep deprived excuse works if you snap at someone before you’ve had your coffee, not for this. Roseanne Barr didn’t get to blame Ambien for her racism, Tony doesn’t get to handwave CW away because oops, I was tired.

Really? You’re a superhero, dude. Most of your teammates are tired too, that’s part of the gig. If you crash and burn this badly without your afternoon nap, fucking hang up the armor and go back to your billionaire playboy lifestyle.

Speaking of that, sure, right. It’s Pepper’s fault because she left him. Put aside the argument on whether that was justified or not (cough, it was and she should’ve stayed away even though they are adorable together). It’s not Pepper’s job to keep Tony sane. It’s not any partner’s job to do that for anyone. If she wants out, she has a right to that, without Tony going off the rails and blaming it on her. Seriously, he says part of the reason he backed the Accords was to “split the difference” with Pepper.

Dude. You were an asshole and you lost your girl. You destroyed all your suits, turned an emotional and mental corner in IM 3…and then relapsed 4 minutes later I guess because Whedon. Either way, Tony admits himself that he does not want to stop. So instead of doing that, or finding another partner who can accept that, you back an unjust international law that pits you against your team, your supposed friends? Go to therapy, have a pint of ice cream, cry into your pillow, send her more of those strawberries you sent her in IM 2 that she’s allergic to. You don’t go trying to change international law in ways that could ultimately affect millions of people because your girl left you.

Honestly—and thank God they didn’t do this but—the only way the Pepper excuse works in excusing his behavior in any way is if she’d died. Or been severely injured like Happy in IM 3. Still wouldn’t be okay, but, like Quill messing up their chance to stop Thanos because Gamora died, it would’ve been more understandable. Understandable, not excusable, and the way the MCU treats their women as manpain fodder, we’re probably legit lucky we didn’t get this.

As for him wanting to help everyone. He does in fact want that, I think. The problem is that his need to feel like he’s doing that is stronger than his rational mind, or his want to actually help in a constructive way.

Tony is too smart. He’s dumb as hell in many instances, mostly involving people and relationships, but he’s also too smart, and he’s been told for too long that he’s smart, and he’s bought into it. Ultron. Suit of armor around the world, protects the world, no more alien threats. It’s a simple concept on paper that fails in execution. So there are people with dangerous powers. Okay, we’ll make a set of laws to keep them from being dangerous, problem solved. But again, it isn’t.

Tony is not used to problems he cannot solve. He’s a genius, right? He can fix anything. He should be able to fix anything. That’s how he feels. But not everything is zeros and ones and circuits, things that can be fixed mechanically like his armors can. The people he wants to protect are not built that way. But he needs to feel like he’s doing something, because he’s terrified of what happens to the world if he doesn’t. So he creates these simple solutions to complex problems. The suit of armor, the Accords. They sound good in theory, but the problems they’re trying to solve are bigger than they are. And Tony, way back in IM 1, he sat back for years, clueless that his weapons were being used for bad things. He says it to Cap in CW. When he found out what his weapons were being used for, he went in and stopped it. Whether or not he should’ve known that already is a separate issue here. The point here is that when he found out, too late or not, he went in and did something about it.

Tony needs to do something about it. Again, go back to Cap in AoU, Tony’s nightmare sequence. Steve asks Tony why he didn’t save them. Tony’s ultimate nightmare is that he sits back and does nothing, and his inaction causes everyone to die. Which is where you get Ultron. Something he came up with because of what he saw in space in Avengers 1, then doubled down on in AoU. It’s where you get the Accords. Oops, he caused someone to die, he killed Charles Spencer. Must do something about that right now so it doesn’t happen again, and he won’t have to feel this guilt. He should be collaborating with others to come up with solutions (no Bruce in AoU doesn’t count because Bruce was dumb there), or at the very least, taking more time to think through the repercussions of the things he puts out there. But he doesn’t, because he’s got his savior complex that tells him that he alone can and must fix this, and because he’s too dumb to realize how not-smart he is in certain areas.

“We need to be put in check. Whatever form that takes, I’m game.”

Isn’t that what he says in CW, or something very close to it? Whatever form that takes. That’s the issue, right there, whatever form that takes. Realistically, yes, there should be laws regarding people with powers, the same way there are special laws pertaining to people who carry guns, or people who are licensed to fly planes. You have a thing/can do a thing that not everyone else does, so there are regulations pertaining to that thing. Laws change with the times, they always have. Some new technology comes up, eventually there will be laws that regulate it. As there should be, honestly. The issue with the Accords, Steve’s issue with the Accords, was not the basic idea. He says as much. He says that it could work, but there would have to be safeguards. Safeguards that are not in the Accords that Tony wants him to sign.

It's not a matter of oh, fuck the law, there should be no law governing these people, they’re above it. The problem is that the law as it’s presented here is unjust. There’s what, a month between Lagos and Ross coming by to tell them about the Accords? A month is not enough time to properly analyze such a big issue, Especially when you’re reacting out of fear, which is what happened with Lagos. People died because of an Enhanced person, an Avenger, in this case. Lawmakers don’t want that to happen again, they especially don’t want the political shit storm that comes with it. Damn, we look like we were asleep at the switch here, not having anything to throw at this problem earlier. Quick, let’s throw together this thing so no one can say we’re not addressing the problem.

Patriot Act of 2001, anyone? 9/11 happened, the public were rightfully terrified, the US said oh man, these are unprecedented circumstances, we’ve never had this before. Don’t worry though, we’re on this, we’re protecting you. The reality being that that bill simply gave the government too much power, most of it being used against people who were not actually threats, and it’s debatable, to say the very least, whether or not that law helped more than it hurt.

No law is perfect. No law ever will be. It’s not possible. We still have to strive for perfection though, have to aim there so that the laws we get are as close to fair as possible. Tony’s a big deal. If not for his “whatever form that takes” attitude, he might’ve been able to use his influence to pressure lawmakers into coming up with a fairer bill. Hey, I’m me, the public loves me, I will endorse this bill publicly and work on getting the rest of the team to sign, but you need to change this and this and this first, or no deal. Instead, he took the easy way out, the quickest, easiest way for him to feel like he’s atoned for his sins without actually doing anything. Whatever form that takes.

Tony’s not wrong because he backs the creation of a law that addresses these things. He’s wrong because he says himself that he does not care what that law does, specifically, so long as it exists. He’s wrong because he violates said law upteen times during the movie, while preaching to team Cap about what assholes they are for not backing it. He’s wrong because he cares more about feeling as though he’s tackled a problem than he does about taking the time to make sure that the thing he’s proposing is actually a good idea. He’s wrong because of what he does with Bucky, though that’s honestly a separate issue, for the purposes of this discussion.

Anyway, that was longer than I ever wanted it to be. Damn. Next time you see a comment about CW being the reason people stan Tony, just remember there are other people out there who stopped stanning Tony because of that movie. Everyone’s entitled to see a piece of media however they see it, and although the Tony stans are often the loudest, there are plenty of like-minded people out there who share your take on events. Block who you need to, unfollow who you need to, blacklist what you need to, and don’t let them get you down.

Hang in there, and have an awesome day :)

[lord-of-imagines]

[slams immediately into your askbox] Bless you for doing this. ❤️

Emperor Kartis falling in love with the Monarch of Avillon over the course of all the time looping, please? I just recently cleared the Hard difficulty loop and it's left me shipping them something fierce.

Pre-Warning for anyone that hasn't gotten to hard mode in game! Small bit of spoilers under the cut!

------

"My lord? Has something happened?"

"Wait for me, Kartis. I'm going to destroy that despair of yours that made you think you had to build an empire."

The Emperor froze, time almost seemed to stop. What had they just said? Destroy, destroy his despair?

How foolish.

The connection to the Lord of Avillion was quickly shut off by the male, his surroundings quickly reverted from the glowing blue void of the Chronicles, to the dull grey of his throne room.

He flinched and brought a hand to his temple, the headaches the Chronicles brought forth were something that none would never become accustomed to.

Kartis shifted his gaze, and met the eyes of Joshua.

"No. Nothing but a headache, I shall return in a moment. I must clear my head."

He received a low bow in response.

-

"Wait for me, Kartis."

How foolish. Such simple words, yet, something in his chest panged, something he had not felt in forever. Something that had been lost to time.

This feeling had been felt when his brother poisoned him in his second life.

This feeling had been felt in his first, when he lost everything to the Calamities.

Now, however, this feeling. It didn't scare him, he almost felt, relieved. The Lord of Avillion spoke as if they knew the pains of a Returner, could he finally share his pain with another? Could he finally have a true ally?

He froze.

Why did those words strike so deep? Had it truly been so long since Kartis could truly depend on someone other than himself? So long that such simple words of pity could effect him so badly?

If I can be so hung over such simple words, then I am still no match for the Calamity.

He thought to himself.

But, Lord of Avillion, if you can truly show me that you are my rival, I'll do what I can to spare you from the Calamity.

Maybe if I had spared the first you I met.

Kartis could not stop himself from remembering such a thought, the first Avillionian Lord he had met was a smart yet weak leader.

Their country suffered long and hard from the continued sieges of Rhodon, so terribly that the lord gave up the luxurious life they grew with and even went hungry to keep the people alive. When Kartis had first arrived to that Avillion, he didn't even believe that the person who stood before him was of royal blood.

He remembered another Lord of Avillion, whom came to peace with Rhodon through a political marriage. Their eyes were cold, and the smiles they shared never reached their eyes, much the same as Kartis, but they always put on a brave face, and even stood up to Kartis when Charles ||| could not.

He now regretted cutting them down where they stood.

Now, he remembered his most recent memories of the Lord. A powerful lord, who had brought all to stand against him, and yet again, they failed. Cut down once again by him. Only for the Calamity to win once again via its destruction.

Was there anyway to spare them?

A way for both to live?

If possible, to save humanity, together?

No.

Kartis had tried that many times, and all times he had lost.

Yet, the want, no, need, to spare the Lord of Avillion shouted at him from the back of his mind.

.

.

.

I will find a way to spare you. From my sane despair, my rival.

[scarfacemarston]

18+ ONLY PLEASE

 Disclaimer: I’m not super knowledgeable about OF or how it works. I know the basics, but that’s it. If I get something wrong, please just be kind. I’m perfectly willing to acknowledge that I may be wrong. This ask is a tough one for two reasons: A. No matter what I say, I know people will not be thrilled. B. I think a small part of it depends really on the reasonings.  I’m usually pretty good with Modern AU things, but this one stumps me. I don’t know the mechanics of it so I don’t know what goes into setting it up. Disclaimer 2: I support any person who decides to get into OF or other forms of sex work as long as safe, sane, and consensual.

I think some people would do it and be proud. (It’s not an easy job!) I think others would do it just for the money. Some would be ambivalent whereas others might feel some shame. Others I don’t see doing it.

Arthur: I can see people encouraging him to do it. He’s attractive and I think Modern AU Arthur MIGHT have more confidence to do it. I don’t think he would, but maybe he could do it as a dare and end up enjoying it or something.  I’m going to go with no rather than yes. 

 John:- I think he might think it was funny, but I don’t think he’d actually do it - especially if he’s with Abigail. I can see her being a little domineering about that. If he’s older, then that’s a definite no. 

 Abigail is unique in that in my Modern AU I sometimes place her as a former cam girl, but other times I have her working in dive bars. Sometimes both. (Over 18 obviously) I can see her potentially doing something earlier in her life, but after Jack? No. She herself carries a lot of weight of her past profession in the game and that translates a bit in her modern AU.(I’m NOT shaming her, it’s how she views herself). I do not see her judging others, just asking that they be careful. If someone asks her nicely - depending on who it is - she might give them a few tips. Modern AU her is an organic farmer so she also knows how to run a business as well..

 Karen: Absolutely, she’s charming, extroverted, and beautiful. She knows herself and has a keen sense for business.

 Mary-Beth: Potentially - I can see her trying to a whimsical / fantasy theme. She’s very creative and kind. She’s not stupid, but I don’t know how her business sense is.

  Javier: Yep, I can see it. He’s attractive and he knows it. He’s charming and creative. However, I can see him also using other avenues to focus more on promoting music rather than dedicating a lot of time to OF.

Charles: He’s a hard one to pin down. I honestly have no idea. I want to say no and that he’d be in the same boat as Arthur. Like Arthur, maybe he’d do it as a dare and not realize that both he and Arthur have become popular. He’s very private.

Sean: Absolutely. I just see him doing it, especially if it was a few pics with Karen. (Not sure if that’s a thing). Even then, I think some people in the gang would underestimate him, but he ends up with a small following.

Lenny: Maybe if the mood struck him. I don’t personally see him doing it, but he’s not a blushy innocent bookworm like some people seem to think he is.If he did it, I don’t see him devoting a lot of time to it. 

 Hosea: I think it would be interesting to find some old vintage photos of him in playgirl or a similar magazine for MLM. I can see Dutch doing it in a Tom Selleck type of way.

 Dutch: See above. Plus, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Dutch say “Oops. Teehee. How did THOSE get there?” *smirk* 

 Molly: Yes, I can see her having a very extravagant set up. She’s charming and funny and very romantic.

Tilly: I don’t know. I want to say no as she’s very straight-laced and like Abigail, focuses more on the “proper life”. However, I think the definition of a proper life in 2020 is so vastly different. I think Tilly could do it if she wanted to, but I just get the vibe that she wouldn’t.

Bill: I think it depends on the circumstance. If he can find supportive people in an LGBT+ welcoming platform, then maybe. He could go the other way and not want to do it at all, imo. 

 Micah: Potentially. Part of me thinks he would think it’s stupid and a waste of time. The other part of me acknowledges that many people do find him attractive so he could potentially try it for a few days and see what happens. Or not. Who knows.

 Grimshaw:  I think there’s a high chance she did some posing / nude photography when she was younger. As for her age now - Potentially as she’s confident, but since she’s older, she deals with a lot of ageism. In the game, yes she wears a lot of make-up, but she’s not ugly. I can see her more helping run the other people’s OF or maybe focusing a little bit on her own OF.  

Uncle is a wild card. He could have been in a vintage thing like Hosea or Dutch.

No’s: Reverend Swanson, Mr. Strauss, Mr. Pearson. Kieran. I just don’t see it happening. Sadie - Absolutely not, especially if she lost her husband. I just don’t see her doing it in any capacity. I want to say no to Trelawny as well. I think he’d worry more than A. Someone he knows as far as connections go would see it or B. Someone in his family accidently sees it.

[chilling-seavey]

Passchendaele WW2 Extension - Pre-War Training

A/N This is unedited and I hate it anyway but I needed to get some blurb out and I’ve been doing research for the continuation of the Passchendaele universe when WW2 comes around. I’m set for this extension timeline now I think!

Mum, Dad, and Evelyn,

Four months have gone by quickly but as my previous letters have expressed, it’s still not any easier. Training is fair and I can feel myself getting stronger with each passing day but it’s strange circumstances we find ourselves in. I can’t speak much to the status of the country, as if I could even speak to it at all since us boys know just about what you lot back home do. Oh well. Richie and I are just holding onto the few weeks we have left. Holding you to that nice roast beef dinner for when I return, Mum. Evening are still calm here; a few of the boys from our platoon have started a bit of a band in the evenings and I play piano with them once or twice – but usually only when they get a beer or two in me first, you know how my stage fright is. Anyway, I must go now as lunch is soon and then we have more training. I think today is climbing courses. All my love to you three.

Charlie

August 23, 1939

Richard set his tray on the wood table and sat down beside Charlie with a sigh, adjusting his trousers that were a size too small but he was too shy to bother alerting the higher ups that he needed a new uniform. After four months at the training camp, Richard and Charles same to see how tight military rules were and the younger of the two would be damned if he had to speak up against the officers. There was no room for error.

“The longer you wait, the worse your ridicule is going to be when you finally ask for new trousers.” Charlie said.

“I’m fine.” Richard grumbled and picked up his fork.

“You might be, but how are your future children?” Charlie teased, earning a punch on his arm from his best friend.

“Just eat your bloody lunch and mind your business.” Richard said through his small laugh himself too.

Small groups seemed to have formed throughout the countryside training camp but Charlie and Richard were enough company for each other. The young men were all around the same age and they were civil enough but the two boys just liked to keep to themselves a bit more. A few of the officers noticed and complimented them on this; stating that keeping distance was the best way to prevent it hurting more in the case of losing one of them. The new recruits didn’t want to necessarily think about that concept…arguing silently that there still wasn’t a war and that they were still going to be going home.

Corbyn was right in the sense that food was absolute rubbish and both of them had become so accustomed to their mothers’ cooking in the last twenty years of their lives, meaning they both lost a few good pounds within the first few weeks at the camp from not eating as much. They made sure to write home plenty and share their wishes for good food and comfortable beds, still counting down their six-month deployment to training before they could return home. Only two to go.

“Climbing at 13:00 today?” Richard confirmed after a few moments of silence.

Charles nodded through his bite of lukewarm peas, “Climbing range at 13:00 and if it goes well, we’ll get an extra ration so you better put your ass into it. I don’t want to sneak extras under the table to you again. I’d get my ass kicked for that if they found out.”

“I know, I know.” Richard grumbled. “I’m just not very good at climbing.”

“You never have been.” Charles chuckled.

“Maybe if I’m so shitty at this then they’ll send me go home.” Richard huffed, pushing his peas around his plate with his fork.

“We’re gong home anyway so who really cares.” Charles shrugged. He stood up from the table, pausing to lean down and steal a scoop of his best friend’s peas, and then returned his mess tray to the proper spot by the dish pit. Richard followed after him, having only finished half of his lunch, but they headed out to their barracks before they had to report for afternoon training exercises.

They shared a bunk bed in one of the single-story buildings, sharing the space with the other 24 men in their platoon, all in pairs on metal framed bunks with a trunk each for personal belongings. They were required to keep their space spotless and if even one man let his bunk become a mess, the entire platoon had to run laps around the camp no matter the weather. They learned that the hard way, but they learned it early on.

A few men were already in the bunks getting ready for their climbing exercises that afternoon and the young twenty-somethings all greeted each other casually. Richard bent down to grab his boots, grunting lightly in his tight trousers and Charlie chuckled under his breath at him.

“Mate…you’re really putting yourself through it.”

“Just two more months.” Richard said strongly.

“I dunno about that.” one of the other men said from the bunk across the aisle from theirs. “I’ve heard that Germany’s planning to invade Poland.”

“Shit luck for Poland then, ain’t it?” another man from farther down retorted.

“Shit luck for us too, mate. Britain’s got a defence pact with Poland.” the first man said. “If Germany doesn’t back the hell off, we’re going to be actually using our training.”

Richard and Charlie glanced at each other before turning back to getting their equipment together, listening into the conversations.

“Hitler’s been in discussion with the Prime Minister about negotiations.”

“Chamberlain is gonna fold under him.”

“Hitler certainly won’t. That bloke is a bloody machine.”

“I say war by Christmas. Hitler won’t listen to a measly island saying ‘no’ and we’ll have no choice by to declare war.”

“It’s more honourable to declare war rather than being invaded however.”

“Christ…I don’t want to get bloody invaded.”

“And certainly not by the Germans.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking up arms against them.”

One of the men jumped up on his trunk and clicked his tongue to imitate cocking his rifle as he held the firearm in his hands, “Show ‘em that England doesn’t give up as fast as the French did.”

The young men chipped into eager conversation about the war that seemed to be incoming but yet not phasing them and even Charlie and Richie join into their joking. The naivety of the nineteen to twenty-three year olds was obvious but perhaps that the only thing keeping them someone sane under the fact that they were being trained how to kill and survive.

On the way towards the climbing course, one of the other men rushed up beside Charles and Richard, “Do you know what branch you wanna join if war breaks out?”

“Branch of what?” Charles asked.

“Military. Army, navy, air force?”

“I didn’t know we had a choice.” Charles said.

“We do. I’m thinking navy. On the water and nice and far away from everything.” the young man smiled to himself as they trekked across camp.

“Air force sounds fun.” Richard spoke after a moment. “I’ve always wanted to fly.”

“Me too. I remember we had toy planes as boys.” Charlie smiles at the memories of them running around each other’s backyards with their small plastic planes in hand and making up all sorts of stories and games.

“That was fun until you didn’t look where you were running and crashed into a tree and got a bloody nose.” Richard teased, making their comrade laugh.

“Well hopefully you’d be a better fighter pilot than a recreational one, Seavey.” he said, slapping Charles on the arm before rushing off after their group to the course.

Richard and Charles fell into momentary silence in their memories as they joined up with he group and fell into formation in front of their commanding officer. He scowled at them for being the latest arrivals, “Gossip on your own time, gentlemen.”

“Sorry, sir.” they said at the same time, shifting to feet should width apart and hands behind their backs at attention. The roar of fighter jets streaked across the sky above them and they both looked up discreetly to watch the few planes fly over the camp, twisting right up into the clouds, unbothered in the last few weeks without war. No one knew what was to come.

[artificialqueens]

Galactica, Chapter 45 (Group Fic) - TheDane/Veronica

A/N: Click here if you’re looking for previous chapters (or here if you’d rather read on AO3). 💫

Last Chapter: Aiden’s jealousy worsened, and Bianca invited Courtney to lunch.

This Chapter: Courtney, Adore and Violet all receive unexpected invitations.

***

It was kind of amazing. How Courtney could be sitting across from one of the most influential, powerful women in New York and feel so...well, comfortable. She knew that any sane person would feel horribly intimidated in this situation, but Bianca just kept on making her laugh so much, it was like she forgot to be nervous. Or...well, she wasn’t exactly not nervous, but it was a fluttery kind of excited nervous, curling pleasantly in her abdomen as they bantered back and forth.

“So...what class are you taking later?” Bianca asked, stirring her latte.

“It’s a street jazz class at BDC,” Courtney replied.

“BDC?” Bianca raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it stands for Broadway Dance Cen-”

“Yeah, I know what BDC is, I’m not a moron,” Bianca interrupted, and Courtney bit back a laugh, finding her abrasive style somehow endearing. “I just didn’t realize you were a dancer.”

“Oh. I’m not really. I just uh...want to get into music. Eventually. Like, pop music. When I got to New York, I went on a bunch of auditions, and I realized that my dance background was nowhere near strong enough to be competitive-” Courtney stopped abruptly. Was she saying too much? As nice as Bianca was, she was also one of Fame’s best friends.

Bianca didn’t seem concerned though, simply listening, nodding, a soft smile on her face. She really was so beautiful. Courtney’s heart hammered a bit faster.

“Do you mind...um...not telling Miss Fame about that? I don’t want her to think I’m not committed. I just, feel like she’d disapprove, and I really need that job, so-”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Bianca’s smile deepened, dark eyes shining.

“Thanks.” Courtney smiled back as the waitress set down their food, relieved.

“So how’d you end up at Galactica, anyway? It’s not exactly a direct path from there to being a pop star.”

“Uh, it’s kind of a long story. I was applying for like, any job that would let me stay in the country, and when I saw the opening with Miss Fame, I was thrilled. And then Adore and I were at this club, and we ran into Violet, and...I guess she kind of put in a good word for me.”

“Huh. I wouldn’t have expected that,” Bianca mused.

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s just… Violet’s always seemed a bit...uptight as fuck?”

Courtney had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud, explaining, “She takes her work very seriously.”

“Oh yeah?” One of Bianca’s brows raised a little, challenging. “Do you?”

“Of course! I’m so lucky to have that job, a million girls would kill to be in my shoes. And Miss Fame, you know, she’s a great boss.” Courtney blinked at Bianca, watching her muffle a laugh with her hand. “What?”

“No, nothing. You’re just cute when you lie.”

That fluttery feeling was back in Courtney’s belly, stronger than ever, as she insisted, “I’m not lying! She’s great! You’re her best friend, you should know-”

“Exactly. I’m her best friend. That’s how I know you’re lying.” Bianca bit down on a sweet potato fry, eyes twinkling.

“Okay, maybe she’s a little…”

“Yes?”

“Well, she’s not the easiest boss, or the most predictable, but that doesn’t mean she’s not a good one.” Courtney crossed her arms, a pretend little pout on her lips.

“Fair enough.”

And with that particular landmine safely side-stepped, Courtney let out a relieved sigh.

“Hey, uh, here’s a question. Do you have any Thanksgiving plans? I know you’re not American, so-”

“Really, what gave that away?” Courtney asked, lashes fluttering.

“Lucky guess,” Bianca laughed. “Anyway, Adore and I usually go home to New Orleans. But my sister Liz is going through a divorce and she’s apparently just an absolute cunt to anyone who dares even look at her. So we decided to stay in town and avoid that nightmare altogether.”

“That’s nice. Very supportive.”

“Hey, I’m paying for her attorney,” Bianca defended herself, and Courtney laughed. Of course she was paying for her sister’s divorce attorney; she was quickly proving to be one of the most generous people Courtney’d ever met. “But yeah, so...would you have any interest in joining us?”

“Really?”

“Sure. I know Adore would love to have you there,” Bianca said quickly, and after a moment of hesitation, added, “And hey, I’d like to encourage her to hang out with people who read. So, you know, win win.”

Courtney bit her lip, Bianca’s sarcastic deflection as she folded up a napkin in her hands making the whole thing painfully cute.

“No pressure, I just, uh...wanted you to know you’re welcome.”

“I would love to,” Courtney said, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the invite, knowing that this was a holiday people spent with family. “I should warn you though, I just went vegan.”

“Oh shit, invite rescinded.”

Courtney giggled, twirling a lock of her hair. “I know, I've already lost 3 friends over it. And I think I’m on very thin ice with Adore. Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s no big deal. I actually eat a lot of vegan food, even tried it myself for a few years,” Bianca said. “I am a lesbian, after all.”

Courtney leaned forward, intrigued. “Is that like a thing?”

“Oh yeah,” Bianca nodded.

“Why do you think that is?” Courtney asked, lifting her glass to her lips, trying to find the straw without looking.

Bianca thought for a moment and then said, “Well...part of it is probably just lefty-feminist politics. And then of course there’s the purely unscientific belief that a plant-based diet makes your pussy taste amazing.”

Courtney choked, spitting out some of her smoothie, cheeks flushing hotly.

A mischievous smile spread across Bianca’s face as she handed over some napkins. She looked both terribly amused and a bit proud of herself.

“Sorry,” Courtney sputtered, wiping up the mess. “I was...not prepared for that.”

“I hope I didn’t destroy your innocence,” Bianca said, voice soft and teasing.

“I’m not that fragile. I’ve been Adore’s best friend for 4 years, remember?” Courtney reminded her.

“Right.”

As Courtney set down the napkins, she looked up and caught Bianca’s eyes again, both of them breaking out into matching grins. She couldn’t quite explain the way her heart thumped faster every time they looked at each other--all she knew was that looking into Bianca’s warm brown eyes, she felt better than she had in months.

***

“Fame?”

Patrick toed his shoes off, resisting the urge to dump his tennis bag by the door. He played tennis every other Saturday morning, tennis and his occasional swims the only form of exercise he had ever found bearable, even though Fame had tried to get him turned into yoga more times than he could count.

Patrick waited for a second, either expecting his wife or his dog to come down to greet him, but neither happened, instead,  all he could hear was the faint sound of the TV.

“Fame? Darling?”

Patrick put his bag down, vowing to himself that he’d remember to come back and pick it up, before he made his way into their townhouse.

He found her in the living room. Fame was sitting on the couch in a silk robe, the TV on, the curtains drawn, Charles' head resting on her lap.

“Did you have fun?”

“We finished 5 sets.” Patrick smiled, Fame not actually asking how he had done at tennis, the rules of the game on the long list of things she didn’t care about, though she had shown up to watch him play, the shorts apparently making it worth it. He walked over to the couch, sitting down and leaning in to give his wife a kiss on the cheek, when he felt Fame’s hand on his face, blocking him.

“Don’t-” Fame turned her head, pulling herself away from her show as she looked at Patrick through her fingers. “I just had my skin done, and I refuse to let you mess up my microneedling.”

“Ah. Glad it’s not a chemical peel month.” Fame always looked absolutely insane after those, her skin flaking off. It was rather disgusting, and he tried not to be around for those, seeing your wife shed like a lizard weirdly enough rarely doing wonders for a sex life.

“Shut up.”

Patrick grinned, and Fame smiled as she pushed him back, Patrick settling in on the couch so Fame could snuggle up against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “And what are we watching?”

“Snapped.”

Patrick had to hide a snort, Fame absolutely devouring any and all true crime media. When she’d first gotten addicted to that particular show, all about women who murdered their partners, he’d wonder if she was trying to tell him something. Her response when he’d asked, “Keep asking questions like that and you’ll find out,” had made him burst out laughing, his wife’s sardonic, grisly sense of humor one of the things he loved the most about her, only coming out in rare instances but always a delightful surprise. Almost as surprising as her porcelain chicken collection.

“Your bag better not be flung anywhere.”

Ah.

Busted.

***

Katya hummed to herself as she was setting the table, a bottle of wine for Trixie and sparkling water for her chilling in the fridge.

Trixie was locked up in their bedroom, working away on the cost predictions for the Spring prêt-à-porter collection, sweating over numbers and doing everything he could to make sure everything was running smoothly.

He had promised her to come out for dinner, so Katya had arranged a surprise, a gigantic order of Chipotle on its way.

“Hey Katya?”

Katya looked up from where she had been folding the napkin, to see Pearl leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed. She was wearing a pair of drop-crotch sweats and a sleeveless jersey tied up around her midriff, certainly not her typical going-out clothes. Was it possible that she was staying in? On a Saturday?

“Everything okay?”

Pearl gave a slow, unconvincing nod, walking forward a few steps.

“Are you sure about that?”

“How did you know that you wanted to be with Trixie forever?”

Katya paused, the napkin still in her hand as she considered Pearl’s question. Normally, she would have made a joke about Trixie’s luscious butt, but judging from Pearl’s face, this wasn’t the time.

“I honestly…still don’t know.”

“Please,” Pearl sat down heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Katya smiled. Pearl and Trixie had been friends for forever, but they didn’t become best friends until after Katya and Trixie had started dating, Pearl moving in with Trixie while she was in rehab for that final time. “I liked being single. I liked having little whirlwind romantic flings and then going back to starfishing across the bed when they were over.”

Pearl laughed, shaking her head, and Katya declared a small victory for making her crack a smile.

“If I’d been single forever, I’d have been perfectly fine.”

Maybe not perfectly fine, but Pearl didn’t need to know that, the things Katya had done before Trixie came into her life not really things she was particularly proud of.

“I liked being free.” Katya shrugged, trying it out.

“Mmmh?”

Bingo.

Katya hid a smirk, Pearl straightening up the moment freedom had been mentioned.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Pearl was struggling in her relationship with Adore, that her friend was probably freaking out about being with someone for any extended amount of time, since Katya had never seen Pearl do anything like what she doing now, long-term relationships not really the Liaison brand.

“But I met Trix, and I like him more than freedom. Or, well, that’s not really accurate. Actually…” Katya sat down beside Pearl. “The truth is, I feel my freest when I’m with him. Knowing that he’s in my corner. But I mean, knowing for sure? I just don’t think certainty is in my nature. Luckily, it’s in his. That’s why we’re a good team.”

“Yeah. That makes sense. You guys are a good team.” Pearl sighed.

“Do you feel like you guys are a good team?” Katya asked carefully.

“Sometimes. I mean...we’re a lot alike. Maybe too much alike. I dunno.” Pearl avoided Katya’s gaze.

“Here’s a question...are you happier with her, or without her?” Katya asked.

“I...don’t know.”

Katya reached for Pearl’s hand. “Pearl, listen. I like Adore, a lot actually. I think she’s sweet and beautiful and funny and she obviously cares about you so much. But I also think that stringing her along when you’re feeling like this...it’s not fair to either of you.”

“I just don’t want to give up so fast!” Pearl exclaimed. “I always do that. I promised myself that I would actually try this time.”

“Well, then maybe you just need to be reminded of why you got together in the first place.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Also...now I don’t want to sound like I’m preaching here,” Katya began.

“No, it’s fine. I asked for your opinion,” Pearl said.

“Well...in my experience...it’s really hard to maintain any kind of real relationship--friendship, romantic, whatever--if you prioritize your ego over the other person’s feelings.”

Pearl blinked at her for a few seconds, letting the comment sink in, before dropping her head to the table with a soft, “fuck…”

Katya chuckled and leaned forward to kiss the top of her head. “You’ll be alright.”

***

“Drink drink drink drink drink drink drink drink YEAHHHHHHH!” The girls cheered as Adore finished her beer and slammed the empty glass down on the table.

Adore laughed, wiping her mouth, looking around at the group. Originally, when Courtney had introduced her to these girls years ago as “my sorority sisters,” she was picturing stuck-up, prissy little spoiled brats, who would judge her and never accept her - the punk rock lesbian who walked around in bare feet and no bra most of the time.

She was pleasantly surprised when they ended up being fun, and mostly turned their Mean Girls Judgement on others, or each other. Somehow Adore became the untouchable and beloved mascot of the group, the cool, alternative one who gave them all street cred. Tyra loved her because they were both from the South, both from big families and both of them possessed deeply developed bullshit detectors. Tati enjoyed doing shots with her and wreaking havoc (and was good for a sloppy drunken makeout session at least a few times a year) and Morgan - well, Morgan was kind of a cunt, but in the very best way. It was part of her charm, and, as she explained it, part of her Scottish heritage.

This night out with her friends was exactly what she needed to take her mind off her current relationship drama. She’d only spoken to Pearl once since their fight the other day, and it was tense, Pearl claiming to be running into a meeting. After that, nothing. No messages, no calls--she still wasn’t 100% sure where things stood between them.

Adore turned to Courtney, who absentmindedly stirred her drink with a straw, staring into space. She’d already noticed a bit of a change in her mood from a week ago - there was definitely something lighter about her. Still, quiet wistfulness wasn’t her general M.O. in a club - usually she was the first one on the dance floor. Adore nudged her gently with a hip.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” Courtney turned to her with a little smile, green eyes soft.

“Are you having fun?”

“Of course! I always have fun with you,” she said, wrapping her arms around Adore’s waist and cuddling closer, laying a head on her shoulder.

Adore pressed the kiss to the top of her head before asking the other question on her mind, “So...um...what’s going on with you and my sister?”

Courtney’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I heard you hung out today…and that you’re joining us for Thanksgiving?”

“Oh. Right. No, I just ran into her by chance.”

“Where the hell are you hanging out, where you run into someone like that?” Morgan asked. “The fuckin’ SoHo house?”

“It was a bookstore.”

“Ugh, smart bitch.”

“And like…she bought me lunch because she knows I’m poor,” Courtney explained, “and since you guys will be in town and I don’t have family here, she just asked if I wanted to come.”

“Oh yeah, no big deal,” Tyra cut in, “She just took you on a date and then invited you to a family holiday…”

“It wasn’t a date!” Courtney said, laughing. “It was really all just very casual. She was just being nice.”

“Being nice for no reason. Sounds like Bianca alright,” Adore said, one eyebrow raised, and Courtney giggled again, shrugging.

“Maybe she’s nicer than you think.”

“Listen, Courtney, I’m glad you’re gonna be there because I love you. But just...you know, my sister is very...uh…”

“Yeah?”

“No, she’s great. Like, she’s the best. But…” Adore trailed off, grabbing a shot from the round Morgan was setting on the table and tossing it back.

It felt weird to be having this conversation. Did she really need to warn Courtney about Bianca? After all, B had joked about hitting on her before but never actually done anything. And what would she even say? ‘My sister is very good at charming the pants off every girl who catches her attention--especially the blondes’? ‘Beware the dimples’? She was certain that Bianca would never make a move on someone who didn’t want it, so...why not just leave it alone?

“You know what? Nevermind. Whose phone is that?” Adore felt her pocket, realizing that the out of control buzzing was her own phone--hopefully not her sister being an impatient cunt about Courtney’s number.

PEARL: Hey. I’m sorry about how I acted on Thursday.

PEARL: And yesterday

PEARL: There’s a warehouse party in Brooklyn tomorrow

PEARL: At the navy yard. Wanna go?

PEARL: It’s right by Grimaldi’s…

PEARL: Best pizza in NY

PEARL: My treat

ADORE: So you like pizza again, huh?

PEARL: It’s my favorite ;)

ADORE: Lol, okay, I’m in. <3

Adore looked back up at her friends, grinning at the group. “Let’s go dance!”

***

Sutan wasn’t nervous.

He wasn’t, because that would be ridiculous.

Sutan took a sip of his coffee, watching people walk by the cafe he was sitting at. It was a surprisingly sunny Saturday for October, the air crisp and fresh. He had already waited for 20 minutes, Violet once again late, but Sutan had asked for a chocolate croissant with his first cup of coffee, his girlfriend's time management skills surprisingly terrible.

Sutan was planning to invite Violet to Aspen with him, Raja and Raven for their annual ski trip. It was a tradition of theirs, Raja and he owning a cabin together that they visited every year. He wasn’t a brilliant skier, but he liked the mountain air, the sense of freedom, and of being disconnected while out on the slopes.

He had thought about inviting Violet along for weeks, Raven needling him about whether or not Violet would be coming with him.

Sutan wanted Violet to join them. Wanted to see her all dressed up in winter wear, wanted to teach her how to ski and have drinks by the fire in the evening.

There was just the teeny tiny insignificant detail, that the last time he had asked someone to come with him and Raja to Aspen, it had been a terrible time.

He didn’t hate Kahmora, at least not any more, their divorce lasting longer than their marriage, but he still felt a sense of dread every time he visited L.A. - which was why he avoided the city as much as he could, Kahmora thankfully relocating once they severed ties.

Violet wasn’t Kahmora though, actually, they were as different as day and night.

“Hey.”

Sutan turned his head to see Violet come walking towards him, her coat closely around her, her new bag in hand, and Sutan was glad he had splurged for the largest model Dior made, the purse already stuffed.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Violet pressed a kiss against his cheek, sliding in on the other side of the table, her dress brushing against him. “Have you eaten?”

“I was waiting for you.”

Violet didn’t need to know that he already finished a chocolate croissant, that sin between him and his trainer.

“Ah,” Violet looked guilty for a second, brushing a bit of her hair behind her ear, her earring of the day a tiny golden hook. “Sorry, I was at work and time just flew by-”

“Work?” Sutan twisted his wrist, taking a peek at his Rolex. “It’s 10:33 on a Saturday?”

“I went in at 6.” Violet picked the menu up, the fact that she tried to pretend that she wasn’t going to order avocado on rye kind of cute. “I know I have to turn my dress over to tailoring sooner or later-”

“But you want to finish as much as you can?” Sutan smiled, emptying his coffee cup. “Of course.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” Sutan held up his hands in defense. “Promise.” He couldn’t help but sneak a peek at Violet’s right hand, her fingertips thankfully not the raw red points he had helped wrap and put ice on. “It’s just very dedicated-”

“This is my first chance to get an actual piece on the runway. It has to be perfect-” Violet was cut off as the waiter came over, Sutan hiding a grin as she ordered avocado on rye, his second breakfast a plate of scrambled eggs and salmon.

“Speaking of perfect.” Sutan moved his chair while the waiter walked away, his stomach tied up in a knot. “I was wondering, if…”

“Yes?” Violet tilted her head, clearly listening, her brow eyes resting on his face.

“If you’d like...” Sutan had no idea why this was so hard, “to come to Aspen with Raja, Raven and I in January?”

“What?” Violet looked genuinely confused.

“Raja and I own a cabin, and-”

“Like, in Colorado? Like Aspen Aspen? Like posh skiing Aspen?”

“Yes?” Sutan lifted a brow. “Do you know any other Aspen?”

“No, but I-” Violet bit her lip, her white teeth sinking into it. “I don’t know how to ski?”

“Oh,” Sutan laughed, the admission not at all what he had expected. “Well, lovely eyes.” Sutan smiled. “I can promise you, that that is not a problem.”

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 16 - In Which Charles Vane Destabilizes the London Real Estate Market and Takes a Bath

Also known as the chapter I finally write the Charles Vane bath bomb scene that is the entire reason I began writing this fic. It still turned out more weird and angsty than I wanted it to. But here we are.

Charles has been acting a bit strange lately. Strange in a way that doesn't match his usual strangeness. In fact, one might say that this new strangeness is completely antithetical to his normal sort of hyper-aggressive, hyper-masculine nonsense.

That's not to say Charles has gone soft. He's still going to the underground bare knuckle boxing ring at least two days a week to bash other toughs' heads in, returning home in the early hours of the morning, bloody and bruised and grinning that feral sort of grin that makes Jack's guts writhe with a combination of desire and fear.

Because Charles Vane is a predator. Leonine in build and appearance, but more than that, he's a hunter. And most people on the other end of that look perish by his blade.

The ones that don't tend to become intimately familiar with an entirely different sort of blade – Eleanor Guthrie being a prime example.

And as much as Jack might enjoy that type of, heh, swordplay, he knows that it's a terrible idea. Particularly now, when the team is so cohesive. Charles and Mary have formed an unexpected but heartening accord with each other and with Max. Jack's own relationship with Max remains cordially businesslike, but that suits them both perfectly fine. And Jack has absolutely no desire to pry into Max and Anne's relationship.

Perhaps the largest surprise is that Charles has not once tried to challenge Jack's leadership, despite Jack having taken his crew and his command and his whole world. But Charles hasn't even really threatened him since that night in the hotel when Jack had first suggested they all settle down. And Jack is grateful. And he is more than disciplined enough to keep it in his pants to prevent ruining the accord they've all reached. More than able to put the con first and everything else second.

So Jack doesn't let the desire show. Keeps to the flippant and easily brushed off type of dialogue he and Charles have always shared. Non-flirtatious by its very flirtatious nature.

And Jack refuses to let the fear show either.

Because Jack has been on the receiving end of that look several times now, and he's still alive and kicking. And, as previously stated, Charles hasn't ever challenged Jack's leadership. And he's too Charles to ever play the sort of long con to disrupt him from behind the scenes that Jack himself prefers to employ. That Jack has employed against him – and isn't that just a tiny jolt of guilt right in the heart?

Completely unrelated to all of that, Jack has started keeping watch out the front window the mornings after Charles goes out. And when Charles comes up the street, stumbling and grinning and flying higher than the pipe ever got him, Jack is there to put a narrow shoulder under his thick arm. There to help him limp through the front door and into the front hall bathroom to collapse on the closed lid of the toilet seat and grin that terrible, frightening, arousing, alive grin up at Jack. Who just dabs at his cuts with the ruined, bloodstained towel he's started keeping in that bathroom solely for that purpose.

And Charles holds still through all of Jack's patching him up and getting him an ice pack for the bruises blooming on his ribs and admonishing him for getting into that state in the first place. And Charles lets Jack lead him up to bed and sit with him for a bit as he falls asleep, Jack brushing his long hair off his forehead so the blood and the sweat doesn't glue it to his skin as he sleeps.

Charles looks so peaceful like this, all tucked into clean sheets, with Jack's hand running gently through his tangled hair. Peaceful in a way he never looked with a needle in his arm. And Jack's honored to get to see him like this. With his guard down. Vulnerable.

Vulnerable is not the word one would have ever used to describe the Charles Vane from the streets. But this Charles Vane, the one who moved into a real house, if under protest. This Charles Vane seems more than content to let Jack and Anne and Mary see a side of him he's never shown before. And Jack keeps that trust close to his heart like a treasure.

But he's always been a greedy sonofabitch, reaching beyond his station, beyond the cards life dealt him by virtue of his birth. And Jack wants more.

--

Jack has kept patching Charles up after he gets back from the fighting ring he joined as a way to keep the pounding of the blood in his veins, the drive to fight and fight and fight until there's nothing in his head and his heart and his arms except the singing of his blood and the cooling tackiness of the blood he spilled. A way of feeling alive. A way of keeping sane that doesn't ruin all their carefully laid plans, all their carefully constructed facades.

It has also conveniently doubled as a way for Charles to keep his ear to the pulse of the street. A way to keep tabs on their former colleagues and competitors. And some outright enemies.

They move in different enough circles, Charles doubts they'll ever end up fighting for turf. But sometimes you need dumb muscle to knock over a mark, drive them further into your arms. Help them understand that they're in danger, but you can help them. You can keep them safe, if only they just trust you.

If only they sign over their soul.

And, and, it's helpful to know what the word on the street is about the rich fuckheads they're trying to con. Cuz sometimes the street knows things about them they don't even know about themselves. Things ratted out and weaseled out and just plain observed by the unfortunates forced to wash their dishes, or clean their houses, or drive their cars, or any number of menial, forgettable tasks that allow the person performing them unfettered access to their vulnerable underbelly that not even eel-slippery Jack or silent watchful Anne or flirtatious Charles have been able to gain access to.

Like, for instance, the fact that the Hennessy family is not nearly so well off as they like to pretend in front of guests. Sure, to the world it's all champagne and caviar and Mediterranean cruises. But Charles is have-a-drink-together-down-the-pub close with a fellow boxer whose wife's cousin's sister is a housekeeper for their big London house. And she knows there ain't hardly money to turn the heat on in winter. Goes to work in three layers and mittens to vacuum the priceless antique rugs and dust the slowly dwindling collection of priceless family heirlooms in the china cabinet and on the cold hearths' mantles.

Which is a good indication that just a little push, just a little pressure to their already cracking facade, and the property could be bought for a song. If only the facade can be maintained. If only there was someone to spin it so they don't lose their place in society. So they don't have to give up the game of pretend they're playing.

So they can pretend they're just going off to live in the relatively inexpensive Maldives because they're sick of English winters and not because the crumbling remnants of British imperial estates can be bought for a comparative pittance. Plus, everyone speaks English so it's properly civilized. Their British friends can be invited for reciprocated holidays without fear of losing face.

That's how Mr. Scott presents it, anyway. With no mention of fact that the islands are being slowly subsumed by the ocean. Not when that's why the deal appears so strongly in the Hennessy's favor. Cuz after all, you get what you pay for.

Charles allowed himself to smirk from the corner as he listens to the sales pitch, having been brought along since he is “friends” with Hennessy's wife, and a gentle hand on her arm, a quiet word about how much he would enjoy visiting their estate in the Maldives - his voice and touch and everything calculated to conjure images of him nude on the beach of said estate, just as Max coached him before the meeting - might do something to sway the conversation. Everyone knows Mrs. Hennessy's got her husband by the balls in a way Anne's admitted to admiring.

But someone like Mr. Scott is more than capable of sealing that particular deal all on his own. Gentle and bland and unassuming Mr. Scott. With skin dark enough and accent pronounced enough the Hennessy's can feel condescending even as Mr. Scott bleeds them dry. But his words are deferential, honeyed, and the facade is maintained. Everyone gets what they want.

So Max is pretty happy with the whole arrangement – with Charles keeping tabs on the London underworld, even if it results in a few scrapes and bruises. Happy with it continuing if he keeps getting results like this. So he'll keep doing it, even if Charles knows Jack isn't as happy.

But Jack's a worrier by nature. The kind of man to think and think and overthink, until he's thought himself into a right tizzy over all the hypotheticals and what ifs and Charles just doesn't understand, cuz he's never been like that. Never borrowed trouble when he's got enough right in front of him.

So Jack worries – mostly about Charles staying safe, he's pretty sure. About him coming home from the fights with cuts and bruises. And not about him blowing the con or anything. Which is kind of nice, really. Charles doesn't think he's ever had somebody worry about him for reasons other than a job. For reasons other than him being strong enough to do the job they need doing.

So Charles lets Jack take care of him, safe in knowing Jack ain't doing it to use against him. And it's nice - especially the getting to drift off to sleep with Jack petting at his hair.

Charles imagines it's like how a mother's supposed to sooth her child to sleep. All tucked into bed in pajamas, with a bedtime story. With the mother staying until he falls asleep, there to keep the monsters in the closet and under the bed away. There to sooth and to love and to care.

Charles never had a mother. Never had anyone to hold him like this, even. To care for him like this.

All his lays, all his fuck buddies – even Eleanor, the closest thing he ever had to a stable relationship – they'd all expected to fuck off as soon as the fucking was over. Or expected him to fuck off as soon as he got his rocks off. There was no lingering, no sentimentality.

And if they ever spent the night, his lovers – Eleanor, mostly – they expected him to be the one to hold them. And he'd expected it of himself, too. He's big and strong and tough. Protective. That's about as soft and sentimental as he'd ever let himself get.

So it's nice to be able to let himself be taken care of by people he knows won't use his vulnerability against him. And that's probably why he lets Jack talk him into taking a fucking bubble bath of all fucking things.

--

Jack has always been the type of person to push his luck. The kind of person who can never leave well enough alone. The kind of person who refuses to be content with what he has, always striving for bigger, for better, for more.

So that's probably why he thought it was a good idea to convince Charles into taking a bath with him one morning.

He's less beat up than usual. No bleeding, minimal bruises. Just that look in his eye that promises... Jack doesn't even want to start thinking about what it might promise.

Yes, absolutely no problem with getting naked together with a man looking like that.

Jack may, in fact, be very, very stupid. But Charles had agreed to the bath, swayed by Jack's argument that it would be relaxing, presumably. That it would help the lingering chill left from the dank parking garage Charles had spent the night in and from the walk home in the early hours of the morning.

And, in true Charles fashion, because that man knows absolutely no shame - and certainly not for anything so mundane as nudity - he'd simply nodded at Jack, proceeded up the stairs and into Jack's en-suite bathroom, and started stripping.

Jack turns away and busies himself with filling the frankly ostentatiously large tub. His doubts are beginning to have doubts about the soundness of this plan. But it's too late. Charles is already climbing into the bath. And the sigh of relaxation he makes as he sinks into the water makes any discomfort Jack feels more than worth it.

Jack's thrown something into the bath that bubbles and fizzes and smells sweetly of lemon and darkly of something spiced that makes Charles a lot more happy about this whole bubble bath idea. He'd been a bit worried he was going to walk out of this thing smelling like an entire fucking rose garden. But it seems like he'll be at most smell like he's taken a walk through a citrus grove, which is bearable. At least until he realizes that not only is the soap turning the water different colors, but there's a shiny slick of gold glitter riding along the top of the water.

Glitter he's sure he's going be washing out of his asscrack in the shower later.

And it seems pretty stupid to him to take a bath where you have to take a shower after. And he bitches to Jack about it. But then Jack's stripping down and getting into the tub, water up to his chin, and the smug look he's giving Charles – the look that says he knows that Charles is enjoying this, even if he won't admit it – that look makes Charles have to splash him with the foaming, sparkling water. There's no other choice really.

And then Jack splashes him back. And Charles just has to put him in a headlock – one tight enough he can't get out of it easily, the slippery bastard. And they're slopping water all over the bathroom floor, but it'll clean up easily enough. It's not like they don't have an overabundance of decadently soft towels in the fucking ridiculous built in linen cupboard.

So they wrestle playfully for a bit, Jack giving nearly as good as he gets despite being smaller. But he's never been afraid of playing dirty – something Charles has always admired – and the roughhousing ends with Jack's arm around Charles's throat. Well, really it ends when Charles sits on him, the only move available that wouldn't actually hurt Jack.

And Jack's arm moves from pressing gently, carefully, against Charles's windpipe down his chest until it's wrapped around his stomach, holding him closer.

Charles slumps down into the water. Leans back against Jack's skinny chest.

And then Jack starts scrubbing through Charles's hair, fingers massaging against his scalp. And that feels. Nice.

Nice enough that when Jack directs Charles to dunk his head underwater, enough to completely wet his hair, enough that Jack could hold him under until his thrashing limbs stopped twitching and he stopped breathing, Charles does it.

Jack guides Charles up out of the water. Guides him to lean back against him. Starts massaging at his scalp again, combing his fingers through Charles's wet hair, working out the strands until they're floating loose around his head like a halo.

They stay like that until the water cools.

Charles gets up and hoses all the fucking glitter off – berating an unrepentant Jack the entire time. But at least he does promise to use bath bombs that don't have glitter in the future. So there's that.

Charles pretends he isn't happy that there will be other times when they get to do this.

And Charles cleans up the disaster of spilled water around the tub while Jack showers. And Jack leads Charles from the bathroom into his bedroom. Lets Charles curl up in his bed.

And despite his halfhearted protests to the contrary, Charles is pretty fucking happy to drift off to sleep to the gentle tug and pull of Jack combing through his damp hair where it spreads across Jack's pillows.

[alexsmitposts]

The Nasty Truth About America’s Love Affair with Narcissism and Self Pity

Column: Society Region: USA in the World

📷There is a saying, “the crazy people have taken over the asylum.” They did that in the United States in 2016, a nation ruled by grifters, petty criminals and the delusional.The sane and decent became the “silent majority” as the not just America but the world learned that the darkness of the American soul depicted so often by Hollywood is not fiction at all and that a reality TV actor had tapped into a cesspit of sewage that has seeped into every American community.Then came 2020.By sheer luck along and, yes, the votes of 81 million Americans lucky enough to survive voter suppression and intimidation financed by a worldwide organized crime cartel, the insane are now out of power.The new “captain’’ of America’s “ship of state” may well, however, have something on his hands worse than the Titanic. The Titanic had the courtesy to actually sink while America, under this analogy, drifts lifelessly along.Extremism is big money in America, climate denialism, race hatred, social discord and civil war, hate is both a product and an addiction.It is also one of America’s biggest businesses. There would be no social media, no Google, no news organizations, no underbelly of device driven ecstasy, without fear and hate being marketed like cigarettes and CBD gummies.Roots of America’s Politics of Fear and Hate 2.0American extremism is not the result of poverty or oppression. It originates among the privileged, the “haves” who adhere to insane beliefs driven by boredom and generalized dissatisfaction at lives the rest of the word would envy, overpaid jobs, gas guzzling cars and trucks and fast food laden with fats and poisonous additives.If you asked many millions of Americans to define “reality,” their brains would grind to a halt. Reality is based, not on experience or observation but on “beliefs” and strongly held “opinions” which are invariably those scripted for them.Beliefs and opinions untested by the feedback loop of life has created a generation of Americans who are, essentially, living in a video game. This makes Qanon a AI program.Collective delusion has become the norm for many, and by “many” we mean up to 150 million lost souls, caught in an RPG game or, for some, a “first person shooter.”What does it make those who play? But then we have seen all this before, just without a population softened up to this degree by chaos theory conditioning. Some background:The Roots of Fascist AmericaIn 1940, Adolf Hitler was Time Magazine’s man of the year. The parents and grandparents of Trump’s supporters, following Huey Long, Gerald L.K. Smith, Father Coughlin and Charles Lindbergh sought to establish a “whites only” America based on the German model with carefully selected military leaders run by Wall Street pulling the strings.There is something magical, even today, about being “white folks.” That magic originated in the 18th and 19th centuries with the “Sturm and Drang” movement. Extremes of emotion and subjectivity were exalted above rationalism.Childish temper tantrums became a philosophy and eventually a political movement.The movement, which failed in Europe, found fertile ground in the United States in a society that increasingly defined itself though ritualized slavery and degradation and oppression of “coloured races.”This was a society built on the genocide that wiped out millions of indigenous peoples with the survivors now living on “reservations.”Imagine land where nothing grows, and no one could live. This is an “Indian reservation.” From time-to-time oil is found or minerals or there is a need to build a pipeline. Then even the worst land on earth is taken away.This was done in South Africa. It was done in Rhodesia. It used to be called “colonialism.”By the 20th century there were no indigenous people left to imprison. America then turned to warring against the freed slaves and millions of “undesirable” European immigrants, Catholics and Jews in particular.Curiously, this war was centered on banking issues, blocking trade unions, sustaining child labor and controlling farm prices. This created the alignments that

exist today, the strong tie between Wall Street and homegrown extremism built of bigotry and race hatred.You see, too many of the undesirables that fled autocratic Europe found that the long hand of international banking that maintained serfdom for millions, even in supposedly advanced Western Europe, had institutionalized the same in the United States under the guise of representative democracy.Leading the way was the resurgent Ku Klux Klan.By the 1920s national membership was estimated at over 8 million. Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania and a dozen other northern and western states were governed by Klan controlled politicians who used the state militias and National Guard as a private army and local police as armed enforcers.Behind it all, the banks that brought Hitler to power and the American corporations that made millions financing Nazi Germany’s war machine, General Motors, Dupont-Remington, Lockheed, Alcoa and General Motors.Even Hitler Would Cringe…The new American revolution, driven by Donald Trump and his televangelist backers, is the result of as social anthropologists note, generations being allowed to live the life of spoiled children, steeped in narcissism and self-pity.The events of January 6, 2020 and how it tied to many American religious leaders has emptied churches across the US, with millions finding themselves humiliated with having followed “false prophets” in support of hatred and tyranny. From Salon:“…these religious figures (Trump’s powerful televangelist backers) and the institutions they led (have become) hyper-political, the outward mission (has)seemed to be almost exclusively in service of oppressing others. The religious right is not nearly as interested in feeding the hungry and sheltering the homeless as much as using religion as an all-purpose excuse to abuse women and LGBTQ people. In an age of growing wealth inequalities, with more and more Americans living hand-to-mouth, many visible religious authorities were using their power to support politicians and laws to take health care access from women and fight against marriage between same-sex couples. And then Donald Trump happened.Trump was a thrice-married chronic adulterer who routinely exposed how ignorant he was of religion, and who reportedly — and let’s face it, obviously — made fun of religious leaders behind their backs. But religious right leaders did not care. They continually pumped Trump up like he was the second coming, showily praying over him and extorting their followers to have faith in a man who literally could not have better conformed to the prophecies of the Antichrist. It was comically over the top, how extensively Christian right leaders exposed themselves as motivated by power, not faith.”Jerry Falwell Jr., who introduced Donald Trump to America’s evangelical Christians, is himself an enigmatic figure.Falwell is typical of America’s religious leaders and stories such as this, from Fox News, are daily fodder for Americans:“Jerry Falwell Jr. allegedly played games with his wife Becki where they’d rank Liberty University students, they most wanted to have sex with, according to one pupil who claimed to have been intimate with Becki.The ex-student — who claims Becki initiated oral sex with him 10 years ago — told Politico that she bragged about playing the sex-ranking game while walking around the Virginia campus with her evangelical-leader husband.‘Her and Jerry would eye people down on campus,’ the former student of the conservative school told the outlet.Social Engineering Through PandemicAnyone who really lives in America will make this perfectly clear, this country has turned into a lunatic asylum. Our previous president told us COVID was a hoax, allowed over 40,000 from China enter the US while the threat of COVID was well known and turned his back while, today’s figure, 570,264 Americans died. Experts now cite that Trump was personally responsible for over 400,000 of those deaths. He is quite simply a mass murderer.Do remember that only 900 died in Australia. Canada lost 23,000. 35 died in Vietnam. 440 died in

Cuba.One might wonder how a Hitleresque figure such as Donald Trump could have millions of followers while the legal mechanisms in the US are amassing evidence for both criminal and civil prosecutions which quite probably will never come to bear.Groundhog Day, an Unending NightmareLet me tell you how I began my morning. As a journalist and intelligence briefer, I review incoming material, both open source and private intel. The big story overnight involves a revelation on a religious talk show involving theories on COVID 19 and vaccines.The show is by Jim Bakker, an important religious leader and political advisor. In 1989, Bakker was sentenced to 45 years in prison for mail and wire fraud but served on 5 of those years. He has stolen tens of million of dollars from his congregation to support a wild and lavish lifestyle of utter debauchery.In this area, he is typical of America’s evangelical Christian leaders.The guest on Bakker’s show was Steve Quayle. I know Quayle as an advisor to President George ‘W’ Bush on Middle East affairs. I know of no qualifications for this post.I do know of Quayle. After 9/11 he approached my staff in Amman, Jordan offering them generous payments to “launder” otherwise sourceless intelligence on Iraq into the Bush White House to justify an American invasion of that nation.Two million people died, maybe many more, due to fake US intelligence on Iraq. No weapons of mass destruction were ever found.Groundhog Day TwoLet us take the clock back a few years. I remember traveling to Kentucky, then and still a very backward area of the country, in 1956 to visit relatives. This was a presidential election year, and my father was working for Adlai Stevenson, the Democratic candidate that was opposing Dwight Eisenhower.Even I, at a fairly young age, was flabbergasted at the dinner table discussion that day as my “hillbilly” relatives expounded on their political opinions and version of historical fact. This is how they laid it out:We should support “Ike” because he killed Hitler personally after storming Berlin. They described a sword fight. What they described reminded me of the death of the Sheriff of Nottingham played by Basil Rathbone in the 1938 film Robin Hood starring Errol Flynn. They then went out to describe how the US beat both Russia and Germany who were at war with the US. It seems Russia did not fight Hitler at all but was actually Germany’s ally. My father, a reasonably educated person and longtime friend of Russia, found this somewhat disturbing. Next, we heard about how “godless communists” were going to take away our freedoms and destroy our standard of living. I might remind you that my relatives in Hazard, Kentucky had no electricity or plumbing. One of my cousins lived in an abandoned car parked in a slag field.During that trip, we visited my grandfather, a retired coal miner. He lived in a shack covered with tar paper along a railroad track. I loved my grandfather.Life Lessons Do not Come Over the InternetOver the next 60 plus years, I had shared tea with farmers in Vietnam, military veterans living in a small shack in the Khyber Pass and everything from heads of state to struggling farmers all over Africa and the Middle East. None would have guessed that there are Americans that live in not just utter poverty but steeped not only in delusional ignorance but far worse than that.A current obsession with American “conservatives” is the fear of being overrun with transexuals, who, according to many, represent a threat to our freedoms. I have never met a transsexual. From what I understand, up to 10,000 currently serve in America’s armed forces.Back during the 1960s when I served with a Marine combat unit in Vietnam, we probably had no transexuals, only gay or “homosexual” Marines and Navy. Absolutely nothing was thought of it as these individuals invariably served with honor and courage.They existed in significant numbers.Today aging “conservatives” who avoided military service in Vietnam continually harp about saving the rest of us from “homosexuals in the military.”Voting and

“Jim Crow”Let us take another look at efforts by the Hitleresque racists and bigots to save the rest of us from ourselves, against our will of course. In Georgia, the legislature recently passed a law that makes it a felony to offer water to someone waiting in line to vote.Water is an issue because, in Georgia and many GOP (Trump’s party) run states, polling places in areas where people of color vote have been closed causing day long lines. In 2020, volunteers offered food and water to those who would otherwise have either collapsed or left without voting. Now offering food and water can lead to being executed by racist police, quite literally, or spending 5 years in prison.In 2020, voters in many key urban areas were threatened by armed neo-Nazi militias or openly threated in emails from Proud Boys and Oath Keepers, organizations deemed terrorist in Canada and now citied by the US Department of Justice as trying to overthrow the US government.In January, during a US Senate runoff election in Georgia, 364,000 voters were challenged by the GOP in Georgia as “illegal.” All of them were African American. All 364,000 were qualified to vote and their votes were eventually counted, giving Georgia two Democratic US Senators.The Federal Elections Commission is now investigating that this effort to rig the Georgia senate elections was secretly financed by illegal contributions from members of organized crime.Groundhog Day ThreeI live in a rural and primarily Republican area. I parked my car less than 30 feet from the door of a polling place, a local church, and voted in less than 3 minutes with no lines or ID check.In order to limit mail voting, Trump ordered mail sorting machines destroyed with sledgehammers and over 40,000 mailboxes picked up and junked as scrap metal. Mail service in many cities simply ended. One letter I sent to Washington DC from Michigan took 45 days to arrive.Hundreds of millions of pieces of mail, starting in late September 2020 simply disappeared, not just votes but government checks, Christmas presents and medications from pharmacies sent to Veterans.All of this was not just publicly known, things are far worse than that. Those who so many decades ago believed the United States fought Russia in World War Two, would raise children and grandchildren with no respect for human rights, no understanding of democracy, no ethical norms nor any remote understanding of right or wrong.This is the reality for those living in America, a reality that those who watch America from afar through the distorted lens of Google Corporation and the press, can never fathom.Ah, but things are so much worse than that. It is not just having spent 4 years with a president who told us you could cure covid by drinking bleach or eating flashlights. It gets worse.Groundhog Day FourA few days ago, former Trump advisor Cirsten Welcon claimed that President Biden had been paid billions of dollars by China to let them test their newest “weather weapons” on Texas. Power outages there, now attributed to corrupt backroom deals by Republican politicians, led to many deaths and considerable suffering.Little did any of us know of the role of the magic Chinese weather machines.In another vignette, it has been a years since Trump advisor and televangelist Kenneth Copeland stood before a television audience raving like a lunatic. He then pursed his lips and blew at the television camera, the “wind of god” which he claimed destroyed COVID forever.This effort by Reverend Copeland, who has millions of followers and a vast financial empire, led President Trump to announce that COVID 19 was going to disappear.ConclusionSome would like to believe that the institutionalized insanity of America’s right is restricted to the “Untermensch” substrata of rural poor whites. However, for decades now, the most radicalized and extremist elements of America’s society, the most ignorant, the most warlike yet cowardly, have gained control of the US military through service academies which espouse their conspiracy theories.With the onset of Trump, they gained much

more than a foothold in American politics, they now control many states “lock, stock and barrel,” and are involved in not just voter suppression but a general quashing of human rights and free speech.The door to this turn of events began well into the 19th century. Laws, still on the books, are now being employed against Donald Trump, from CNN:The Democratic chairman of the House Homeland Security Committee has filed a lawsuit against former President Donald Trump that cites a little-known federal statute that was first passed after the Civil War.The complaint, filed Tuesday by Democratic Rep. Bennie Thompson of Mississippi, accuses Trump, his attorney Rudy Giuliani, the Proud Boys and the Oath Keepers of violating the 1871 Ku Klux Klan Act. The lawsuit accuses them of inciting the Jan. 6 Capitol riot to prevent the certification of the 2020 presidential election.These same extremist elements and calling them “extremist” insults al Qaeda and ISIS (banned in Russia) who are moderate in their beliefs and practices in comparison. These statements might sound extreme in themselves were it not for so many Americans, religious and military leaders, members of government and business leaders calling for wholesale murder of their political opponents citing their personal communication with a non-corporeal authority they said is “god.”Americans hear this all day every day, the emails are unending, TV networks like Fox, OAN or Newsmax say little else, and that message is carried not just through media but lawn signs dotting the countryside.Hundreds of thousands of American homes are festooned with paraphernalia espousing murder of public officials and their families. Americans see it every day driving to work. What they ask themselves when they see things like this is how many others hold these beliefs but keep it to themselves?What if academics wrote papers on the issues, we discuss here? What if the BBC produced a documentary? Would things get better? The problem dates back not just generations but centuries.It is not a moral problem; it is not a political problem. It is one of degeneracy. At some point we may be required to reassess our definition of sentience.

[jeaniegreysummers]

phoenix three || jean, scott & erik

SUMMARY: jean uses the phoenix to bring scott back. she freaks out thinking how to explain this to the others. she finds herself on erik’s doorstep. the three plot a revolution. that’s the jist.

WHEN: the day jean brought scott back from the dead (happy valentine’s day, go visit your father in law)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: grief, death, murder mention, violence

FEATURING: scott summers, erik lehnsherr

JEAN: Emma said Jean lacked control. She said she was bitter, and immature, and that she lacked a true understanding of what was needed to preserve the lives of their people and to push them into the future. Jean agreed with most of that. She died. She missed out on years of her life, spent months in a room filled with nothing but white fire that wasn’t hot to the touch because she was the nuclear bomb in the room, and came back to a world divided and a family split. But Emma was wrong about one thing.

No one had any idea how much Jean kept control.

They would begin to understand, she knew. The truth of what occurred on the Raft would come out, and they would know what she was capable of. They would know that Jean lost it for a single fraction of a moment, and that a wave of her hand extinguished dozens of lives. They would know she allowed them to slap cuffs around her wrists so she would be brought right to the place where she could suffer, and then failed to stay in her self imposed punishment.

They would know, the second they saw Scott by her side, exactly what she did to bring him back. Everyone knew the bird was still there, everyone but Jean. Everyone knew she’d never be rid of it. Now, she knew it too. She knew it, and she still passed it on to one of the people she loved most in the world despite her best intentions to push that affection down so far she couldn’t feel it anymore.

The second Scott slipped on his shades, the moment they caught their breath, she thought about the man she’d fought against, the man she trained with down by the Hudson, the man who came for her when she didn’t even realise she wanted him to come — and Scott knew. He had to. . Jean’s hand shook as she raised it to knock on Erik’s door. Once the sound rang out, she moved back to hold onto Scott’s arm, her other hand already clasping his. The door opened, and Jean could feel the rush of energy, the low simmering threatening to boil over, as they stood.

“I did something,” she said, voice thick but strong, stronger than it had been in over two weeks. She pulled lightly on Scott’s arm, bringing him into the doorframe. “I asked for a favor, Erik, and I …”

How did she start with this? How did she even pretend to be sheepish about the consequences that were sure to follow?

“We need your help.”

ERIK: Ever since he'd realized there were other people like him, other people with gifts, Erik had been terrified of telepaths. His whole life, he'd been trying to get out from the control of others, restraining parts of himself to keep himself alive and sane. The idea of a telepath, of someone getting inside his head, influencing his thoughts, controlling his actions--that was the stuff of nightmares, compliance forced from the inside.

It'd been a relief to find himself resistant to that particular gift, though not immune--certainly not to telepaths of the calibre of Charles and Jean. He'd grown to enjoy their presence in his head, after he finally stopped throwing walls up when it became apparent that they had no desire to be in his head without permission, to do anything but understand.

The Phoenix was different. It wanted control, wanted Erik to lose his own, to yield to those dangerous whispers that had always been in his mind but that the bird amplified and twisted. It was already inside his head, and intent on keeping people he'd found a comfort in, like Charles, out. He could feel things changing, when he'd wake up in the morning, would have the distant sensation that his brain was being quietly shuffled around, searched through, edited oh so quietly.

Like the fear. He couldn't bring himself to be terribly concerned about the Phoenix, now, couldn't hold any thought like that without it slipping away like water through a sieve. Jean had said it was fine. That he'd be safe. He trusted Jean.

They were fine. Him and the bird. If he couldn't quite draw the dividing line, well. No one was asking him to. His apartment had changed, since the Raft--the curtains were drawn constantly, and where paintings had once hung, the wall space was increasingly occupied by various schematics.

The New York City power grid. The United Nations building floor plans--hand drawn on top of what was publically available, thanks to a painstaking day of using the bolts in the walls and the flow of bioelectric traffic to form an accurate mental schematic. A map of all the ways into and out of the island of Manhattan.

War was like chess. He would see that mutantkind did not squander their next move. There was a way to checkmate, and he was getting there. Slowly. Lots of pieces from the other side would be lost, but that was the game.

( They took his kids, his family, his freedom, time and time again, and they would pay in blood. )

He's got a fresh cup of tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him as he regards the images pinned to the opposite wall when the knock comes. The familiar warmth from the other side of the door, the other piece of the same stuff that runs in his veins, now, calls to him and tells him he needn't worry before he even opens it.

But then he sees her face, and concern wells. And then she's tugging something from behind the doorframe, something likewise warm and alive, and Erik feels the world tilt briefly on its axis.

Jean had brought Scott back. The Phoenix had brought Scott back. ( What else could it do? Who else, he thinks selfishly? )

Jean looks like she's worried, but Erik is stepping forward to wrap his arms around both of them in the next moment, squeezing as if he can keep them here, safe, alive, through sheer force of will.

( Can he? )

"I-- anything. You know that. Anything for you. Both of you."

SCOTT: He was alive. The word repeated in his mind over and over again, echoing with each beat of his heart. Alive, alive, alive. It sounded more and more foreign every time, made nonsensical with the repetition. It shouldn’t have felt as strange as it did. He’d done this before, after all, come back from the dead into a world that felt infinitely different than the one he’d left behind, but… this was more distinct. This fire burning in his chest, this strange power that mingled with that familiar anger… It hadn’t been here last time.

And neither had she. Coming back to a world with Jean Grey in it was much better than coming back to one without her, Scott thought. He’d prefer it this way every time, want this more than anything. His hand gripped hers like a lifeline, fingers intertwined with hers as if she was doing what gravity couldn’t and keeping his feet on the ground. He didn’t have to ask her where they were going when she lead him out the door. He didn’t know if it was their psylink, the Phoenix, or simply the fact that he knew her better than he’d ever known anyone, but he knew where they were headed. Part of him wondered if he ought to be surprised by it, but… He wasn’t. Standing outside of Erik’s door after dying in the war Magneto had always warned them was coming… It made sense.

He was quiet as Jean spoke, uncertain as he stood just out of sight. Jean wouldn’t have brought him here if she didn't want Erik to know he was alive, but Scott was still hesitant. There was a lot of explaining to do with his resurrection, a lot of things he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say. But Erik would understand. He could feel the power burning in Erik, matching that fire in his own chest. Jean had said a piece of the bird went into him, too, and that probably made Magneto one of the only two people alive who knew what was in Scott’s head now. That scared him less than he’d thought it might. . Scott ducked his head as Jean pulled him into view, looking almost sheepish at Erik’s wide eyes. Scott opened his mouth, ready to say something (and the only thing that came to mind was hi, which was, all things considered, incredibly anticlimactic), but he didn’t get the words out before Erik’s arms were around them both. Scott relaxed into his grip, feeling suddenly less tense, like something had been unwound, like a screw had been untightened allowing him to loosen up just a little. “It’s good to see you, Erik,” he offered quietly. He wanted to say more, wanted to say you were right, wanted to say I’m sorry I wasted so much time fighting you, wanted to say I understand it now, but he couldn’t quite find the words for it.

Glancing to Jean, he nodded. “They don’t know yet,” he said, and he didn’t have to say who they were. The people who’d shot him down in that park, the ones who’d gone on television to frame him as the villain of the story, the one who used his death as an inciting incident to prove just how violent mutants truly were, they didn’t know he was back. He didn’t have to say just how bad things would be when they found out. “When they do…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang. When they knew, things would get worse, for all of them.

JEAN: Growing up, Jean never had a shortage of safe places. Her parents, her siblings, her school and her best friend. Charles and Erik. Scott, when she sat down beside him on that park bench. Warren and Bobby and Hank, always pulling her from the fire when she needed it, watching her back. The older she got, though, the more experience she had with losing that stability. John and Elaine would speak to her only if she pretended to be a different person. Her sister was dead. Jean ripped her old middle school from its foundations, causing damages they were still paying for years later. Annie was hit by that car. Charles, Scott, everyone couldn’t stop Jean from falling on that battlefield, and even as she was lying in Scott’s arms bleeding out she felt entirely, achingly alone.

And Erik had left. The memory of it was still bitter, sharper in her mind than she would ever admit to. Scott knew, of course. The link between them meant that they couldn’t keep secrets if they wanted to, and they never had. Erik had left, and every day since Jean had tried to maintain the initial anger she felt at going downstairs and realising the Institute would be going on without its lifeblood.

They’d found a way to cope, her and Charles and the team they formed, but it would never be the same. Jean said she would never forgive him for that, for changing things from how they were supposed to be, for altering destiny because of his dedication to one never-ending cause.

Sometimes, though, forgiveness came from the strangest places. The fire brought Scott back from the ground, and immediately the only person Jean wanted to tell about it was the man standing in front of her now, the man putting his arms around both of them. Jean found herself buried easily between them, one hand clutching to the back of each of their shirts, breathing in the feeling and wishing that it would never end. . But things always ended. It was what you did between the beginning and the final page that mattered. She knew that now.

Scott’s voice came low beside her, and Jean turned her head only for a moment so she could wipe at her eyes with the heel of her hand. When she met Scott’s gaze through his shades, she was solid once more, or at least could appear that way.

“No one knows,” she continued, turning to meet Erik’s eyes. “I don’t know how to … We’re going to need to explain it. All of this.”

Charles would know before long. He would feel the Phoenix splitting the first time he went to search for Jean’s mind, and he was doing that more often than ever before after Scott’s death. The three of them were tied in this secret now, but there was only so long before the fire burned through the self deception like it always said it would.

She swallowed thickly, one hand going for Scott’s, the other reaching for Erik’s. “Whether Scott is alive or dead, they’re going to come for us,” Jean said. “This is what you were talking about, wasn’t it?” Erik had been claiming humans would come to fight them for years. He had a plan. Jean knew that. She knew she needed that.

ERIK: Scott and Jean were in his arms, and a bit of the world repaired itself. He wondered distantly if Scott had checked his voicemail. If he'd heard the apology that would never be enough, even now that the man is back.

It doesn't matter. Here, in this moment now, the three of them and the shared fire between them are one. They're all in the same boat, now, and Erik had meant his promise to the ghost on the other end of the phone. He would not fail again to keep his people safe. They would not fail.

Erik's hand tightened around Jean's, and his other hand wrapped around Scott's shoulder. "Yes." He'd long ago learned to prepare for the worst when it came to humans. He could say that he told them so, told the world so, but there was no point to that, now.  So instead, he smiled, and there was something angry and cold in that baring of teeth, even as warmth towards the two of them is practically shining from him.

It would be unsettling to him, too, if he could think about it. . "Let me show you. I just finished putting on a kettle."

He opened the door, released his hold on the two of them, and stepped aside to let them come in. Two metal teacups and saucers flew across the room to join his on the coffee table, the kettle lifting to fill each. At the same time, Erik melted the metal edging of the doorframe down over the door, sealing it far more securely than a deadbolt ever would.

The Phoenix made splitting his powers to focus on different tasks child's play.

"The things on the wall are for... later. We can talk about that. But we need to plan for breaking the news about Scott. About us." He settled into one of his armchairs, stretched his legs out in front of him, and waved a hand to turn down the music drifting through the apartment.

"The humans used your death to inspire fear. Your resurrection should terrify them. Mutants are holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, one way or the other. You've always been well-liked, Scott. Those who've found me too militaristic still respected you. I've been warning of war for years. You have the ground to tell them that it is here and that we must fight it."

They needed to break news about the Phoenix, too, at least to certain people, but that was going to be a far trickier conversation. Jean didn't know about the... difficultly reached equilibrium he and the bird were slowly coming to.

He didn't especially want to talk about it.

SCOTT: When he’d died, he’d died angry. Rage had flowed through him like fire through his veins, ignited at the sight of children with guns pointed in their faces, unquenchable even as the blood filled his lungs and drowned him on solid ground. The anger had not died when he had, hadn’t left him during his brief exit from the mortal plane. Scott was still angry. There was still fire in his veins, even if that fire was a little more literal than it had been when he was sputtering and wheezing in the grass, begging Logan to kill him.

The people standing with him now, they understood that fire. They understood him, maybe better than anyone else ever had. Scott had tried all his life to be like Charles, had fought to be optimistic, to believe in a resolution that would find humans and mutants living side by side in peace. He’d tried, but he’d never succeeded. Not really. Deep down, he’d always been a little too much like Erik. He’d always been a little too angry, a little too ready for a war. Nathaniel Essex had seen that. So had Jack Winters. So had Erik himself. And maybe Charles had, too. Maybe the only one who was only just now realizing the inevitability of this partnership was Scott.

His eyes darted from Jean to Erik, and the discussion of his recent death didn’t bother him the way it probably should have. It felt senseless mourning a death that had already been undone. (Or, he told himself it did. If his heart continued to pound, if his chest ached with wounds already healed, no one had to know it but Scott. He was allowed to be senseless in the privacy of his own mind.) What mattered now was what came next. That was where his focus needed to be, what he needed to keep his eyes on as they moved forward. They needed to come up with a plan. They needed to find a way to keep what had happened to Scott from happening to anyone else.

They needed to save their people. . Nodding as Erik spoke, Scott trailed behind the older man, following him into the entryway. He felt the door shift behind him, knew that Erik had locked it in the way only he could. Not long ago, that might have made him nervous. Now, it was a comfort. Erik was not his enemy --- he never had been.

His eyes settled on Erik’s, and that familiar anger burned in his chest. The people who’d killed him had used his death. They weren’t hiding what they’d done --- they wanted people to know. They wanted people to be afraid.

Scott could make people afraid, too.

That was what Erik was asking of him, he knew. And it was a good plan. Their people were already angry. Their people already wanted to fight. All they needed to do was organize them. Good people would fight where they were needed, would do what was necessary. All they had to give them was a little direction. “I’ll make a statement,” Scott said, speaking for the first time since the discussion of the plan began. “In the Bugle. They’ll publish anything that sells papers and…” He trailed off, smiling tightly. “This will sell.”

JEAN: She walked into the apartment slowly, sticking close to Scott’s side until, paradoxically, the door was bolted closed and Jean felt some of the tension loosen itself from between her shoulder blades. Logically, she knew trusting Erik was a mistake. He’d burned her once before — but did that compare, she wondered, to the hundreds of times he had the opportunity to but hadn’t. At any stage down the line, especially in the early days when they were teenagers going against a man who had refined his powers for decades, they could’ve been knocked out of commission. Jean and Scott in particular were tested by Magneto, but never significantly harmed.

Now, she couldn’t help but wonder if their faces had ever been tacked to a board like this, if that overwhelming focus from one of the most feared mutants in the world was less about tactics and more about him knowing that one day, they would arrive on his doorstep and they would be having this conversation. Was that manipulation, or foresight? At this point, Jean wasn’t even sure if she cared.

Erik moved the kettle to pour out some tea, and it was only then that Jean realised she’d never been in this place before. It didn’t feel that way, not with Scott and Erik talking, not with the easy familiarity of a cat she’d never seen jumping up onto the arm of the couch to rub its head against Jean’s hand. She scratched behind its ears, whispering, “Hi,” softly to it as Erik and Scott spoke, before turning her attention back to the board.

He said not to worry now. He said to think of it later. But Jean’s eyes narrowed nonetheless, her attention flickering from photo to schematic, piecing it together. It was easy, relatively speaking — she’d always had a special understanding with Erik, and under the fire and anger she knew she was intelligent. She also knew this was something she had to expect. . “You think telling people about us is a good idea?” Jean asked, turning from the board to look back at Erik, a frown remaining on her face. “In my experience, people don’t react particularly well. They never … they thought it made me angry. They thought it turned me into something else. We bring the flames out into the open, and we’re allowing everyone to start shooting at us instead of the enemy.” Calling them revolutionaries, doubting their sanity, thinking their emotions were taking over when they should be impartial. Jean had seen it all before, and she doubted it would be any different for Erik and Scott than it was for her.

It was selfish to be grateful for the fact she was no longer alone in this. It was selfish, but this past month had proven Jean was pretty firmly in that camp already.

Fifteen years ago, Jean finally managed to pin down why, exactly, she loved Scott Summers, why she admired him, why she wanted him to look at her more than she wanted anything else in the world. That list of reasons had only grown over the past decade, but in the beginning, one of the main reasons was that he didn’t speak unless he had something to say. He weighed up his options. He spent most of the time in the safety of his own mind, ticking things over until he was ready to put his thoughts out into the world.

When he agreed with Erik, Jean looked over at him, keeping his gaze for a long moment. Her heart was pounding loud in her chest, there was a creeping dread in her gut, but there was no other option. There was no turning back.

She lifted her hand, causing one of the cups of tea to come towards her. As soon as it was in her hand, she settled down in one of the chairs, crossing her legs as she settled back. “Glad you two are getting along,” she commented, taking a sip. “I don’t think everyone else will be so easy to convince.”

ERIK: Erik was a selfish man.

His entire life, he'd wanted only one thing: safety. For himself, for his family, for his people. He was infamous for his singular focus on his goals, and there was no denying that he would--that he had--run over the desires of those very same people he wanted to protect in that pursuit.

Charles' peace. Jean's stability. Lorna's family.

Each had been sacrificed at the altar of his own goals. And despite the pain of doing so, he didn't regret it. He was sorry for the damage caused, but he would not apologize for the things he'd done, would do them again in a heartbeat.

When he'd left, he'd hoped that Jean would come after him. He knew she shouldn't, knew that she was better off with Charles, with a man who could give her all of the attention she deserved without reserve, who could teach her how to navigate her powers in a way that Erik couldn't. He knew that she was safer in the Institute.

He also knew she wasn't content to stay inside the bubble of safety, which meant that he needed to make the requisite arrangements. His fights with the X-Men had always been carefully considered, a mental calculus of how far he could push the children, how much damage he could do without putting them in true danger but still get them to push their powers. It was manipulation, put simply.

But one day, they would be facing people who didn't hold back like he did. . And perhaps he'd hoped that on that day, they would know what side they belonged on. Who was right. Despite the reasoning, despite what had brought them there, Erik was selfishly pleased that finally, they were here in his apartment, here and safe at his side and ready to fight the war he'd seen coming for decades.

Jean got what she needed from Charles. Now was the time for Erik to give her what Charles never could.

Her question earned a wry twist to his lips. "Schätzen, they already think I'm angry. Unstable. A warmonger. Growing aware that I have the Phoenix won't make them call me anything different: but it will make the humans as afraid as they ought to have been from the beginning. You're right, it will paint a target on our backs--but we can take it, where others cannot."

Scott agreed with him, and something made Erik certain that in the aftermath of the Park, Scott would find himself agreeing with far more of Erik's ideas than he would have before. ( And if he felt grateful for that, too: well, he was a selfish man. )

Erik took a sip of his tea, watched Mischa stalk over to settle on Scott's lap with a small meow.

"The Brotherhood has had hundreds of mutants coming to the meeting places I indicated in the radio show in the time since the Park. A spike after the Raft, as well--even if the government hasn't released details about what happened, the mutants we freed have been talking about it. Sure, there will be some who refuse to wage the war for survival that has been thrust upon us, but most simply need organization. And they need to see that even those who once advocated peace have realized the futility of peace through words. They need to see that we can form a united front against a common enemy."

He glanced between Scott and Jean, raising a brow. "I'm certainly open if you have any suggestions as to other ways to ensure this united front. The X-Men trust you more than they trust me. If you talk to them..."

SCOTT: They were safe. It was an odd realization to come to, for a number of reasons. Primarily, if you had told Scott years ago that he’d one day find safety in the home of the man he’d spent the better part of his teenage years actively fighting against, there was no part of him that might have believed you. Magneto had been more concept than man back then, too big to be considered a person in any sense. Things had changed over the years. Scott hardly ever even thought of him as Magneto anymore, not even in a fight. No, more often, he was simply Erik. Erik, who Jean loved like a father. Erik, who Scott trusted with the safety of his people even when he didn’t trust him with much else. Erik, who was the only person he’d ever feel confident coming to with something like this.

It wasn’t only the person he’d found safety with who was surprising, of course. Feeling any semblance of safety after something like what had happened in Central Park was laughable. When he’d been laying in that grass, his life bleeding away into his fingertips, Scott had been sure he’d never feel safe again. Safety, he’d thought, tore out the barrel of a gun and ripped through his chest cavity. Safety bubbled up in his throat and pooled into his lungs with every beat of his heart. Safety died when he did.

But he was alive now. And maybe, maybe that safety had been resurrected with him.

And maybe it would not remain alive much longer. (Maybe he wouldn’t, either.) . Jean was right, of course. If Central Park had proven one thing, it was that the Accords had never been designed to protect people like them. The enforcers there had been willing to aim guns at children whose only crimes were anomalies in their DNA they hadn’t chosen, had killed Scott for daring to stand up for them with a flicker of too much anger in his eyes. To them, mutants were threats long before they were people. They were little more than vague concepts, ideas to be squashed. That, Scott thought, was where they had royally fucked up.

People could be killed. It was an easy thing to do, a simple goal to achieve. A bullet here, a blade there, a blunt object swung at the right angle towards a head. People were easy to kill. It was more work keeping them alive, harder to make sure they didn’t die. If the government treated the X-Men as people, they would have made their jobs far easier on themselves, but they didn’t. No, instead, they saw mutantkind as an idea. And an idea was the one thing you could never kill.

“They’ll find out eventually either way,” he pointed out, reaching down to pet Erik’s cat absently as it climbed into his lap. “You might have been able to hide it on the Raft, but now…” He trailed off, shifting in his seat. People might not question how two powerful mutants destroyed a portion of the Raft. That was the kind of thing they could explain away, the sort of thing they could easily pretend was normal. But a man returning from what had been a very public execution? That was a bit harder to smooth over with logic. Unless Scott spent the rest of his life in hiding, people would realize something was up. Those with any sort of knowledge of the Phoenix and its relationship with Jean could make the jump to the correct conclusion with little effort. . Scott’s eyes flickered up to meet Erik’s, and he shifted in his seat. “I won’t ask anyone to fight who isn’t comfortable doing so,” he said. “People who want peace can choose peace, and I’ll fight for them, too. They all deserve to make that decision for themselves. But…” He trailed off, looking to Jean and Erik and back again. “I don’t think we can avoid a fight any longer. They want a war. I don’t see a lot of options that don’t involve giving it to them.”

Talking to the X-Men wasn’t something that would be easy. Just telling them he was alive would be painful, but adding in the fact that he’d joined forces with Erik and the Brotherhood? It complicated and already complex situation. But, just like they deserved the chance to choose peace… They deserved the choice to fight, if they wanted. “I’ll try to broach the topic with some of them,” Scott said, glancing to Jean, “if you think it’s a good idea.”

JEAN: They were talking amongst themselves, and in what was a rather uncharacteristic move, Jean was sitting on the sofa in silence, a cup of tea going cold in her hands and Mischa using her as a stepping stone to move onto Scott’s lap. It was rare that she didn’t attempt to become the centre of attention, even subconsciously. It was something she’d grown used to as the youngest of the Greys, then as the girl that ripped the school from its foundations, as an Omega level telepath at fourteen, as the woman who died and died and died and kept on coming back. There was a reason she clashed so vividly with Emma, after all, why she found herself immediately falling into step with the man beside her who wanted nothing more than to fade into the shadows when he wasn’t leading an army into battle.

She always had something she needed (something she wanted) to say. Jean thought best when she was thinking out loud, even if her domain was within the minds of others, sorting through their memories and working out where they stood, what experiences they were coming from. At this point, though, Jean was just watching the two men in the room beside her and in front of her, eyes flickering between them and back to that board on the wall, and then to the cat stretching out leisurely as if they weren’t discussing war (and how would the cat know? All Mischa knew of this world was that Erik would take care of things, and that was what Jean relied on when she showed up on his doorstep, too).

Taking it all in, turning it over, finally lifting the cool cup of tea to her lips only to find that the flavor was just as potent as it would’ve been boiling. It was the first time she’d had something proper to drink in the past two weeks. Her stomach began to curl as she realised she’d barely eaten in that time, either. . She’d changed, since Scott went down in Central Park. She’d changed since Erik came to her on the Raft, since they worked together to take lives and break collars and free their people, people that Lorna (a child, Erik’s child) had ferried across the border because she refused to step down when something mattered as much as this did.

She’d changed since she was a bitter, lonely little girl desperate for a place with the X-Men, desperate to prove herself, desperate for a father who loved her for what she was instead of what she could’ve been if she just missed out on that one little gene. She’d changed since Scott first met her on that park bench.

She wasn’t sure she liked the change.

Scott shifted beside her, and although her mind was still a thousand miles away, Jean’s hand still went instinctively to his leg, resting there for a moment as if her touch would be enough to ground him in a world void of anchors, void of meaning, void of justice. Jean chewed on the corner of her lip, trying to imagine how Logan would look at her when she said Scott was back, when she told Rogue how she dipped into that power that terrified all of them purely so she could have Scott under her hand again, could feel him breathe deeply beside her in contemplation, could feel as if her feet were on ground again no matter how unstable.

It was only when the room shifted into silence (she wasn’t sure how long they must’ve stood there, both of them, looking at her and looking at each other) that Jean realised Scott asked her a question. She searched his mind and the answer came easily. Talking to the X-Men. Asking them to join her in a war. Taking what Charles said about starting a fight or ending one on her own terms because she wasn’t a child anymore and turning it into a reality. . This was when she made her choice. This was her defining moment. She had no doubt that Erik would do what he thought necessary, knew he’d been doing that all along, but Scott …

Scott was asking what she thought. One word from her and they would leave. One word from her, and the allegiance would be sealed.

She set the cup to the side, pushing herself up off the sofa, hand brushing lightly against Scott’s as she moved. Her hand went to Erik’s shoulder as he sat in one of the chairs, squeezing gently on her way past to stand in front of the board. The plans stretched out before her, and she could touch them. She could feel the electricity under the city, how it called to Erik’s blood. She knew without looking back at Scott that this was something he needed.

War was never comfortable. That explained the feeling deep down in her gut, the feeling that she’d started them all on a path they’d never get off again -- but then again, wasn’t it better than death? Wasn’t anything, anything at all, better than the expanse of darkness or bright, blinding light, better than knowing you were never coming back to make another mistake?

“We’ll talk to them,” she decided, her voice stronger now, pulling from both men’s resolve to steel her own. “They can make their own choices, but we will give them the information.” Jean turned, slowly, and with the distance from the seats she could see both Erik and Scott without turning her head. “The humans won’t get the same luxury. We can’t keep going in circles. It’s time-”

Jean took a breath, and right on cue, she felt the flames in her veins, warmth curling in the palms of her hands that tightened into fists at her sides.

“It’s time to make a change. All of us, together. And those who don’t want to fight … we’ll change things for them, too.”

[ask-de-writer]

LOST TIME (part 2 of 3) A fantasy of Flocking Bay.

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LOST TIME

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5556 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

written 2003 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.

Reproduction  in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the  express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

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Morton Hewitt did not last. He bought the house for back taxes in 1944. He lived there for a week. He painted the hardwood floors and then hanged himself in the garage the next day.

Byron Thomas bought the house from Hewitt’s estate. He was a grave digger for Trinity Graveyard. He updated the plumbing and lived there quietly for several years. Apparently he liked his work a little too well. He buried two people who were not yet dead. One of them lived. He was adjudged sane at his trial and hanged for his crime.

Mark Altman bought the house next. He was a reclusive sort and lived there for a quite a number of years before it was discovered that he’d had some visitors who had never left. He died in prison while awaiting trial. There was an interesting hand written note attached to the autopsy report which stated that the coroner had ruled out both suicide and homicide but refused to pronounce the death natural.

Dora Greene got the place next. She was Mark’s sister. Like Mark, she lived there quietly for years. One day she walked into town and set fire to the school, killing five and maiming six more. She spent her last years in a lunatic asylum, setting three more fires and killing two more people. She herself died in her last fire.

While she was in the asylum, one Tony Fisk, age twelve, urged on by several other urchins, had thrown some stones at the windows of the Vekin place. He had missed. Becoming angry, he took careful aim and they all watched the flight of the stone. In the young malefactor’s words, “It went away without falling.”

It would not have been worthy of a news story, except for the fact that each of the children who had watched the stone had gone severely and permanently cross-eyed. In a small town like Flocking Bay, that many kids going cross-eyed at once could not be hidden.

George Abbot bought the house and rented it at a very low price to a Michael Farley. The two had been feuding, down-state, and the house was supposed to have been a peace offering. Farley stayed only a few weeks. He went out and dynamited Abbot’s automobile. Farley was quite mad and lived out his life in an asylum for the criminally insane. The county coroner ruled Abbot’s death to be suicide. After all, he had known the history of the house and had knowingly rented that house to an enemy.

Cornelius Baker took the house next. He upgraded the kitchen and installed modern wiring. He lived there quietly and apparently got on well for about five years. He was a long-haul truck driver. Bodies followed him about the country. Finally, he was caught with one in his truck. He drove his truck into a bridge abutment at over ninety miles per hour rather than be taken alive.

Now, I had the place. I mentally withdrew my blessing. He had not been a good man at all.

Lois saw that I was finished with the file and making good inroads on my sandwich. She asked, “Did you sleep there, last night?”

“Yes, I did. Most restful sleep I have had in years.”

“What is your full name?”

“Vandervekken,” I replied, getting out my driver’s license. I was used to this. “No first name or middle initial. Just Vandervekken.”

“How old are you?”

“I don’t know, at least seventy.”

“You don’t know how old you are? Seventy? You look like you’re in your early twenties,” she said incredulously. “I told you that things connected with the Vekin place get interesting.”

“I got a head-wound during the war. Traumatic amnesia.”

“Viet Nam wasn’t that long ago. It would only make you in your fifties.”

“Not Viet Nam, Lois. WW II. Apparently, I was helping the French Underground.” I handed her the military fingerprint record. Her eyes widened as she realized that I was serious. “The amnesia’s been permanent, so far. I have language skills . . . too many. I’m a fluent, accentless polyglot. I even speak Basque. I know how to do an amazing number of things . . . no trace of name or personal past. No ID either.”

“Couldn’t they trace you by these fingerprints or something?”

“They tried. I was found among the bodies of a wiped-out unit of the French Underground during the German withdrawal from Paris in 1944. Someone from another unit was able to say that I was an American volunteer with a name that he could neither remember nor pronounce ... something sort of Dutch. That inspired my current name. I got back with a temporary ID and that military fingerprint record, which I still carry.”

“That’s sad, and eerie, too. What’s it feel like?”

“I’ve thought about that a lot. I think the best way to describe it is like a house that’s furnished but nobody is home. Empty. Alone.”

“So, how does that relate to your choice of name? You must know what having only one name does to our systems for indexing things and people.”

“True. I want to stand out, in case somebody recognizes who I am. As for Vandervekken, he was the Flying Dutchman, who swore that he would take his ship around the Cape of Good Hope, against a gale, if it took until Judgment Day. That was in the Seventeenth Century and he is still sailing. His ghost is seen as a Dutch East India Co. galleon with all sails set, sailing into the teeth of a gale. He can’t get home either.”

“I see,” Lois said, adding to her notes. “What brought you to Flocking Bay?”

“I was just passing through. I like small towns, so I avoid the main highways and big cities whenever I can. I liked the atmosphere of Flocking Bay enough to inquire about the possibility of settling here.”

“Look, we both know that small towns are dying. You could have had your pick from any of a dozen houses. Why the Vekin place?”

“I was shown fourteen places, actually. I know that it seems a bit forbidding at first, but it felt good. Like a warm glove on a cool morning. Have you ever actually been there?”

She shuddered, “No, and before you, I have never heard of anyone who said that the Vekin place felt good ... You say that you are a writer. What have you written?”

“Charles said it very well, ’Pseudonyms are great for privacy.’ My own writing aside, I do translations but you won’t find my name on most of them. Archaeologists like to take credit for their finds. I mentioned that I’m a polyglot? I sight read ancient languages as well as modern.”

I extended my hand to Lois and invited, “Would you like to come and see for yourself this house of dark history? I promise that you will find it worth your while. In all of those stories, not once was the interior of Vekin House described. Do come.”

“I have to return the file and get my camera,” she responded gamely.

“I shall await you in my auto, in front of the Voice,” I answered. As I walked her back across the street, I had the pleasure of seeing her stare at Lilitu.

“If that’s what I think its, I’ll ride with you anywhere!” she called over her shoulder as she entered the Voice’s office. True to her word, she emerged in a few minutes with a camera. Not one of those tiny little cameras that have become fashionable, but a business-like press camera. I opened the car door and gave her a hand up.

As I got into the driver’s seat, she asked, wonder in her voice, “Is this really a Packard V-12 Touring Car?”

We pulled away with the almost uncannily quiet, vibration-free ride that the car was famous for. I replied, “You bet she is. Lois, meet Lilitu. Lilitu, meet Lois. After the war, there were still quite a few of them to be had, and I liked both the ride and the durability, so I hunted one down and had it fixed up like new. I’ve kept her that way ever since. She’s only had two owners in over two-million miles. The first owner only put on about sixty-thousand of them.”

“You drive a lot,” she stated.

“I was looking for something ... I think that Flocking Bay has it. My turn for a few questions , if you don’t mind.”

“Fire away. If I don’t like the question, I won’t answer it.”

“What did you do before you took up the Voice?”

“The same thing that I still do. The stock and futures markets. I’m good at it. I got out of college with a degree in the sociology of medieval witchcraft. I got a job as a waitress on the strength of my looks. I put my first fifty dollars in tips into a risky stock that kited way up. On a hunch, I dumped it three days after I bought it. It nosedived shortly after I sold out. After commissions, I had three hundred and fifty dollars. I rolled it over the same way. The rest is history. So far, my hunches have always worked for me.”

“What brought you to Flocking Bay?”

“Like you, I was passing through. I was on my way to Lakeside Resort about three years ago. I got a hunch that I should stay, so I did. The Voice was failing. When a small town loses its paper, the end is in sight. I didn’t want the end to come, so I bought the paper. Here I am.”

“And here we are,” I said with a flourish as I pulled up in front of the house. We both stared. The yard was neatly trimmed, though the bushes and trees still retained a slightly forbidding aspect. Going up the path to the front door, I noticed that the flagstones had been leveled, the weeds removed and the joints and refilled with fresh sand. The iron fence and balustrades had been cleaned of rust.

“You’ve been busy,” was Lois’s comment.

“That’s just it,” I replied, puzzled. “I didn’t do it. I thought that stocking the fridge and setting out a snack last night was something that the real-estate agent arranged. Sort of a welcome wagon. This is beyond the call of duty.” Opening the front door, I felt that comfortable, welcoming feeling that had caused me to buy the house in the first place. Impulsively, I said, “Hello, house, you certainly look nice today.”

Lois looked at me quizzically and asked, “Do you talk to everything, or is this special?”

I thought for a moment before answering, “Actually I only talk to things that have personality enough to warrant a name, like Lilitu, my car, or Drachen, my typewriter.”

“Typewriter? You do like antiques, don't you? What are you going to call the house, then?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “Something good ... What does the place feel like to you?”

“The place actually looks and feels . . . well . . .” Lois groped for the right word, “I’d have to say . . . happy. Not what I expected, at all. It feels like what you see when a pup that loves its master is greeting him. No wonder you slept well, if it feels as good to you as it does to me . . .” She sort of trailed off. “I wouldn’t normally say this, but I’m getting a hunch about this place . . .” she trailed off again.

“I guess that the house was just waiting for the right kind of person,” I responded. “It was pretty rough on everyone else. I’m glad that you like it too.”

“Look at these floors,” she mused, “They were beautiful before Hewitt painted them over. You can still make out some traces of the parquetry patterns. If he hadn’t already hanged himself, I’d help you to do it.”

<==Previous    Next==>

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Return to Flocking Bay

[peachesplumsstakesfangs]

Hedgehogs and Raccoons

American High School Elu AU

Eliott sat at the lunch table with Idriss and Sofiane.  He was feeling down and moody, and had really considered skipping school that day but had already missed too many days that semester. Principal Allen had warned him if he missed any more days, he wouldn’t be able to graduate with the rest of the senior class and would have to attend summer school.

Sofiane patted his arm in pity. “You have to be happy for him, Eliott. He had a rough time last year and now he’s dating the most popular guy in school. They are couple royalty here -- top of the social food chain. Lance’s dad owns half of the town. He’s rich and good looking. The girls here fan-girl over them like they’re Hollywood celebrities, and he’s actually popular. Lance is the first openly gay quarterback at Davis High.”

“Gee, Sofiane, thanks for pointing all of that out to me,” Eliott groaned. He looked over at Idriss who was quietly chuckling.  “How do I even compete with all that? He is such a tool; he eats all that attention up. Everyone thinks he’s so brave, but he’s a jerk.”

“He is pretty brave, though,” Idriss said. “He’s taken a lot of abuse for being out and the face of the Bulldogs...the whole team has to face some hurtful, hateful ignorance, especially when we travel. It’s pretty progressive here, not so much in a lot of other places.”

“Well, when you put it like that...I honestly need new friends.” Eliott grumbled. “Look, I fucking support what he’s doing, but I still hate him as a person.” “Are you sure it’s not just jealousy?” Idriss asked. “He’s controlling, I don’t think he’s ever liked me, and he was the biggest bully when we were kids.” “Maybe he knows you’re in love with his boyfriend. You and Lucas are pretty close,” Sofiane pointed out. “The only one who seems blind to your whipped puppy dog eyes is Lucas.”

“I’m not whipped.” Eliott squinted his eyes at his friends...he really had to consider finding new friends. “Lucas never thinks anyone likes him. It’s what makes him so fucking adorable. Half the school wants to get in his pants.” “I’m in the other half...Jinx,” Sofiane and Idriss said at the same time, playfully tagging each other with a punch to the arm and laughing raucously. “Very mature guys,” Eliott chided. “Do I mess with you about Imane?” he asked, looking at Sofiane. “Or Ingrid?” he asked pointing to Idriss.

“Yes,” they both said in unison. “Seriously, though,” Idriss continued, “Lucas is your best friend, and you’ve been crushing on him since middle school. You’ve been his protector since elementary school. I told you to tell him how you felt about him last year.”

“He had just come out, and he was having all those problems at home with his parents,” Eliott explained. “I didn’t want to make things more complicated for him.”

“Ok, that’s understandable, but what about when he first told you about Lance?” Idriss asked.

Eliott shrugged. “Lance is still a jerk,” he mumbled. He looked up. “Shhh....Don’t turn around, Lucas is heading this way.”

Of course, both Idriss and Sofiane turned around at the same time. Lucas fist bumped each of them and then circled around the table to grab Eliott around the neck and kiss him on the cheek. He was relieved that Lucas couldn’t see the googly eyes Sofiane made at the public display of affection. He swung his backpack around and sat it on the table before sitting beside Eliott. “So, Lance is throwing a party Saturday, and we’re pre-gaming at my Aunt Lisa’s house. She’s been letting me crash there and is cool with me hosting this weekend.” He looked at Eliott. “Do you want to go shopping with me Saturday morning? I need new kicks.” Lucas looked down at his shoes, which still looked pretty new. “Lance says I need to get the latest season.”

“I thought you didn’t care about shit like that?” Eliott asked. 

“I don’t,” Lucas admitted. “But Lance does.” Lucas shrugged as if it were nothing to change his whole personality for a stupid jock. “Are you gonna ask Lucille to the prom?” “I don’t know,” Eliott answered. Sofiane raised an eyebrow. “Or, what about Jadon. Didn’t you have a crush on Jadon?” Lucas asked. Eliott moaned. “That was three years ago, Lucas.” “Lance knows him.” “Lance knows him,” Eliott said in a sing-song mocking voice. “What? Are they in the Rainbow Illuminati or something?” Idriss and Sofiane chuckled. Lucas smirked, then squinted his eyes at Eliott. “Why are you acting so weird? Anyway, come shopping with me. I can talk to Jadon for you.” “I don’t need you to play matchmaker for me, Lucas.” Lucas ignored him. “Idriss, are you taking Ingrid?” Idriss frowned, “I’m not sure.” “She and Imane getting along, yet?” “Are you the school Gazette now?”  Eliott interrupted him. Imane was Idriss’s younger sister and Sofiane’s girlfriend. He knew it was a sore spot for both of them, and he didn’t want Lucas to ruin the delicate peace they had brokered when it came to the subject. 

“No,” Lucas said, rolling his eyes. “Lance says I should care about all this stuff - know names, who’s dating who, buy people small things...shit like that. He wants to win prom king and king. They’re letting juniors and seniors go this year and it’s open voting for both levels, so he wants to be the first gay couple in Davis history to win.”

“He just wants it for the fame...not to make a real difference,” Eliott grumbled.

“I think you have him all wrong, but either way, it does make a difference. Some kid in Iowa sees us in an article and he feels a little less scared, a little more hopeful...a little braver.”

“Lucas, he used to bully you in grade school. He gave you a black eye in sixth grade. Did you get fucking amnesia before or after he got you off?”

“Hey dude, too far,” Idriss said.

Eliott knew before all the words were out of his mouth that he had gone too far. He hated seeing the pained look on Lucas’s face, hated himself for being the one to put it there, but couldn’t stop spewing negativity. Eliott stood up, felt like he was having an out of body experience. “Did he tell you that he had a crush on you way back then, but all he could do was punch your face in because he didn’t know how else to deal with his wittle gay emotions?” “You’re being a jerk,” Lucas said quietly. “That was years ago, and he did apologize for it.” Eliott had to get out of there before he said something he couldn’t walk back. “I have to go. See you guys later.”  As he was leaving, he heard Lucas ask Idriss and Sofiane what was going on with him. He knew they wouldn’t reveal his secret. He wanted to turn around and apologize, but his hands were shaking and he felt his eyes prick with angry tears. Something had shifted inside him after seeing Lucas and Lance kissing that morning behind the cafeteria. He needed to clear his mind and decided then and there that he was skipping gym class; thankfully, it wasn’t considered a class he needed for graduation. *** Eliott’s phone buzzed. He looked down to see a name that made the butterflies take flight. It had been a couple of days since his tantrum. He could admit to himself that he had acted childishly.  Lucas knew him well, knew he needed a couple of days to cool off.

“Please help me!” Lucas pleaded. “Manon was supposed to help me pick out an outfit and new sneakers, but something came up with Charles, and she’s standing me up.” “Lucas...I really don’t want to go.” “Hedgehogs and Raccoons,” Lucas said.

Eliott groaned; he could almost see Lucas’s smug little smile through the phone. “You’re using one of your favors. It’s only April, you have so many months to go little grasshopper.”

It was their inside joke, but they could only use the phrase three times a year. The other person had to drop everything they were doing and help the other if they invoked it. Lucas had used it quite a bit when he was younger and needed help at home or with the kids who relentlessly bullied him. Eliott had used it quite a bit when he was younger and the depression hit him like a stone to the head, and cuddling with Lucas was the only thing that kept him sane. Lucas once told him that he never needed to use it for that reason, but he still had, although he hadn’t used it in the last couple of years.

An hour later and he was honking the horn of his beat up Camaro outside of Lucas’s Aunt Lisa’s house. She came out to greet and hug him, her long, brown hair smelling faintly of lemon and something metallic. He knew she made her own shampoos and lotions and often smelled of the forest or fruit; it was one of the things he loved about her. He also liked her because she was sarcastic and irreverent, and didn’t care for Lance too much, as she also remembered how much he had tormented Lucas as a kid.  She was also one of Lucas’s biggest supporters.

Lucas kissed his aunt as he opened the passenger side door to get in. He told her to watch the wings he had put in the oven for the party. She nodded and waved them off. 

They spent an hour at the mall, and for a minute, Eliott forgot about everything that had been bothering him. They hung out and joked like they had done years before when it had been just the two of them, before he had met Idriss and Sofiane in high school when Lucas still had a year left of middle school.

“Remember the pizza place that used to be here when we were kids?” he asked Lucas. The place was now some kind of beauty spa.

“Oh, yea...we used to steal all the free pizza coupons from Mr. Ginley’s desk. You know I never got sick of that pizza.”

“It was pretty disgusting, though,” Eliott said, remembering how they always sat in the corner booth near the soda fountain, heads down and touching, pouring over the latest comic book together. “Only after having better,” Lucas admitted. Lucas’s blue eyes were bright as if he too were fondly remembering those times so long ago.

Lucas finally found an outfit and sneakers he thought Lance would approve of and they headed back to get ready for the party.  When they arrived, a couple of their friends from school were playing video games in the living room. Lisa had placed the wings, chips, and dip on the table.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she said.

“That leaves a lot that could land us in jail,” Lucas joked.

“Ok, smartass, just don’t burn the place down. I’ll be back in a few hours. Make sure you lock up when you leave to go to Lance’s.” She rolled her eyes at the name, making sure that Eliott saw it but not Lucas. He chuckled as she kissed them both on the cheek before heading out for the night.

Their friends waved them over, but Lucas picked up the bag letting them know he would be out after changing.  He told them to host and answer the door until he returned. He grabbed Eliott’s arm and pulled him to the back of the house where his small bedroom was located.

Eliott sat on the bed as Lucas changed clothes. He averted his eyes but stole glances at him when he thought Lucas wasn’t paying attention. He loved everything about him: the small moles like mini constellations that dotted his lithe body, the light freckles on his nose that were only visible when summer came around, the way his smile lit up a room. 

Lucas finally finished dressing and sat on the bed next to him, his arm brushed Eliott’s own. The touch gave him goosebumps, made him catch his breath.  Spending time with Lucas at the mall and recalling how close they had been when they were younger had made him remember all the times Lucas had been there for him, had been his confidante and saving grace. He barely registered Lucas asking him if he liked the outfit. He only saw Lucas’s mouth and those ocean-blue eyes before he leaned over and kissed him, pulling Lucas’s pliant lips into his mouth. He kissed him, and the years of pining turned into a hungry need to fill himself up with the taste of the boy he had loved for so long. Lucas stilled at first and then began kissing him back before a door slam broke them apart.

They realized it had been Lucas’s door, which had not been closed all the way shut.

“Oh shit, oh shit,” Lucas said as he raced out the room.

Eliott was stunned. He didn’t know why he had chosen that time to suddenly make a bold move, but he had no regrets. He would let the chips fall where they would.

A few minutes later and he heard Lance in the living room and then Lucas frantically whispering as their voices neared the room. 

Lance burst through the door. He was wearing his Letterman jacket and a white t-shirt with dark blue jeans. His ash blonde hair was messier than usual, as though he had just roughly ran his hands through it.  His green eyes blazed with anger as they locked with Eliott’s blue ones. Eliott stood, not wanting to meet the bigger boy’s wrath in such an unfavorable position. They were both tall and slim, both about six feet in height, but Lance was wider in the shoulders, had packed more muscle onto his slim frame.

“Did you kiss him, Lucas? Did you kiss him? Marcus told me he was coming to ask you about the beer and saw you two kissing.” He was yelling at Lucas, and Eliott instinctively wanted to protect him. Lance hadn’t been known to punch anyone since middle school, but he wasn’t taking any chances and jumped in between the two of them.

“It was my fault, Lance,” he admitted trying to direct the larger boy’s anger toward him. It worked because Lance turned to face him, their faces mere inches apart. “Lucas didn’t kiss me back,” he lied.

“I never trusted you, never liked you, even though Idriss always vouched for you.” Before Eliott could respond, he felt something land heavily against his face. It had happened so fast. One minute they had been facing each other and the next minute, he was on the floor with Lucas leaning over him, calling his name. 

He was dizzy. He touched his face and felt something wet. He looked down and saw blood on his hands. He looked up to see Lance head out of the door followed by Lucas. Everything was muffled, and there was ringing in his ears. Lucas turned to face him and mouthed for him to stay there.

As soon as they left the room, Eliott pulled himself from the floor and left out the window.

*** When he finally made it home, he rinsed his face and stopped the bleeding. He made an ice pack to hold against his nose. It wasn’t broken, or at least he didn’t think it was broken, but judging by the way it throbbed, it would be swollen and bruised for weeks.

Lucas, Idriss, and Sofiane tried to call him several times, but he ignored the buzzing. They started texting him, but he ignored the pings, finally cutting his phone off and crawling into the bed to nurse his wounds, both emotional and physical. Lucas had left him bleeding on the floor. He had chased after Lance. Eliott knew he had been wrong for kissing him. He should have just told him how he had been feeling, but he had been scared. He was scared that Lucas would reject him because he was only able to see him as a good friend. Or worse, that he wouldn’t reject him, and that a toxic romantic relationship would ruin their perfectly good platonic one. He jumped when he heard a knock on his window.

“Let me in, idiot!” He heard Lucas’s voice and stood up to peer out the window near his bed. He opened the screen to let Lucas in. Lucas threw a bag of something inside before heaving his body over the frame and onto the bed.

“I brought your favorite snacks and some pain meds.”

Eliott reached over to click on the lamp next to his bed. The light was dim leaving most of the room in shadows.

“Are you alright?” Lucas asked. He gently touched Eliott’s face, turning it towards him so he could study Eliott’s nose. “Ok, put the ice back on it. I’ve seen worse...on myself.”   Lucas paused. “Sorry I didn't listen to you. Guess a tiger doesn’t change his stripes. He is still a bully.” “I would’ve punched me, too,” Eliott admitted. He couldn’t believe he was actually defending Lance. “You know...if I were some cowardly jerk who kissed you while we were dating.”

Lucas laughed, “Oh, really?” He placed his hand on Eliott’s leg. “You’re not a coward.”

Eliott huffed. “But I am a jerk?”

“Hell, yes. Why did you leave? I was going to grab the first aid kit and tell everyone to leave. I punched Lance and kicked everyone out, and when I returned, you’d ghosted me.”

“You punched Lance?”

“Don’t sound so shocked...Well, I attempted to, but he blocked it pretty effortlessly,” Lucas chuckled. “I did tear his precious Letterman jacket. I think he was more pissed about that than the fact that we had kissed. Ugh, and that fucking Marcus.”

“Fucking Marcus,” Eliott agreed.

“You know Lance had the nerve to call me and tell me he’s taking Jadon to the prom. He didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”   

“I’m sorry. He was rightfully hurt. You probably did break his wittle heart.” “Shut up.” 

They both sat in silence for a minute, Eliott holding the bag of melting ice on his lap while Lucas opened the bottle of Tylenol and gave him a couple of tablets to take along with a bottle of water. 

“You know you always protected me when we were little...seems like you’re still doing it. If I never told you before, thank you...for everything.”

“You’ve always been there for me, too. I went through some pretty dark times when I was younger. I don’t think I would even be here if it weren’t for you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

He studied Lucas as he looked up at the ceiling. There were a few neon green stars still there, evidence of the time when he and Lucas had stuck three bagfuls of glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling because Lucas had been afraid of the dark when he slept over as a kid. 

“I didn’t know.” Lucas finally said after more quiet minutes had passed.

“Really?” Eliott asked. “We’ve always been affectionate...close. You’re my best friend, but I thought you saw me as a little brother even though we’re not that far apart in age.  You were always so much bigger and cooler.”

“Me, cooler?” Eliott huffed out a laugh. “Maybe I saw you like that when we were little kids, but I think something changed around middle school. By the time I came to terms about how I really felt about you, I decided I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”

“I don’t want to mess that up, either,” Lucas said quietly. “But we have a problem.”

“What’s that?” Eliott asked.

“I can’t get that kiss out of my head.”

Lucas took the bag of melting ice from Eliott’s hand and placed it on the window sill. He gently grabbed Eliott’s face, first softly kissing the bruised flesh of his nose and then his mouth. Eliott closed his eyes, relishing the moment he had dreamed about for so long. Lucas stilled, which made Eliott open his eyes. They stared at each other, each breathing in the other’s breath, their heads touching.  Lucas kissed him again, first softly and then with more pressure. Eliott returned the kiss, opened his mouth to Lucas’s tongue, tasted his mouth with his own. Lucas groaned, which caused Eliott to deepen the kiss even more. He felt as if he were being consumed from the inside out.  He felt like he would never be able to get enough of Lucas -- of his mouth, his hands, his friendship, his heart.

“Hedgehogs and raccoons,” Lucas whispered into his mouth.

Eliott pulled back, stared intently into the eyes that he knew by heart. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Just you,” Lucas answered. “Just you.”

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Second Chances - Ch. 5

Just Friends

Warnings: swearing, angst, mild fluff 

Word Count: ~4900

For the remainder of the night, you and the other women help try to care for Mrs. Adler, who you find is named Sadie. She hasn’t stopped crying, which everyone can understand. Despite the both of you being widows, you feel massively inferior to her. It’s clear she loved her husband dearly; he must have been a good man. You’re glad when Tilly offers to take your place, claiming you should go try to sleep. You feel as though you’re the last person Sadie would want to be even near. 

Morning comes, snowy and cold, although it seems to be letting up. Hosea comes in, and Abigail approaches him.

“Has John come back yet?” she asks him, the worry creasing her forehead.

“Not yet, Abigail,” Hosea answers somberly. “As far as I know, he’s still out there.”

“He ain’t been seen in days!”

Arthur strolls in, shaking himself from the cold. 

“He’s strong, and he’s smart. Strong at least,” Abigail says, greeting Arthur. “How you doin’?”

Arthur, warming his hands next to the fireplace, turns and stares at her with a curious expression. One that says he knows she’s going to ask him for a favor. 

“Just fine, Abigail. And you?”

“I’m sorry to ask but…”

Arthur cuts her off. “It’s little John. He’s got himself caught in a scrape again.”

“He ain’t been seen in two days!”

“You’re John’ll be fine! I mean, he may be as dumb as rocks and dull as rusted iron, but that ain’t changin’ because he got caught in some snowstorm!”

Hosea approaches. “At least go take a look. Javier? Will you ride out with Arthur?”

Javier, wearing a thick poncho, stands up. “I know if the situation were reversed, he’d look for me.”

He hands Arthur a sawed-off shotgun, who takes it impatiently. He glances at you, then turns to leave. You almost wish you could go with them to get out of this cabin, but the wind howls outside the door, reminding you of the thick storm still raging outside. The two men leave, Abigail thanking them.

Near an hour passes until you hear Arthur calling outside, asking for help. Hosea, Abigail, Lenny, and you rush outside. You fear the worst for a moment, until you see John settled on the back of Javier’s horse. His face is badly scratched and bleeding, and you can tell by his posture he’s half frozen. Lenny and Hosea help pull him off his horse, which causes him to grunt loudly in pain.

“Be careful, idiotas!” Javier calls. “It’s his leg.”

Abigail profusely thanks both men, and then helps the others half carry, half walk John into the cabin. 

“This is a new low, even by your standards!” you hear her snarl at John.

You approach Arthur, who seems unscathed. 

“You a’right?” you ask him.

He dismounts his horse, grabbing his reins. 

“Ah, I’m fine. He got nicked by a wolf after they got his horse.”

“Well, at least you two found him in time.”

You walk with Arthur through the thick snow as he leads his new horse to the hitching post.

“Is there anything you need?” you ask him, not wanting to go back to the cabin to hear John’s moaning mixed with Sadie’s tears. 

“Nah, I’m fine. Best get yourself indoors, don’t want ya freezin’ on us,” he pats your shoulder.

You nod your head, turning back to the cabin, feeling slightly defeated.

Two days pass and the weather finally breaks, but the entire camp is on the verge of starving since there’s almost no food. You’re standing near an old blacksmith’s fire pit where Pearson has set up his station under a wooden canopy outside the crumbling stable, trying to help wherever you can. Arthur strolls in, standing next to you to warm his hands over the fire.

“We’re going to starve up here, Mr. Morgan,” the cook says. “We have a few cans of food and a rabbit for, what, twelve people? I wasn’t able to get supplies in when we fled Blackwater!” “Well, when government agents are huntin’ ya down, sometimes shoppin’ trips need to be cut short!” Arthur says as Pearson hauls the cast iron pot over the fire where you’re warming your hands. You can hear the little amount of food sloshing around inside of it. “We’ll survive, we always have. And if needs be, we can eat you, yer the fattest.”

You stifle a chuckle, pretending to wipe your nose. Pearson turns, looking annoyed.

“I sent Lenny and Bill hunting and they found nothing!”

“Well, Lenny’s more into book learning than huntin’, Bill’s a fool.”

Charles walks over to the pair of you, still nursing his bandaged hand. 

“Unless those mountains are full of game that wanna read…”

Charles cuts him off. “Enough of this. We’ll go hunting.”

He turns to leave, calling Arthur to follow him.

“You need to rest, Charles,” Arthur says, looking worried. 

“You think this is rest? I can’t stay here and listen to you argue! Come along.”

“I’ll come with you,” you finally say, approaching the two men. Arthur looks at you, and you think he’s going to send you back to the cabin with the others. 

“Sounds good,” Charles says. “She can be a second bow. My hand’s still useless. Stupid mistake.”

“A’right. Come on, then,” Arthur says.

You turn and tell Pearson you’ll find something, following the two men while wrapping your coat tighter around you. You pat Rain happily, having not seen her in days. She snorts in greeting. You double check your bow is still in place, then mount the buckskin, following Arthur on his dark bay paint and Charles on Taima. 

The three of you go on for nearly a quarter of an hour, approaching a fast-running stream. The snow has stopped, a weak sun peaking through the clouds. The snow sparkles all around you, your breath forming tiny crystals in the air. Charles mentions that game will have to come out to feed now that the storm has settled. 

The three of you dismount, you and Arthur both pulling your bows and arrows. You spot the unmistakable slot marks of deer. You point them out to Arthur and begin following the tracks through a grove of trees and towards the river. Just as you’re about to leave the trees, you spot two does grazing near the river. You motion to Arthur, beckoning to them.

Both of you notch an arrow and shoot them, bringing both deer down. 

“We should grab one more,” you say. “Let’s try across the river.”

“A’right,” Arthur says. You hadn’t realized he’d come so close to you. The two of you quietly run towards the river, crossing it. You hiss slightly as the freezing water courses over your boots, chilling your feet. You spot a few more deer, stripping bark from the trees a few yards from the bank. Before you can even get an arrow out, Arthur shoots and takes one down, the others bolting into the trees.

“A’right, think that’s all we can carry,” Charles says from the trees where you both shot the first deer. You whistle for Rain, going to the other side of the river, picking up the deer you shot.

After all the deer are strapped tightly to a horse, the three of you head back to camp, coming across nothing except a Grizzly bear, foraging for what little food he can find. You all give him a wide berth, Rain snorting in fear. Along the way back to camp, you hear Arthur and Charles discuss a rival gang called the O’Driscolls, who Arthur says are responsible for Mrs. Adler’s fate. 

Upon arriving at camp, Pearson darts out of the old stalls where the fire pit sits, praising the three of you on your hunt as you cart in the deer. You see Uncle sitting by the pit, nursing a bottle. 

“What a surprise to find a camp rat loitering around the place,” Arthur says after hoisting his deer onto his shoulder and depositing it onto the floor near the fire. 

“I feel like we ain’t spoken in days,” the old man says in a gruff voice. 

“I do my utmost to avoid you, now get outta here.”

“Ah, he loves me really, ‘s just his sad way of showin’ it,” he says as he leaves, tipping his bottle. 

Pearson approaches the three of you, warming your hands over the fire once more.

“Have a drink, y’all earned it,” he says. Arthur takes a swig, handing it to you.

“Jesus! What is that?” he says as you drink, coughing as the harsh liquid sets your throat on fire. 

“Navy rum! Keeps you sane, it does,” Pearson chuckles. 

“I can see it’s done a treat on you.” 

“I’ll see you later,” Charles says, putting down the bottle of rum as he leaves. 

“You two mind helpin’ me with the skinning?”

“Only long as we get to skin you,” Arthur grins at him, you smile as you look at him. You’ve come to realize how much you’ve enjoyed this man’s company. More than the others.

“Always one with the jokes, aren’t ya?” Pearson glares. “C’mon.”

The three of you skin the deer, Arthur hoisting one up on a rack to drain. He pats Pearson’s shoulder. “Just make a good stew, folk need it.”

He turns to you, beckoning you to follow him. Once you’re out of earshot of Pearson, he stops you.

“You a’right?”

You look into his blue eyes, hidden beneath his hat. “Of course, why?”

“I dunno, ya just seem like ya don’t wanna be in that cabin.”

You glance to where the others are sheltered, shuffling your feet slightly in the snow. You wonder how to phrase what you’re feeling, or if he’ll even understand. 

“Ya can tell me, y’know?” he says, placing a gloved hand on your shoulder.

“I just, I…” you pause for a moment. “I don’t feel like I can be around that Mrs. Adler anymore. It’s just, it’s heartbreaking. She must have really loved him, her husband, for her to be this messed up. I can’t sit in there, the only other widow, when my husband died by my own hands.”

Arthur stares at you for a moment with a soft expression. His hand tightens slightly. “Do you regret it? Killin’ him, I mean.”

You shake your head. “No, that bastard had it coming. But I can’t sit there with her, tainted as I am.”

He sighs heavily. “Well, why don’t ya come sit with me in my cabin then? There’s room enough for one more.”

You stare up at him, feeling slightly shocked. “Arthur, I didn’t mean… I don’t want you to feel like you have to accomodate me. 

“Ain’t accomodatin’, miss, just tryin’ to help. C’mon,” he says, moving his hand to your back, between your shoulder blades. You feel a warmth in your chest at his touch as he guides you to the cabin he shares with Dutch, Hosea, and Molly. 

Over the next few days, you spend most of your time in the cabin with Arthur, only leaving to go sleep in the cabin with the others. Hosea picks you back up on reading, encouraging you to pass the time on learning the skill. Arthur helps you with writing, showing you some glimpses of his journal. He also starts teaching you how to sketch, having you start with simple objects lying around the cabin, like a can of peaches or the nightstand in the corner of the main room. 

One afternoon, he challenges you to a drawing contest to which you originally try turning him down on. “You’re way too good for me, Arthur. Even if I’d been drawing for years, I’m sure you’d be better than me.”

“Ah, c’mon. It’ll be fun!” He leans towards you, speaking quietly. “How about we draw Ms. O’Shea?”

You glance at the heavily bundled red headed woman standing in Dutch’s room, staring into her pocket mirror. You giggle lightly, then take him up on the challenge. 

After a few moments, you compare your drawing with Arthur, which is more than pathetic compared to the outlaw’s. You can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

“Looks good!” he says, smiling.

“Go ahead and laugh,” you smirk at him. “It looks like crap, we both know it.”

You both chuckle, tossing your drawings into the fire. Molly turns and glares at you, unimpressed by how loud you’re both being. Hosea walks in then. 

“Arthur, will you go and check on the boys real quick? Y/N, let’s start readin’ again.”

Arthur pats you on the shoulder as he stands up, walking out the door and back into the cold. Hosea pulls out your book, handing it to you as he takes up Arthur’s seat. 

Hours pass, and night comes. Arthur still hasn’t returned from a job he’s working with Dutch and the other men. Something to do with the O’Driscolls. You sit near the fire, staring into the glowing embers near Hosea. You hear the pounding of hooves outside the cabin. Going out into the frozen darkness, you see everyone except Arthur has returned. You suddenly fear that something went wrong.

“Where’s Arthur?” you ask Charles. “Did something…”

“He’s fine, went to go pick up a runaway O’Driscoll,” he replies. 

The others begin going back inside the cabins, Dutch talking to Hosea, something about a train. He shows Hosea a large roll of paper as they close the door. You stay outside, staring off into the night, hoping. 

Several moments pass with no sign of him. You turn to go back inside the cabin when you hear a horse coming towards you, snorting heavily. Arthur’s new paint approaches you through the gloom, his outline in the darkness is distorted by something on the back of his horse. You greet him as he stops next to you, hopping off his mount. You can see the thing he has tied on the back is a man, squirming against his bonds. 

“Hey there, Y/N. Here we are, ya sack of shit,” he says to the hostage. “Let’s introduce you to the boys.”

He heaves the man onto his shoulder, walking towards the cabin.

“Don’t hurt me, please!” the man begs in a shaky and desperate voice. 

“You found the little shit, did ya?” Dutch asks as he comes out of the cabin. Arthur drops the man into the snow and cuts the bonds wrapping his feet together. 

“Welcome to your new home,” Dutch taunts him. “Hope you’re real happy here!”

Arthur’s face is dark as he picks the man up onto his feet. “You want me to make him talk?”

“No, now all we’ll get is lies,” Dutch says, asking Bill and Uncle to tie the man up and to make him hungry. “I gotta sayin’, son,” he says, approaching the frightened hostage, glaring into his eyes. “We shoot fellers as need shootin’, save fellers as need savin’, and feed ‘em as need feedin’. We are goin’ to find out what you need.”

Bill and Uncle cart him off, chuckling. Dutch calls out, “I can’t believe it! An O’Driscoll in my camp!”

“I ain’t an O’Driscoll, mister!” the hostage yells back. “I… I hate that feller!”

“Whatever you say, son!”

Arthur chuckles, hitching his horse up and then approaching you. He calls after Dutch. “I’m sorry we missed out on Colm.”

“There’ll be time for that!” Dutch answers, going back into the cabin. “Now, we need to figure out this train.”

He closes the door after Hosea, leaving you and Arthur alone in the darkness. He turns to you.

“Ya a’right? Look like yer frozen,” he says.

“I’m fine,” you smile up at him. “I was just worried when you didn’t come back with the others. Thought somethin’ bad happened.”

“Ah, ya ain’t gotta worry about me, Y/N, I’ll always come back.”

It’s near midday, the sun has been out all morning and the snow has begun to melt, thawing out the frozen wagons. Arthur and you sit inside the cabin with Hosea. Dutch sits in his room with Molly, looking over the stolen plans for the train. The three of you sit beside the fire, eating plates of stew. You’re going to need to go hunting again; the stew is lacking on meat. Arthur finishes his and stands up.

“Gonna go check on John,” he grunts, tightening the coat around him. “Make shoar he’s holdin’ up.”

He leaves you with Hosea and Dutch. After a few moments, Dutch comes out of his room, holding the long roll of paper he’d stolen from the O’Driscoll camp. 

“Think it’s time, old friend,” he says to Hosea. “Now I’m going to go get the others, meet me outside.”

“Dutch, I ain’t too sure…” Hosea begins saying, but Dutch has already walked out of the cabin. He glances at you, you shrug. The two of you get up and go outside into the melting snow. 

Bill, Charles, Lenny, Micah and Javier are saddling up, but Dutch and Arthur are still inside the cabin, speaking to John. You glance inside and catch a glimpse of him, his face wrapped up in a bloody bandage, still lying on the cot. Arthur and Dutch trudge out of the cabin, closing the door on Abigail and her son Jack. Dutch starts talking about the train job he’s been planning.

“Why are we doin’ this?” Hosea demands, approaching him. “Weather’s breaking, we could leave. I thought we was tryin’ to lie low.”

“What do you want from me, Hosea?” Dutch demands, approaching the Count. 

“I just don’t want anymore folks to die, Dutch.” 

“We need money, everything’s back in Blackwater. Fancy goin’ back out there?”

“No. I just thought we were gonna stick to the plan, get the money and head back out west. Now, suddenly, we’re about to rob a train.”

“What choice have we got?” Dutch asks him gently.

“Look, Dutch, I ain’t tryin’ to undermine ya, but Leviticus Cornwall is no joke. He’s a big railway magnate, oil man, sugar dealer.”

“Well, then sounds like he has more than enough to share.”

“Dutch!”

He cuts Hosea off. “Gentlemen! Get your horses ready! We have a train to rob!”

He and Arthur mount their horses, turning them down the path and storming down the trail, leading the others down it. You and Hosea watch them disappear into the cold mist.

“I’m sure things’ll be okay,” you turn to Hosea. He shakes his head and starts walking back into the cabin. You almost follow him, but then go into the cabin with the others.

You open the door. Karen and Mary-Beth greet you from both sides of Sadie, who sits in an almost paralyzed silence.  Grimshaw turns in her seat and glares at you. 

“Where you been, girl? Hardly seen you the last few days. We coulda used your help!”

You hang your head slightly, not at all regretting spending the last few days with Arthur. “Sorry, Susan. I was with Arthur and Hosea.”

You can tell by her face as she turns away she won’t say anything further. She tends to leave people alone when they’re with Arthur, Hosea, or Dutch. On the other end of the cabin, you hear John gasp slightly as Abigail adjusts his bandage. Jack sits near the fire place, playing with a stick. You turn to Sadie, fidgeting with your hands.

“Mrs. Adler, I’ll go huntin’ again soon, have some fresh meat for the stew.”

She gazes up at you, tears in the bottom of her eyes. She suddenly breaks. “I don’t care anymore.”

You sit down on the other side of a tightly bundled Karen, who muffles through a thick scarf, offering you a bottle. You gladly take it. She lowers her scarf so she can talk to you properly.

“You been spendin’ a lot of time with Arthur lately,” she says with a sly look. 

“Yeah, he and Hosea are just helpin’ me with reading and writing.”

Her grin widens and you know what she’s getting at.

“Shut up,” you can feel yourself blushing. “We’re just friends.” 

The men who left on the job with Dutch don’t return until well past nightfall. Dutch seems excited. Seems the take from the train was good. Arthur doesn’t return until ten minutes after the others. You’re starting to realize there’s a pattern to these jobs; you hope it won’t lead to trouble in the future. 

By morning, Hosea inspects the wagons, declaring the snow has melted enough that you can leave. With that, Grimshaw immediately starts barking at everyone, getting them to pack up. Not that there’s much to do. Most of the supplies were never unloaded from the wagons, aside from Pearson’s cooking materials, a few cots, and a mountain of blankets. 

By mid-morning, the camp is mostly packed. Dutch, Arthur and Hosea stand near one of the wagons as Bill hands Lenny a box.

“I know this country we’re goin’ to a little,” Hosea says to Dutch. “We should set up camp in Horseshoe Overlook by Valentine. We’ll be able to hide there no problem.”

“Well, then let’s go!” Dutch says. 

Charles and Javier lift John up into the back of one of the covered wagons while Micah tosses the hostage into the other. Arthur and Hosea climb into the driver’s seat of an uncovered wagon in the back of the line. Charles gets into the back of it, and you go with him. You’re glad not to be in the covered wagons with the others, able to enjoy the sunshine for the first time in a week. The train starts on down the path.

You glance back at the still half-frozen town of Colter. You silently hope you never have to come back here. 

After a few moments, the train travels along the shores of the frozen lake you saw on the way in. The sun gleams upon every surface around you; the snow winks its light back to it. You swear you can almost hear a longing tune coming from the forest itself, as though the trees are singing for the coming peace of Spring’s warmth.

The train goes into thicker forests, and the snow’s receding from the land. Dutch calls Micah and Lenny to him, ordering them to go scouting ahead. The wagons move on, crossing a fast river. To the right ahead, you see a wide and roaring waterfall. The wagon you’re in starts to cross the river; you feel one side of the wagon begin to shake precariously. Just as it hits the other shore, the left back wheel rolls off; you and Charles are jerked around suddenly as the corner falls to the dirt. Arthur curses as some supplies fall towards the roaring river. 

“Everything a’right back there?” Bill yells from up ahead on the wagon ahead of yours. “What happened?” “Ah, I broke the goddamn wheel!” Arthur shouts. 

The three men hop off and start repairing the wagon while you go and grab the supplies that have fallen off. Just as Arthur is tightening the wheel back on, you see Hosea and Charles glance up at a ledge, high above the river on the other side. You follow their eyes and see three people on horseback. Squinting, you can tell they’re from a tribe of Natives. Arthur, unbuttoning his coat, approaches the three of you.

“What you think?” he says quietly.

“If they wanted trouble, we wouldn’t have seen ‘em,” Charles states. Hosea raises an arm in greeting as you and the other two get back into the wagon. 

“Poor bastards. We really screwed them over,” he says, climbing back into the front with Arthur, who tosses the reins, and the horses carry on. 

Arthur guides the wagon along the trail, through a wide, green canyon, cut by the river you had just crossed. He, Hosea and Charles talk about the politics of the treatment of Native Americans over the years. You don’t join in, knowing little about it yourself. Instead, you feast your eyes upon the beauty surrounding you. The thick forest giving way to grassland just before reaching the river, with its rocky shores and sandbars covered in waterfowl. 

You hear the conversation between the three turn to Dutch. Hosea mentions how he and Arthur tried telling him the ferry job didn’t feel right back in Blackwater.

“Things go wrong sometimes, people die,” Arthur says in his deep voice. “That’s the way it is, always has been.”

“It just ain’t like Dutch to lose his head like that.” 

“We been at this line of work a long time. I figure we gotten it right a hell of a lot more than we gotten it wrong.”

Arthur guides the wagon out of the canyon, up to the ridges overlying it. You see in the distance ahead where the trees grow thick together a man who looks like Javier waiting. Arthur leads the wagon to the trees and Javier greets him. “Slow up, I’ll jump on!”

Arthur brings the wagon to a stop and Javier climbs onto the back, hanging onto the side close to you. You greet him warmly. You’ve had few interactions with the man, but you’ve always enjoyed when he plays his guitar and sings. 

Arthur drives the wagon up a nearly hidden trail through the trees, thick bushes and ferns until you can see a clearing on top of the rise. The other wagons are already there, getting unloaded, Pearson and Grimshaw marching around, yelling out orders. You get off the wagon and approach Hosea just as he’s climbing off.

“This seems like a good spot,” you say.

“Home sweet home. For now anyways.” 

“This place is perfect!” Dutch hollers, walking towards you, Hosea and Arthur. Just as Hosea turns to talk to him, Grimshaw stomps towards you, grabbing you hard by the elbow.

“There you are! We need your help and you’re just showin’ up!”

She shoves you towards one of the wagons near Tilly and Karen. “Now get to work!”

You massage your arm where she grabbed you, walking towards the other girls who are unloading crates and boxes. 

“Mean old goat,” you mutter under your breath, bending down to help.

After a few moments of unpacking and organizing, you hear Dutch call for everyone’s attention near the center of camp. You and the other girls walk over there to hear him better. He’s standing at the entrance of his tent, which has already been set up and situated. 

“I know that things have been tough,” he says. “But we’re safe now, and we are far too poor.”

“It is time to get to work, but stay out of trouble,” Hosea joins in. “Remember, we are itinerant workers laid off by the oil factory.”

“Now get out there and make us some money!” Dutch calls, lighting a cigar. 

“There’s an old livestock town down the way there, all mud and morons if I remember right.” 

“We’re running low on food. Someone needs to go out hunting again!” he gestures towards you and Arthur, standing close together. 

“Now go on, and be sensible out there!” Dutch dismisses you. 

You turn to Arthur. “We have your tent ready.”

He looks at you and smiles softly. “Well, why don’t ya show me?”

You smile back and lead him to his tented wagon, set up just the way it was back in Bison Point. You look at a small box with the few possessions he has. A glass cylinder with a flower inside of it and several photos, including one of a dog, a man wearing the same hat he wears now, and one of him, Hosea, and Dutch from many years ago. You see below two framed photos, one of a woman who looks like it could be Arthur’s mother, and one of another woman you don’t recognize. 

“Everything from Blackwater got saved,” you say, turning back to the outlaw.

“Everything apart from my money,” he grumbles. 

“Don’t remind me,” you huff. 

“Guess we’re just gonna have to make more money. Where they settin’ you up?”

You point to a spot not far from Arthur’s tent, just a few yards south of Dutch’s tent. You’ve already placed your tent and bedroll, even though they haven’t been set up yet. Over by the wagons, you suddenly hear Grimshaw screaming at Tilly.

“Ms. Jackson! I’ve seen shit with more common sense than you!”

Arthur chuckles as he starts removing his coat. You still wear yours, not having had time to remove it. “Sounds like Susan’s got quite a lot of work for ya,” he says.

“She’s itching to be as tight-winded as a tornado,” you reply, sighing as she marches her way over to you. You rush over to the wagons near Mary-Beth and Karen before she can bruise your elbow again.

By the time the sun has set, the camp is mostly unloaded. To say you’re exhausted is an understatement, but you stand on the ridge of Horseshoe Overlook, gazing out over the canyon and winding river. You hear someone approaching you, and you turn to see it’s Arthur. He hands you a tin plate of stew, which you take gratefully.

He stands quietly next to you for several moments, the both of you eating in silence. 

“Well, this place’ll do for now,” he finally says.

You sigh, feeling content. “I rather like it here. It’s so pretty.”

If you hadn’t been busy staring into the colors above the horizon from the setting sun, you might have seen him glance at you, his blue eyes soft as he studied your features. 

[gem-quest]

[ E N T H R O N E D . . . ]

“i will not be another flower picked for my beauty and left to die. i will be wild, difficult to find, and impossible to forget.” -erin van vuren

real name: selah dufay-paoli

age: twenty

f/c: (young) natalia vodianova

species & class: sylph + rider

guild: moonstone

description of in-game powers: sylphs are the game’s air-type fairies (not to be confused with water nixies or fairies of the courts). sylphs have the ability to utilise magic, but almost exclusively “elemental” magic. therefore, while neddy has the imbued ability to wield wind, she has also been able to learn the ability of murmuritium. however, some darker, tougher mage-type spells/abilities give her some difficulty. generally, sylphs (fairy-kinds) are considered on the weaker side of all the game species- they do have standard fairy abilities like flight (has to be learned but neddy has a dragon for that so she doesn’t feel the need to expend her time with it), “light of foot” (which is essentially the ability to balletically levi-glide through the air), persuasion (all fairies have sky-high charisma points), and sufficient-level light melee.

as a rider, neddy’s able to more easily command animals in the game, and her chosen “mount” is a fully-grown dragon- officially, jack, but she’s more likely to call him “cha-cha” (even she doesn’t know- it sort of grew out of baby-talk.. which she realises she uses to an annoying extent with a mammoth beast that spouts poisonous gas from it’s maw). jack’s abilities are in his weight (though decidedly willowy), his noxious-floral breath, and his wings. other than that, he’s an overgrown puppy (very often relegated to lap-dog status when neddy shrinks him down with drink-me potion).

place of birth: sartène (corsica)

appearance: sylph skin in the game is usually somewhat translucent or pearly, but neddy forewent that option. her only sylph-y features are pointed ears and pale lilac-toned hair. she does have wings that appear sort of glassy when visible, but for the most part she keeps them folded away since she doesn’t use them for flight. neddy also likes wearing dangly, jeweled earrings and silvery collars and circlets. most likely to wear some sort of tits-out, diaphanous number (see: john galliano rtw autumn 2oo9).

"you are like the snow only purer fleeter, like the rain only sweeter frailer you…”

-e. e. cummings

places most likely to be found in-game: 100% on level 10, the gardens of finvarra is her home-base. it’s where she picked up jack (her dragon mount) after she was dropped from her ex-boyfriend’s party. finvarra is flirty and annoying but he really just likes a good time. (no, they have not slept together- he’s an npc and.. neddy is mostly certain it’s not possible.. . not that she’s thought it over or anything.. ) she does like to hang around and help the odd moonstone player out of the prince’s clutches- if that’s what they want.

otherwise, she’s likely hanging around in the midwinter level since it never ceases to bring her joy- and jack loves the snow. or she’s pushing through to clear levels. she’s not yet been on the frontline, but she’s nearing them.

current inventory:

dragon balm x 5

dragon pep potion x 2

medi-elixir x 3

basic light throwing axe x 2

black pearls x 3

blue pearls x 2

madame bellio’s char truffles x 9

ventium scroll

murmurationium scroll

summoner scroll (learning)

drink me x 2

armoured helmet

songbook: dragon chants

songbook: dragon lullabies

rosy shell panpipes

dragon-shaped sugar cubes from the tearoom x 4

apricot tartlets x 2

fig wine

strongest character trait: diplomatic

strengths: caution and understanding are her personal strengths. observing and listening first have rarely ever backfired on her. a desire to make peace around herself and exist in beautiful environments are the only things keeping her sane at the moment. in game, jack is her greatest strength. neddy knows that, on her onesie, she would be gobblin fodder in a fight. however, her ability to talk her way into and out of situations benefits her /greatly.

weaknesses: she’s a textbook over-thinker which hinders her ability to progress through levels in a timely manner. as well, she doesn’t handle being alone very well- she feels she might be too attached to jack who doesn’t even really exist. in game, both her species type and only moderate ability with weapons are really her two weakest points.

player stats: (on a scale of 1-10, 1 being the weakest, 10 being the strongest. try to balance it out!)

STRENGTH: 2 (8 w/ jack)

DEFENCE: 3 (8 w/ jack)

CHARISMA: 9

PSYCHE: 4

WILLPOWER: 8

CAUTIOUSNESS: 7

AGILITY: 9

ENDURANCE: 5

INTELLIGENCE: 7

LUCK: 3

personality: libra .

biography: selah’s parents divorced the year following her birth, and as a result, her mother took her from corsica back to her lenox hill childhood home in manhattan to live. there, selah was raised by her mother, aline, and grandmother, vanessa, who each nurtured her desire to be a singer- more specifically an opera performer. but by the age of fourteen, selah had developed a new interest in dance, having hung around at her friend’s mother’s dance studio for a few months in the summer.

at eighteen, due to family tension revolving around selah’s new boyfriend, selah left home to move in with her boyfriend, callum, and his roommate in a shitty flat in brooklyn while she awaited admission to barnard college to pursue dance. since callum and his roommate played gq from its inception (and had taken to staying in the helmet for hours and hours), selah was interested in joining him on adventures so that they could spend more time together. so, she bought her own vr helmet and instantly fell in love with gq world. in particular, she loved that she and callum could stay together and bond through whimsical quests and battles with other players and monsters. it was like living together in a dream.

until, a few months later, callum (username: plagueis) announced that selah would have to leave their party as he and another mage-knight in their party- a girl called bloodbriars - were “involved”, whatever that was supposed to mean. they’d never met in person, and selah /lived with him, so it was very hard to understand the situation. and by this time, the word about everyone being trapped in the game had come down, leaving selah no means of escaping the awful situation. callum and bloodbriars disappeared with the rest of the party shortly thereafter and selah has not seen them since. she was suddenly trapped and alone.

selah took to camping in finvarra’s gardens to deal with her emotions, and there, she met jack- a then-untamed queen of poisons-like dragon with sleek violet-black scales, willowy limbs, ears like aconite, and inky venom eyes. she liked him instantly, but for him, it took a little more effort- lots more dragon-shaped sugar cubes from the tearoom level than any one player could stomach. after a few days of coaxing, she was able to secure him as a mount, and the new duo was born.

since then, selah’s rededicated herself to clearing levels and locating callum, aka plagueis, at the same time- whether to kill or not, that remains to be seen.

“artemis knew better than all of them. her only love affair was with the moon. my heart understood this. profoundly.”

-lola ridge

**note: selah’s heard a rumour that plagueis and bloodbriars have the supernova scroll in their possession. 

relationships: (OPTIONAL, fill out whenever you want to)

PLAGUEIS . aka callum king, neddy’s live-in boyfriend and former party member. recently booted neddy from their party to- neddy supposes- lessen the awkwardness of having left her for another party member (that he’s never even met in person). callum and the party disappeared weeks ago and neddy hasn’t seen or heard from him since. however, she ends up hearing a rumour that he might be in possession of a supernova scroll- which, given his mounting instability since becoming imprisoned in the game, is troubling to neddy, to say the least. f/c: charles melton

BLOODBRIARS . real name unknown, plagueis’ new girlfriend and neddy’s former party member. all neddy knows about her is that she’s a moonstone guild member and a mage-knight. f/c: unia pakhomova 

INFERNA . nana o. to neddy’s nana k. neddy met her on ten amid a feast of steaming mystery meats with sweet wild berry sauces and fluffy raspberry rose cakelets- which inferna might have eaten had neddy not had the knee-jerk reaction of batting the red-headed girl’s fingers away from the fairy food. she and neddy got along right away despite being from opposing guilds- after all, neddy was very isolated at the time and she needed a person to interact with (outside of finvarra and his tittering harem, of course). inferna and jack took a shine to one another, but as inferna’s one to keep moving, neddy hasn’t seen her since that day. she does, however, think of her often.   

MORNINGSTAR . 

TSESAREVNA . fellow moonstone,

playlist:

the magic place by julianna barwick

winter circle by balmorhea

rodeo by lil nas x, ft. cardi b (in regards to being dumped for another girl- but also i kind of just can’t get this song out of my head so.)

white rabbit by emilíana torrini

violence by grimes, ft. i_o

fairytale by enya

var det du by ensemble galilei (which i just imagine as gq “menu” music tbh)

alone by halsey

overture ii by sleeping at last (sappy but: aka the song in neddy’s head when she gets to be on the midwinter level and watch jack play in the snow~)

favriel by grimes

pinterest: { oc. ENTHRONED }