#to have the forethought to communicate his concerns and express himself

[mincedpeaches]

Hey, can I offer an alternative viewpoint for Good Omens? Personally speaking, I'm ace, and I actually really like the way the love story played out in the show (and I, personally speaking, would have been disappointed if they'd actually kissed etc). The book was one of the few canons that spawned a lot of ace content and now the show has as well. Neil's said they love each other - they're just not male humans. That's not homophobic, and I'm personally quite happy the way their love was shown.

HI OH MY GOD HI

Good Omens discourse? On my blog? It’s more likely than you think.

Other tumblr users have definitely said this far more eloquently than me and I wish I had the forethought to reblog some of those posts at some point. But as far as I’m concerned it boils down to this:

Them being ace is a perfectly valid reading and I know that a lot of people online find that affirming. If someone on tumblr dot com says this, I believe them.

THAT BEING SAID, for people outside the sphere of tumblr and its ever fragmenting lgbtq discourse, they are not going watch the show with their first reaction being “oh wow, good ace representation, ey?” The war on male friendship or whatever is a discourse invented ENTIRELY by the terminally online. A lot of people who are NOT terminally online watching the show will read it as neither gay NOR ace. There are plenty of people that are not going to watch it and read it as a love story, and in fact would be very uncomfortable if that were made unavoidably unambiguous. (With say, for example, a kiss on the mouth. Or even like, be still my heart, holding hands.)

(Also side note, destiel experience tells me that a love confession is NOT enough for some people. They can and still will no homo that.)

So when Neil Gaiman, the man who is being bankrolled to make his show by noted malevolent corporate conglomerate Amazon dot com, says “teehee it’s a love story” but ONLY online where the terminally online live, and also with the caveat that they are not human so it’s not like that, you ever think about why that could be? You ever think about how that seems a little more like him and Amazon want to have their cake and eat it too?

I know the ace reading, I see the ace reading, but for Neil to validate the ace reading over others does not seem like an act of kindness to the ace community, only a happy side effect and silver lining of playing the field to keep as many viewers as possible.

They are not being homophobic and nobody on my reblogged post said they were, they are simply taking the easiest and most monetarily beneficial path. They did not do this for you. They did it because they want no backlash that could actually affect people watching the show.

And so while I am happy that someone found happiness in it, I will still be asking for more. While it DOES count as a love story for me and you and a lot of people online and probably even Neil himself if I’m not being cynical, I know that it easily didn’t for many others, and that is by design. And after destiel and it’s backlash, I just want everyone to be forced to see it. I want Neil and Amazon to prove me and my cynicism wrong.

Also like not to get into the REAL MINUTE of the lgbtq discourse but they could still kiss right. They could still touch lips and be ace. For me personally it is NOT about them having sex or expressing their sexual attraction. They are SO unsexy it’s embarrassing, I would probably die before I read a fic of them having sex or think about them having sex. It is literally about their love story being acknowledged in the canon text in a way that cannot be countered. THAT’S IT.

[noxtms]

IN CHARACTER DATE : december 9th, 2020. SYNOPSIS : the answer to the question of where is percy weasley.  TRIGGER WARNINGS : abduction & blood, torture implied. 

and the panic sets in like this : slow and brutal, tar - thick in the back of his throat when he realises that he can’t move his hands. ( it comes as a double edged sword of terror and dread ; there is nothing he can do. PERCY is acutely aware of something sliciing neat ribbons into the flesh of his wrist, of the way blood trickles lazy rivers down his hands. ) hues haven’t quite been able to focus / devoid of either contacts or the glasses he only wears when he’s alone, percy’s never felt quite this helpless before. bound to god knows what and barely able to see : he cuts a desperate, sad image. he’s too afraid of the way the noise might ricochet in the silence, the way it might snowball into a sob that’ll wrack an attenuate ribcage. god, he feels exposed.

( and despite it all, he’ll cling to ludicity : he knows that screaming, begging, yelling won’t do him any good. crying out somewhere at the back of his mind, the sickened thought : this isn’t good. someone wants you dead, and if you scream you’re more likely to die. you cannot afford your mother another dead son, another casket her frail shoulder cannot possible bear. in the face of abject misery, you resolve to stay silent / complacent in your own disappearance. that’s if they notice, what if they don’t notice, what if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it scream --- )

somewhere, a rustle in the dark, and resolve crumbles. it can’t be helped. “please, help me, please.” 

four words & suddenly it’s a performance / mask down, lights up, camera set, action. all the world a stage and the space is now a grandstand, one that amycus intends to milk for all it’s worth. he comes to life as if it’s that note of desperation that he’s been waiting for, puppet on string. he pushes wide the door of the room the other is held in as if it took force to burst inside, his chest heaving from imagined exertion, his wand clutched too tightly as if he’s ready at any moment to defend them from unseen terror. he looks equal parts terrified & frantic, as if he doesn’t know what’s around any shadowed corner and he wants to get them out of there as quick as possible. 

of course, his steps falter immediately. a true rescuer wouldn’t hesitate to release the bonds holding the other in place, but AMYCUS holds back as if assessing a situation that needs no assessment. there’s a waver to his voice. “percy weasley. merlin’s beard... your family will be so relieved you’re alright.” he feigns a look over his shoulder, all the better for appearances. “i don’t know how much time i have...”

he’s begging. one sound from them and he’s already pleading, as if the sound in the dark is a savior, instead of specters plucked from ephilates of a tired generation. perhaps it would be a mercy to cut to the chase, but the carrow twins, well, they’re known for playing games. that’s all this is, isn’t it? their way of playing god by toying with percy like he’s little more than a plaything in the hands of spoiled children.

ALECTO lingers behind as amycus enters the room where the weasley is kept, falling into her own role. “did you find him? do you need me to come help?” her distant voice slips into the overlap of breathless apprehension and uncertain hope, the cadence of a rescuer watching for the return of the monster under the bed. languid are her movements as she paces, wand tapping across knuckles. “you have to be quick!” 

if foreboding was a tight knot in the colum of a constricted throat earlier, it’s the cold tendrils wrapped tight around flesh now. solace would’ve been a warm blossom through limbs if PERCY wasn’t so brutally aware of who his supposed rescuers are : he’s no fool. the carrows’ faces have snarled up at him from posters since his days at the ministry, and a new wave of trepidity rolls right through a quaking, bound frame. ( as hard as he tries, there’s a buoyant little squeak from the backburner / “what if they’re here to help?” he’s many things but an idiot isn’t one, he knows that no good can come of the pantomime he’s found himself embroiled in. there’s nothing resembling hope in the scene that has begun to unfold. it’s strange, really : the brunt of percy’s heartache is borne of worry for the family he’s convinced he’ll leave behind. own mortal peril is LESS of a concern than their collective grief / he wishes, in these strange moments that he’s sure will be his last, that he could apologise to molly and arthur. sorry mum, sorry dad. you deserved better than this. )

“where am i?” he’ll try to amplify the modicum of bravery that’s set into his tongue, but it wavers / intonation gives way to distress and percy sounds like a fucking child, so far removed from his near-thirty years. “how long have i been gone?” 

he’s more intelligent than they’ve given him credit for. there’s a spark of recognition in those wide, fearful eyes that couldn’t be DISGUISED if he had the forethought to try, and AMYCUS is almost colored impressed by it. the emotions rolling through him - terror, dread, uncertainty, grief - were so powerful in origin amycus had trusted in a cloud of doubt thrown over their faces, but percy weasley is not as much fool as the family name implied.

he casts a glance towards his sister, the sort they don’t need to couple with words ( it’s an old wives tale that all twins can communicate by thought, but the carrow twins are an old time terror, aren’t they ? two little children born to blood, lying awake in the dead of night and learning each other’s faces better than they knew their own ). it says he knows, even while the tiny smirk that pulls at the corner of his lips says, but we can work with that. 

“you’re just outside of swindon,” he’s turned back to the other now and his expression is back to faux care, back to something that resembles genuine concern - all it misses, now, is the added note to a purposely trembled voice. amycus abandons this, now, going for confusion above flawless PERFORMANCE. “that isn’t a detail you need concern yourself with, percy,” long enough for the questions to start, yet not long enough for the printing presses to begin churning out the missing poster. amycus does not make a show of dropping the facade, once and for all : it is simply there, and then not. “the question is how much longer you have to stay.”

the hope in his voice gives way to an ill impersonation of courage, and ALECTO finds that it sounds little more than that of a child’s mettle. her brother looks to her and she reacts with a quirk of her brow, a casual cant of her head. ( he does? how boring. ) when she steps from the penumbra cast by the empty, unlit room she was waiting in prior, she looks a touch uncanny, with cheeks just a bit too hollow and pallid skin just south of a typical color since leaving azkaban. almost normal, if not for the little things. “quite ugly place, really. don’t know why anyone would wish to come here.” words border a taunt, an almost cloying thing on her tongue. only a matter of time before they figure him gone, and she’s called to work. certainly just enough of it to begin pulling at threads, to the start of unraveling it all. she takes a step or two forward, and it’s like she clisk into something, a return to herself maybe, when she falls into place next to amycus. she plays off of him. “and how long it’s going to take your family to notice. any guesses? no?” 

it comes and goes in waves : the startling clarity that chills him right to the bone ( i am going to die at their hands i am going to die here i am going to be another tragedy upon the family name oh god mum i’m so sorry i’m so sorry- ), and then the hysteria that crowds his throat, makes him want to laugh in sheer delirium. it is altogether surreal, to feel your pulse running cold one minute and chruning something intemperate in your ears the next / PERCY weasley, alone with the carrows. fate has a funny way of rolling the dice, only to leave you stinging when you lose.

“what do you want?” ( an altogether practical question / percy’s never been one to sit around, wait it out. their histrionics do nothing for a choleric captive ; not when blood is still running thick rivulets down palms of his hands, when he’s bitton so hard at a lower lip that it too glistens crimson. there is a trace of it on his canines. he doesn’t know. ) “i don’t have anything you’re looking for, i swear.” 

AMYCUS is a predator circling prey as he moves further into the room and closer, still, to percy. alecto joins him and only near to his sister does he feel - in an odd way, confident enough - to crouch at the others level. "don't insult yourself or our intelligence," it's funny, the contrast : his expression is cold but his voice is almost velveteen, low & warm & in any other setting, any other situation, nice.

"you aren't the only person with the information that we need, percy. you're here because ronald and ginevra aren't, but don't doubt in our willingness to abandon you here, alone, and finally introduce ourselves properly to your brother... or reunite, with your sister." he smiled. again : pleasantly. if not for the context of carrow, amycus would be nothing more than a professor expressing interest in catching up with an old student. "i promise that you don't want that to happen, and to stop it, all you have to do is tell us what we want to know."

pulse throbs something fierce behind eyelids, violent underneath the sacrum of his throat, helpless in the way he cannot move. “don’t you dare touch them. don’t you dare.” ( his heart beats a little faster at the mere mention of younger siblings. all those years spent chastising, picking at them, far too overprotective and never as kind as he should’ve been : symptomatic of a love that doesn’t know vernacular confines, that only knows the kind of rage that builds an inferno behind gritted teeth when they’re referenced like that. ) clever wizard that he is, PERCY can only kick out ; nearly loses his balance, almost topples his little prison over. it’s an adrenaline rush he needs / the kickstart he needs to spit another falsehood like a loose, bloodied tooth.

“i told you, i don’t know what you want.” and to some extent, he doesn’t : captor keeps mentioning information that he doesn’t understand. “nobody told me anything.” feigned reticence suits him ; percy makes a wonderful liar, all bruises and swollen despite the way lies make his stomach twist into sailor’s knots. 

there’s a roll of dark irses, a testament to patience lost during her time in azkaban. “you’re right, how can you be so sure you don’t know without us even asking?” cadence borders something sing-songy, something sweet enough to rot. long strides bring her around his chair, where hands push down on the back, balancing what he had almost thrown askew. the legs are strident when they return to hardwood floor. percy’s boxed in by them both, now, and though wands aren’t drawn, they don’t need to be to prove a point. “it’s easy, percy. where is harry potter? his body, his things...” ALECTO paints an almost innocent picture with wide eyes and relaxed posture as she lingers over his shoulder. “and a little tip --- we don’t take too well to being lied to. my ideal day may not be spending time with the most boring, self righteous weasley, but like amycus said, we can just as easily go to one of the other, hm, is it six of you now?” 

and the thing is, every fivre of an aching being is straining against this ! the hard line of a jaw is stiff with muscle, and yet it happens anyway : in light of alecto carrow lingering over his shoulder, circling like a vulture, PERCY laughs. it’s entirely humourless, dry and barked into atmosphere so tense you could carve it, but it happens. ( for what it’s worth he regrets it immediately / urge to be violently sick follows it, but he’s able to swallow that one down. )

“you think they told me where his body was? jesus fucking christ,” ( muggle london has fouled up that mouth --- ) “you can’t possible think they told me that.” hysteria is a slow bloom that’s spreading through blood and bone alike, deadly in the way it seems determined to swallow him whole. “every bit as fucking daft as she is, you two, thinking they told me anything. fuck.”

percy knows the price, knows it intimately before he’s even spoken. you don’t leave something like this unscathed, something like this without the battle scars to prove it. he knows, deep in marrow, that he isn’t leaving this alive. shaking, terrified, quaking with nothing but sheer fury, he steels himself for the bloe before it even arrives. this is what happens when you lie, when you laugh. this is what happens, and so it goes. 

the carrow twins move deliberately. they move as one. where one pushes the other pulls ( like opposing magnets, still connected in some indescribable way ), always compensating for the other on little more than blood instinct. alecto crosses to steady percy and amycus - in what is almost bored glory - rises, only then, to his full height. she leans left, he takes a step right. she focuses upon their charge, AMYCUS allows his attention to float. he undoes the buttons of his sleeves, both rolled up slowly to expose arms that are mottled by stark white scars & marred by one recognisable tattoo.

"percy, percy, percy," he clucked his tongue, caught between chilling disapproval & aching disappointment. there's a reason that he keeps using his name, as if they're old friends caught in something neither can control : a power to claiming it, an added threat. "we already know of the boys connection to your blood traitorous family. all those summers spent under the same roof, one more child for your overworked mother to wrangle... of course you know where he is. your family loved him."

"i'm sorry, percy. i know you'll tell us what we want to hear-" he sighs. gaze flickers towards his sister, an almost imperceptible jut of his chin given to urge her to stand away from the seated boy, and from his back pocket is pulled a wand that is, even without brandishing, a threat. "but we did tell you not to lie." the striking of a snake : predator meet prey.

with the reverent uttering of "crucio," amycus' wand slashes downwards.

[ajokeformur-ray]

Hiii! Heeey! I’ve been in love with your blog for quite some time and your Joker stories are a gift! I watched the movie again yesterday and I feel like exploding with feelings for him!!! Are your requests for him still open? Would you please write a story where this time he (or Arthur Fleck, you choose which alter ego) this time stares at reader? (Who has serious self esteem issues and never felt pretty.) Thank you! 💕💕💕💕

Thank you so much, you’re too kind! I genuinely spend about 1.5 - 2 hours on everything I write so I’m happy it shows! I chose Arthur for this one because if you have self-esteem issues, Joker would make it a point to stare at you c o n s t a n t l y in a teasing but demanding way and it’d be too much. 

Hope you enjoy! If you want a Joker one too, let me know when I reopen requests!

This one contains spoilers for the film, so please consider skipping it if you haven’t seen it yet. Also swearing because I love swearing sorry not sorry. Also insecure reader and I guess a pushy Arthur? It comes from a place of love and concern x

The Arthur Fleck/Joker Defense Squad @writings-of-a-gen-z @x-avantgarde-x @mapreza1 @insomniabird @mavalenovaninagavi @itwasrealenough @morrisonmercurymalek  @rand0ms-fand0ms @rafaelina-casillas @aclownthing @rebs-doom @vivft @help-i-am-obssessed @autumnaffection @taintednihilist @vladtoly @mg-woolf99 @misstgrey92 @that-s-life @dopey-girl-blogs @seeking-dreamland @sweetheart-syndrome @heartxfdesire @xmusichealsthesoulx @0callmejude0 @the-one-that-likes-riddles @hannibalsslut @folliaght @freeeshavacadoo @bingewatchingmylifegoby @unlovedbyeveryoneandeverything @okamiredfoxx @sp0okysp0oky @the-pandorabox @mardema @jibanyyan @honeyflvredcoughdrop @emissarydecksetter @jokerfleckk @epidendroideae @chuuntas @stillmabel @pumpkinpeyes@onehystericalqueenposts @the-jokers-wolf @nalsswa @justahyena @arianatheangelworld

Word count: 1, 234 (lmao wow couldn’t do that again if I tried!)

You sighed, that familiar prickling of your skin making a shiver dance down your spine, a coldness seeping into the small of your back.

“Arthur, can you please stop staring at me? You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m not staring.”

You could hear the smirk from where you were in the kitchen. His voice was deceptively soft, his tone as patient and gentle as it always was, but you could feel his eyes move over your body. He was so in love with you. His gaze wasn’t predatory or even hungry, but appreciative. He looked at you like you were something worthy of worship, and while he was shy in many aspects, he was never hesitant about making it known how much he treasured you. 

“Yes you are.”

“How do you know? You’re not looking at me.”

You sighed again, an affectionate smile tugging at your mouth. Goodness, but you adored it when he was in a playful mood. It made a nice change from the times you had come home to find him despondent, too beaten down and defeated to do anything other than stare brokenly at the floor. In those times did your heart break for him as he could only watch his world tilt off its axis and crumble, but in these times, you could only enjoy his genuinely upbeat mood. To say anything to the contrary could stop his mood in its tracks, and you would hate for that to happen. He deserved to feel emotions as and when he felt them, and to express them in his own home as and when he felt them. It was a freedom he had been denied when Penny had been alive, but he had freed himself from her narcissistic hold over him in a violent but necessary way. You still couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad about the way in which she had died. You didn’t think you ever would.

“I don’t need to. I can feel you staring at me from across the apartment. Stop it.” You came back into the living room, pulling your hands into your sleeves and wrapping your arms around your middle as you walked to stand in front of Arthur.

Arthur hummed. “What else can you feel me doing to you?” He reached out to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you to him and resting his chin on your stomach, looking up at you.

You giggled despite yourself. You weren’t annoyed, despite all the sighing. You were flattered, though, truth be told, you did wish he would stop staring at you. You didn’t like being stared at. You preferred for people’s eyes to just pass over you, as though you were nothing more than a face in a sea of thousands. Where Arthur wanted to be seen, you wanted to be invisible. You were happier that way.

You cupped his face in your hands and bent down to press a tender kiss to his forehead. Arthur hummed and pressed himself into the gesture, wanting to savour it always.

You pulled your lips away from his forehead but you stayed bent over him, your hair coming to frame his face, mixing with his own dark locks.

“My hair colour suits you.” You murmured, smiling gently. 

Had you been an outsider observing this moment, you would have felt slightly nauseated at the level of love radiating off the two of you. Luckily, you were a more than willing participant.

Arthur tightened his arms around you and tugged you forward, making you collapse in an undignified heap in his lap as your knees gave out. You had always had shit balance. Arthur huffed a laugh at the expression on your face as you righted yourself, and you ended up in your favourite position: straddling his lap with your face tucked into the crook of his neck.

“You’re so beautiful, darling.” Arthur’s voice was right beside your ear, and you could feel the rumble of his words in his chest. You closed your eyes and melted into the embrace, into the feeling of being surrounded by your love and all that he encompassed.

“No I’m not.” You mumbled without thinking. Your lack of forethought resulted in Arthur stiffening under you, his entire body freezing as he gave serious thought to your words.

When a long, tense moment had ticked passed, marked only by the sound of the cheap alarm clock next to the television, you dared to raise your head and look at Arthur. 

He looked… angry? Confused? Maybe a bit of both, you decided. His thick dark brows were knotted together, his mouth turned down at the corners, and he looked unhappy.

“You really don’t see yourself the way I do, do you?”

“See what?”

You weren’t bluffing.

Arthur scoffed, incredulous, and shook his head. “You’re an angel.”

“Mm,” You pressed a kiss to his cheek, “My devil horns hold up my halo.”

“Don’t I know it,” Arthur grinned, leaning into your touch. “No, but,” His smile faded and the glint in his eyes dimmed as he made sure to make eye contact with you, “Don’t you see how beautiful you are?”

You shook your head, making to move off his lap. “No, Arthur, please don’t - “

“Why?” His voice was no more than a whisper, his hands holding you tightly to him. You weren’t going anywhere until Arthur felt that you had provided him with an adequate answer to his innocent question.

“Because it’s not true.”

“Beauty is subjective.”

“So’s comedy.” You shot a look at the television, which was playing an old rerun of the Murray Franklin show. You found the host to be distasteful, rude and sexist. But he made Arthur smile, so you kept your thoughts to yourself. You would endure anything for Arthur’s happiness, however fleeting the emotion, and already had you found yourself proving the sentiment to be true.

Silence. The ticking of the clock marked the time steadily as your pulse rose.

Arthur took one of your hands in his, his brow furrowed and his jaw set, and pressed your hand gently to his chest. “Can you feel that?”

“Arthur, please stop - “

“No, just let me show you something. Can you feel that?” He pointedly pressed your joined hands harder against his chest, and you concentrated. He was trying so hard to show you something and the least you could do was to hear  him out. It was a promise between you to always try each and every day, no matter what, to communicate with each other. It seemed that, as he always did, Arthur fell back on his actions; his words failing him,

His heart was fluttering wildly against your palm, and Arthur saw the exact second you came to understand what it was he had been trying to hard to say to you all evening, ever since you had come home and he had noticed you had tried to avoid his staring all evening; it was futile, he was always watching you. He had to know that you were real, that you were there with him, alive and happy and whole.

“Now do you get it?”

You paused, your face hot, and nodded. “I’ll try to.”

“Promise?”

You nodded again, oddly feeling like you were being chastised for having a low opinion of yourself. “Promise.”

Arthur rewarded you with a kiss. He’d hold you to that.

[5-falsehoods-phonated]

@heavy-metal-papillon I'm really sorry this request took so long, but I really hope you like it!

Let Me Through

Summary: A requested songfic, featuring Thomas and Janus singing Let Me Through by Cg5 with Janus trying to get closer and Thomas backing away, almost like a dance.

Ships: none, platonic (?) Janus and Patton

Warnings: rejection, if there are any others please let me know

WC: 1, 614

The final notes of You're A Cad faded out as Janus leaned back with a sigh the did little to fill the silence now ringing his ears. Of all the nonsensical things that could possibly be done with time Thomas had requested they each put playlists together that tbey felt best matched them to give to not only him but the fans that watched their videos as well. A novel idea that has Janus wondering idly just how on the nose he could get away with being with his choices without raising concern or suspicion from the others. Music had a way of swaying people, literally and figuratively, and he wanted things to of course sway in his favor...but how to do so subtly was where he was having difficulties.

It would so much easier if any of them, Thomas included, had a speck of communication skills under all of their dramatics and fanfare. Granted he was just as much one to play up certain things for the sake of a show as any of the other sides; Remus and Virgil has teased him recently when he conjured a fainting couch to catch him as he swooned many years ago, but theatrics had a time and a place. With Thomas' near constant stream of dilemmas that could be solved with little more than forethought and a healthy conversation it was clear they were all well past lighthearted dramatics.

Sighing heavily, Janus gathered up his list and rose up carefully, blinking into reality in front of the couch. Thomas bobbed his head along to whatever he was listening to through his headphones with his face scrunched in concentration. He watched as he glanced up and caught sight of him, a hint of fear flashing in his eyes before it was quickly covered with a half hearted smile. Rolling his eyes Janus tossed the list onto the table and turned away.

"Deciet wait!"

Janus cringed as his function was called out even though he knew it was his own fault for not just telling them all his name. Unfortunately, until Thomas began to see him as he actually was there wouldnt be any point in it. "Yes?" He hissed out instead.

"I want you to stay. It'll be easier to finalize everything if you're here."

The truthful statement warmed his chest, though it was quickly cooled as he realized Thomas wanted him there out of necessity rather than by any choice. It was a step he supposed, even if it was for a project and not an actual matter of importance.

"Besides I've had a song stuck in my head and I wondered if you wanted to listen to it with me while I work?"

The urge to turn away, to fully allow himself to be consumed in cowardly wallowing was a strong thing to resist, but the too wide smile he recieved as the edge of the couch dipped with his weight made it almost worth it. Sitting at the far end, on the very edge of the cushion as straight backed as he was was hardly a comfortable position but it was one he felt matched the building tension in the air nicely. Glancing towards the stairs he was mildly surprised Virgil hadnt appeared yet with his glares and disdainful quips to drive him away from Thomas. His chest constricted painfully as he glanced over at his manifestor, steadily typing in lyrics to google and trying to match them with the song marching through his head. He knew he shouldn't have let Remus help choose songs.

Clearing his throat to gain attention he muttered out "Let me through."

"What?" Thomas half turned to him, startled at whatever he figured Janus has meant.

"Let Me Through. Cg5. I believe that's the song that's been steadily driving us both insane."

Eyes lighting in realization Thomas was quick to type it in, removing his headphones from the jack so they could both enjoy the music. "I wouldn't say that. I havent listened to this in a while; it'll be nice to play it again."

The opening cords were quick and before Janus could quite register what he was doing the words were pulled from his mouth as smooth as silk from a clothesline, ensnaring him in a way that let him know he was in too deep now, no use turning back if this could prove to be advantageous in any way.

"I want you to know,

The ebb and flow of my own show.

From head to toe,

You will be scared,

And not prepared,

For what I have in store for you."

Thomas glanced over in confusion as Janus stood up, his eyes still trained to the floor. He almost cringed as he was given full attention, as this was quite possibly the most overdramatic thing he had ever done but all of them processed that certain flare, why not indulge?

"I'm waiting for,

My curtain call.

Before I storm right through the hall.

Knock knock, who's there?

Are you prepared,

To finally meet your doom?"

He delivered the last line with a chuckle and a low bow, holding out a semi confident hand for Thomas to take. Pulling him in Janus quickly hid his burning face in his shoulder, leading them to awkwardly sway as he swallowed around a lump forming in his throat.

"Why do you close the door? Come to me with open arms." He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped Thomas' hand slightly tighter, taking a steadying breath as he did so. "There's so much we need to explore.

I mean no harm."

The music swelled with Janus' growing desperation. As frustrating as this and every other situation was he loved Thomas with everything he had. The urge to hold and protect and shield had been there since day one, driving him to twist words and hide feelings and shun away in the darkness to protect him the only way he knew how. And he didnt understand. Nearly refused to, all in the name of proper moral standing.

Their walzing steps while Janus bit out the next lines more harshly than he meant to.

"I sing my song all night long just for you.

Please oh please, I'm on my knees, let me through." He swung Thomas out and away, finally making eye contact to search desperately for even a hint of understanding.

"I sing my song all night long just for you.

Please oh please, I'm on my knees, let me through."

His heart sank as the other worked his fingers out of his gloved ones, taking a step back as he held his hands to his chest protectively. Biting his lip he held Janus' gaze as he began to sing back albeit somewhat hesitantly.

"I, I understand,

You want to play,

But this is what I have to say.

Your presence here,

Fills me with fear.

That's the extent of my career."

Each line was delivered with more conviction as Thomas straightened himself out, staring down at Deciet with an unreadable expression.

"I don't know why,

You even try,

To sing me your dumb lullaby.

No I can't flee, calamity.

Is everywhere I turn."

Janus flinched as the words were hurled at him and though he knew this was a song, and knew these words were coming, it still hurt almost as much as if they were originally spoken from Thomas himself. From the look on his face Jnaus knew he meant every word and his chest tightened even as he forced himself to reach out again, nearly whispering the next line.

"Why do you close the door?

Come to me with open arms.

There's so much we need to explore.

I mean no harm."

He watched as Thomas shook his head, stepping back and away from his self preservation. Realizing that with this move it was abundantly clear that, at least metaphorically, his manifestor would rather take a blind step backwards than towards something he already knew. His felt as if his chest couldn't possibly tighten any further until it felt like it finally snapped, ribs breaking toward in a breath he nearly couldn't catch as a wind of fury filled his lungs and rose to light his eyes. It only worsened as Thomas took yet another step backwards as Janus gripped his chest with one fist, the other swinging back behind him in pure frustration.

"I sang my song all these years just for you!

Please oh please, I'm on my knees, let me through! And I'll sing my song all night long just for you! Please oh please, I'm on my knees, let me through." He delivered his last line brokenly as Thomas turned away, effectively dismissing him even as the music continued. His eyes shone while his hands fell limp to his sides, staring in defeat at the back of the only one he cared to be acknowledged by. The beats wrung out as he sunk down, echoing words following him as he summoned his staff as he stalked down the hallway, pausing only a moment to glare at a pale blue door, shut tight to the events playing outside of it, ignorant in its moralistic bliss.

'I will not let you through my door.

I will not let you settle the score.'

Janus snorted at the irony as he continued on, starting in surprise hearing a soft question directed at him.

"Should this one be added to the list?" Thomas inquired from outside.

'The power, the power, the power.

Oh no.'

"Don't bother." He hissed out, his door slamming behind him with a finality that shook Thomas to his core.

This work and others are also available on AO3!

[midnightlie]

title: i really should have thought this through ocs: jess, sophie, kai notes: as some of u may or may NOT know.....i have this mermaid story that i wanna maybe get down some day. the general idea is that a boy rescues the first mermaid ever caught from her exhibit in an aquarium while interning there during the summer and his stubborn little sister gets caught up in the mix lol.

tbh, it’s really fun to try writing something new, and it’s very short, just a quick character study, really, so i’d love it if you could check it out!!!

::

:

Jess generally doesn’t know how to deal with feelings to begin with. Sure, he feels them strongly and emphatically, but acting on them? Interpreting them? A fool’s errand. On his best days, he wears his blasé attitude like a shield, invulnerable and confident, but ever since he met her - since he saved her - he can’t help but wallow in his emotional ineptitude.

He wants to be soft, wants to understand, but he doesn’t know how.

Kai sits next to Sophie on the other side of the campfire, rubbing at her sore legs with firm hands. Sophie helps, looking up at Kai with heady concern.

“Are they still hurting you?” Sophie asks, frowning, her hands working unhelpfully against Kai’s shin.

Kai nods, matter-of-fact as she has always been, and Sophie’s frown deepens. With a little smile, Kai shakes her head and stops rubbing one of her calves to touch Sophie’s bare arm. Not for the first time, Jess wishes that there was a better way to communicate with Kai. He furrows his eyebrows as he watches the exchange, Sophie’s expression changing as she tries to make sense of the sensations Kai passes to her through the physical contact.

Sophie retracts her tiny hands from Kai’s legs. “Not….bad?” she tries out in an attempt to understand. “They don’t hurt as bad? You mean, like last night?”

Kai nods enthusiastically, and tucks one of Sophie’s stray hairs back behind her ear. Sophie turns to her older brother and smirks victoriously. “She talks to me more than you.”

He leans back on his hands and rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

“Just admit you are jealous and that I, your adorable little sister, am superior to you,” she says smugly. Far more smugly than any ten year old ought to have a right to be.

“I’ll admit it when you actually learn how to pronounce ‘domino’ like a normal person,” he quips. He really isn’t jealous at all when there is an easy sort of camaraderie in the silences that he shares with Kai. He prefers the quiet, anyway.

Kai makes a strange noise that he can only surmise is her version of a laugh. He has wondered before if it sounds the same underwater. Does she laugh when she’s underwater, in her element? He pauses at that. Do mermaids laugh at all?

Sophie sticks her tongue out at him and leans into Kai’s side. “I’m only ten, you heathen. Cut me some slack.”

He doesn’t know where the hell she learned the word “heathen” but he makes a mental note to track down the source and eliminate it. When they get back. The last thing he needs is for her to get in trouble for bullying some scrawny kid at school. “Stop pulling the ‘I’m ten’ card. We know. It’s not cute.”

“Kai thinks I’m cute.” Sophie wraps her arms around Kai’s waist and smiles at him angelically. To her credit, Kai looks sheepish as she glances up at Jess, giving him a little shrug as she brushes the ends of her long ponytail back from her shoulder.

“Jesus in heaven, give me strength,” Jess mutters, disengaging from the conversation before it escalates into a fight. He leans back onto the grass, peering up at the diamond-studded sky. It’s a moonless night, and the void of darkness is strangely comforting in the concept of absence. Sophie begins to talk again, chattering this time at Kai, who without the means to interrupt, falls victim to the little gremlin’s endless prattling.

Jess tunes her out, as he is well trained to do, and instead lets his thoughts drift. It’s been two weeks on the run like this, and he’s starting to feel the weight of his decision. He doesn’t have a car, and the only money he has left is a $50 bill tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. They are famous, plastered across every news article and showcased on every TV station. Sophie hasn’t had a proper bed to sleep on since that seedy motel last week and he still doesn’t know anything about Kai other than her name.

And god, his parents were going to murder him for dragging Soph into this.

He sighs and tucks his hands behind his head, listening to the sounds of the night life around them and the crackling of the dying fire. Distantly, he’s aware that his sister’s voice slows and quiets. He only stirs when he hears that it has stopped completely.

The fire has become a bed of bright embers, and on the other side, Sophie sleeps with her mouth wide open, leaning heavily on Kai who runs her long, delicate fingers through Sophie’s dark hair. Kai looks up and meets Jess’s gaze when he shifts into a sitting position. He laughs quietly at the scene.

“I should probably put her to bed,” he almost whispers, so as not to disturb his sister.

Kai gives a little dip with her head toward the tiny two-person tent that is popped open under an evergreen a couple yards away.

“That’s alright; I got her,” he replies, understanding her gesture easily enough. He rolls onto his feet and moves to Sophie’s side, scooping her up into his arms with as much grace as he can muster. She snores a little at the disturbance, and he has to fight not to laugh as he places her gently on top of her sleeping mat and pulls the blanket up over her shoulder.

Once he has extracted himself, he makes his way back over to Kai and sits down beside her, leaning back against the fallen tree behind them. He can feel her heat beside him, radiating, despite being a foot or so apart, and he can sense that she wants to speak but she can’t, so he does.

“Are your legs really feeling better?” he asks softly, staring at the embers and their muted light show.

She sighs and he takes that as a no. He kind of wants to scold her for lying about it, because there’s no use in hiding something like that from them, but he also kind of gets why she would. There’s only so many of their water bottles left after all.

Jess reaches for Sophie’s half-drank bottle discarded hours ago to the side and turns towards Kai. She sits there with her hands outstretched palms up, her gaze downcast, as though she’s ashamed of her weakness. Like, he’s not an expert or anything - what emotionally constipated 17 year old boy is? - but he’s pretty sure that feeling guilty for something as wildly unavoidable like dehydration is outrageous.

“Is it worse?” he presses, tipping some of the water into her hands.

Even in the darkness, with just the softest glow from the embers, he can see the sheer relief that breaks across her face like a sunrise. A blissful sigh tears from her as the water falls through her fingers and onto her bare legs. She rubs the moisture into her skin delightedly, and immediately the tension he hadn’t known she’d been holding onto totally disintegrates.

Now entirely soothed, she leans back against the tree, boneless, and he can’t make out her expression but he’d guess that she is at ease. He vaguely sees her make a gesture and he recognizes it as one of the only sign language gestures he had known and taught to her the first day that he had pulled her from that tank in New York.

“You’re welcome,” he says, handing her the bottle. She drains it eagerly and discards it beside her. Jess leans back beside her again, and turns to stare at the embers. He takes a deep breath of crisp, summer air, and releases it. “I’m sorry it’s taking us so long to get you home.”

He doesn’t jump when her still-damp hand slides over his jacketed arm and down to find the bare skin. When she finds his wrist, an overwhelming wave of gratitude so potent that it nearly chokes him, and then her touch disappears, and the gratitude is gone.

He smiles to himself, crossing his legs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You know, if I had stopped for five seconds to think up an actual plan, this would have been a hell of a lot easier.” He fights to keep his self-depreciation from getting out of hand. “I didn’t even have a car, for fuck’s sake.”

There is insistent tapping on his shoulder and when he glances over, he can see Kai looking at him, but he is unable to read her expression. She begins violently signing, determined to get her point across.

Thank you, she signs. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

He wonders what else she would say, if she could. Jess gives her a tired, lopsided smile and crosses his arms over his chest. “Hey. I know. I know.”

She shakes her head as if to say, no, you don’t know, but she merely sighs in frustration and straightens, facing the darkness before them.

Slowly, the embers finally die, leaving them almost totally blind. He expects her to go to bed, but she stays put as firmly as him as the minutes pass. Jess turns his gaze back to the sky and watches as a satellite skates smoothly over the curve of the Earth. “I have so many questions for you,” he says.

Her hand searches awkwardly for his again, so he holds it out so that she can touch it more easily. There is a timid openness to the sensation she passes to him. She wants him to ask her questions, and she wants to answer. He doesn’t know whether the limitlessness to this feeling makes him happy or wary.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says, and then she gives him warmth and knowing. He doesn’t know what makes her so confident in him. If it’s the whole saving her life thing, that was a total fluke and as his obvious lack of forethought has shown, he hasn’t done a single thing deserving of her assurance since. She lingers for a moment and then pulls her hand away.

“We should probably get to bed,” he says, using the tree behind them to stand up. “We have to get moving tomorrow since we’re running out of supplies.”

She shifts, too, and then follows him to the tent. Jess zips the entrance up once they are both inside. He turns around to see Kai’s shadow stretch out languidly beside Sophie and pull a blanket up over herself, settling comfortably into the idea of sleep.

“Good night,” he whispers, slithering to the other side of Sophie. After a few long moments, Kai begins to breathe more heavily. Jess lets out a low breath, and tries to ignore the sticky humidity of three people crammed into this tiny tent. He rolls onto his side and finds his face pressed into the wave of Sophie’s hair. His eyes flutter closed, and instead of pushing her away, he sinks into a dream where Kai finds freedom back in her waters and he brings Sophie safely home.

[whatlaurasreading]

More Than “A World Of Imagination And Vision”

Marginalia is enjoying something of a moment at Oxford, as witnessed by the New Yorker’s recent feature on the Oxford University Marginalia group, founded by sometime Oxonian contributor April Pierce. It is no surprise, then, that some of the most rewarding aspects of the Ashmolean’s latest special exhibit, William Blake: Apprentice & Master, guest curated by Blake scholar Michael Phillips from the University of York, are several of the artist’s own comments, handwritten in the margins of influential books of the period: Blake’s own copy of The Works of Joshua Reynolds (3 vols., 1798, on loan from the British Library) and two of Blake’s copies of Emanuel Swedenborg’s The Wisdom of Angels Concerning The Divine Providence (1788 edition, on loan from the British Library, and the 1790 edition, on loan from the Cambridge University Library).

Nebuchadnezzar, c. 1795-1805

Blake’s marginalia allows visitors to see Blake’s mind at work, inspired by, and in reaction to, his contemporaries as he developed his ideas as an artist, poet, philosopher, and political animal. Notably, in his notes on Reynolds, on the title page of the first volume, he writes, “This man was Hired to Depress Art [.] This is the opinion of Will Blake[. M]y Proofs of this Opinion are given in the following Notes[.]” Later in the volume, Blake records his first reading of Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful (1757) as well as his encounters with the polymath Francis Bacon and the philosopher John Locke. Indeed, one can see Blake’s reaction to Bacon’s emphasis on observation in his scientific method as developed in the Novum Organum (1620), and Locke’s argument for tabula rasa in his Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690), in lines like:

How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way, Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?

(Plate 7, ‘Memorable Fancy,’ The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)

and

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern

(Plate 14, ‘A Memorable Fancy,’ The Marriage of Heaven and Hell)

and of Burke’s understanding of the sublime in the “fearful symmetry” of ‘The Tyger’.

What these instances of marginalia also show is that the exhibition is very much a collaborative one. Most of the works it features are from the Bodleian Library, but there are many on generous loan from the Fitzwilliam Museum and University Library in Cambridge, from the British Library and British Museum, from Tate Britain and the V&A, from the Hunterian Art Gallery and Glasgow University Library, from the Philadelphia Museum of Art and a number of private lenders “who wish to remain anonymous”. Phillips worked for two years gathering material for the exhibition—work funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the British Academy. If anything, this shows the importance of cooperative work and funding to such an immense and detailed exhibition. It also shows that Blake is demonstrably an international treasure.

For many people, however, Blake remains the poet of ‘Jerusalem’ from the ‘Preface’ to his Milton: A Poem (1808), adapted as a hymn by Sir Hubert Parry and adopted by the Suffragettes more than a century later; the creator of beloved children’s poems ‘The Lamb’ and ‘The Tyger’ from Songs of Innocence and of Experience (1789); or the man behind anarchic expressions such as the “mind-forg’d manacles” from ‘London’. However, during his lifetime, as this exhibition takes pains to present, Blake was also a successful engraver, a radically innovative print-maker, and a singularly influential artist. His father, James Blake, regarded him as a genius from a very young age and, were it not for the sheer amount of extant evidence, one might not believe that Blake was really the son of an encouraging and supportive hosier. The exhibition details Blake’s early life, with special attention to his father’s forethought and patronage: he gave Blake an allowance to buy prints and engravings so that he might learn from the Old Masters; he paid for Blake’s apprenticeship to James Basire so that he might have the practical skills of an engraver should he wish to become an artist later in life. At the end of the first room of the exhibition there are two excellent examples of Blake’s mid-career commission work. The first—a proof and print of Blake’s engraving (1788, 1790) after William Hogarth’s scenes from The Beggar’s Opera—shows how he develops his preference for the strong outline of forms rather than simply reproducing the chiaroscuro effect of Hogarth’s paintings as the etching progresses. The effect is that some of the nuance is lost, but more emphasis is gained. The second, the Head of a Damned Soul (also known as Satan) after William Fuseli (c. 1789-90), is an especially fine example of Blake’s dot and lozenge work, and demonstrates the grotesqueness of the human form.

Head of a Damned Soul, c. 1789-90

Both those new to and conversant with Blake’s art will be interested in the second room in the exhibition, which is dedicated to the artist’s innovation in printing and displays a vast array of materials that catalogue his developing technique. Beginning in the late 1780s, he began to experiment with a new manner of printing that combined etching with painting.

Using stop-out varnish, he would draw on his already-etched plates so as to produce colour prints—themselves a rarity in the Eighteenth Century—of the same engraving that were similar yet individualised. This method he described as “Illuminated Printing”. During this period of experimentation, Blake was incredibly productive as a poet-printmaker, for by 1793 he had produced many of his most influential works, as detailed in his prospectus “To the Public” issued in that same year: America, a Prophecy, Visions of the Daughters of Albion, The Book of Thel, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, Songs of Innocence and of Experience. As Blake’s techniques evolved, his use of colours and washes became more painterly and he became more interested in the surface texture of the print, discernible in the series of plates from Europe a Prophecy. The Large Colour Prints of 1795, especially Nebuchadnezzar (c. 1795-1805) and the three triptych-like versions of The House of Death/The Lazar House (c. 1795), are striking illustrations of Blake’s dedication to his artistic project. “Quite simply”, as Phillips asserts in his lavishly comprehensive exhibition catalogue, “and working alone, Blake had invented the most extraordinary innovation in this history of printmaking and painting.” This invention—the monotype—would go on to influence Edgar Degas and, more notably, Pablo Picasso.

The final room of the exhibition is split between Blake’s later works and those of his disciples, also known as the Ancients: Samuel Palmer, George Richmond, and Edward Calvert. The later Blake comprises some of the most spectacular but often overlooked pieces of Blake’s oeuvre, such as the epic Chaucer’s Canterbury Pilgrims (1810), the plates from Jerusalem (1804-1821) and the Illustrations form the Book of Job (1826), the Illustrations to the Divine Comedy (1824-7), and his woodblock prints for Thornton’s The Pastorals of Virgil (1821/c.1830). It is also illustrative of his continuing struggle for artistic integrity, with a tension between the need for commissioned work and his desire to communicate his vision in the work he undertook. What is striking about these later pieces is not only their scale but also Blake’s return to the myths and stories that inspired him to create his own, at a time when Romantic poets like Wordsworth and Coleridge were turning away from—or like Shelley, Byron, and Keats, were reinterpreting—their relationship with the classical.

However, though the scope of the exhibition allows for a certain consideration of Blake’s nachtleben, few beyond those with a particular interest in Blake’s influence as an artist will find much of value in considering the works of the Ancients. This is not because their work lacks merit or is inherently uninteresting, but because of the place in which they fall in the structure of the exhibition: their engravings and paintings take on a penumbral quality, like an afterimage or a vestige of one of Blake’s preceding images. Richmond’s Abel and the Shepherd (1825), for instance, not only revisits a subject already approached by Blake but is actually the product of Blake’s own hand—he helped Richmond shape the form of the body in the preparatory sketch for the painting. This is the difficulty with Blake, for he is invariably superior to, and more saturate than, those who succeed him.

Still, the underwhelming final stage of the exhibition does little to detract from the impressiveness of its scale and detail. And while it is designed to reward a patient, attentive, and repeat visitor, there is much to delight and engage those with only a passing interest in, or a novice knowledge of, Blake or printmaking.

[Reprinted with permission from the Oxonian Review.]