#when i read through i spent a lot of time trying to understand if marci saw her as an equal or as a younger friend she had to take care of

[franeridan]

I understand why everyone who read dunmeshi instantly shipped marci and falin but tbh the fact that it's just treated as canon by the fandom cuts on a lot of interesting analysis that could be done on their relationship outside of the romantic reading, which is kind of a shame

[mdhwrites]

When I watched Amphibia, I kinda had a hard time understanding how certain headcanons were developed in the fandom. Especially Grime being Sasha's 'toad dad' and Olivia and Yunan being Marcy's 'newt moms.'

Like...by the end of the series, I totally bought Sasha and Grime as close friends (heck, they sold me as friends partway through season two), but Grime never gave 'adoptive dad' vibes to me. Putting aside the fact Grime's the reason Sasha spent her first month in Amphibia in a cell, he's also a pretty toxic influence on her, indulging her worst traits and only really improving as a person when he and Sasha form the resistance in season three.

And I'm confident viewers only started the 'newt moms' headcanon because of the episode Olivia & Yunan. Which is pretty ironic, since in that episode, Yunan initially objects to saving Marcy (she didn't even refer to Marcy by her name, just 'the human' XD), and like you said, Olivia explicitly states she's motivated to save Marcy because she trusts her and thinks her intelligence will help them defeat Andrias, not because Marcy is someone she's emotionally attached to.

Sure, in The Hardest Thing, Olivia and Yunan hug Marcy goodbye, so there was clearly some fondness for her by the end, but nowhere near familial feelings. And yeah, maybe you could argue Olivia cared for Marcy since she insisted on being 'gentle' when Marcy was being pulled out of the tank, but that's just basic decency; hardly 'adoptive mother' behaviour.

With all that in mind, why do you think so many got so hooked on the idea of these people being found families for Sasha and Marcy? Did they think Sasha and Marcy both 'deserved' a found family just because Anne got that with the Plantars? Did they just like the idea, even if canon did almost nothing to validate it?

I personally think it's because a lot of people thought Sasha and Marcy's parents were abusive (another headcanon I can't get behind), and believed they deserved to find 'better' families in Amphibia. But that's my take; what's yours?

So there's a LOT here to potentially discuss because you're not wrong in saying that it's a dubious claim. Let's start with just my thoughts on them being found families: I like Grime as Sasha's father figure in works but it is much more a mentor and student relationship but where who is doing which is very dubious. The two need each other but how much one or the other need each other is constantly shifting and it's part of what makes their dynamic interesting. Trying to place a specific label on them is rough and I'd agree that saying that Grime is Sasha's first healthy friendship would be accurate because of the push and pull there.

Yunan and Olivia are great in fanworks as having had a real relationship with Marcy but the show just doesn't support it. Yunan seems to look down on her and barely know her while Olivia is a very normal archtype of the proper, Victorian woman who has to deal with childish antics. Neither are bad characters for it but it does mean that the moment in the end with her hugging Yunan and Olivia is more for the sake of a curtain call than it is a big relationship being wrapped up. They honestly symbolize Newtopia, which Marcy definitely should still love, rather than their actual characters in that hug and I think that works.

Now, why are they called found families?

Well, the first reading for why is honestly what I'd probably put my money on: It's a popular trope and people liked the dynamics enough to want to push it into the box they wanted it to be. Like how TOH is praised for its found family despite the family doing so little together, it's a trope with poor definitions, is hard to disprove and is just roaring through fiction right now so its overuse as a term isn't surprising. The fact that it gets used to describe so many people with just dynamics in general (frankly, it feels like it's becoming harder to write best friends in fiction partially from this) makes me unsurprised that it is getting used here since Anne does absolutely get a found family with the Plantars.

Which does bring a second part in: It makes Sasha and Marcy more important. If they're going on similar journeys as Anne than they totally aren't there to help with the themes and the like, the journey is about them too! It brings them closer to being the focus of the story and as narratively important as Anne which, as we've seen, was a big deal to the fandom. I won't even call this bad, fandom will do as it does, but it does also end up diminishing just how big a deal it was for the Plantars to so thoroughly integrate Anne into their family and then how the Boonchuys recognize that work and accept them readily too. If it's as easy as it had to have been for Marcy, Yunan and Olivia, it kind of cheapens the core thrust of the show, almost like it focused on Anne for a reason.

The last one is... KIND OF what you brought up but I think it's a lot deeper than you frame it. I recognize that nowadays I am an outlier. I literally go and take a walk with my mom every morning, or I'm supposed to, to try and help her be more physically active. My problems with my parents are mostly due to my brain not being able to accept anyone actually approves of me, let alone people who's approval I care about. I am so very lucky to have good parents who I am happy to call my parents and who I am glad to have the support of.

All too many kids, even those not in the LGBTQIA+ but ESPECIALLY if they are, have bad family homes. They dream of being able to escape to a new world that's better than theirs, meet people who accept them for them and let them do cool things and be themselves. Escapism, especially isekai, is EXTREMELY popular for a reason, especially as just the world in general sucks, regardless of your relationship with your family.

So then we get Marcy and Sasha still going back. Them ALL going back because sometimes change is inevitable and not always can you bring the ones you care about with you. It's a powerful message that spits in the eye of that escapism and for a lot of people, that HURTS. Like for as much as I defend the choice, I do understand why so many in the fandom reacted negatively to it. For as much as they potentially didn't care about the Amphibians, they don't want to lose the froggy world that they wanted to live in themselves.

And so we get the projection of abusive parents. We get the toads and newts also being found families because it's so much worse to give those people up in your life than just saying bye to your friends. We get reasons why they should have stayed or at least been allowed to travel between worlds. This isn't even all inherently wrong, especially if you are willing to admit that there was a reason why the show chose the ending it did, even if you wish you could have the one that makes you happier.

Hell, we even see some of that with how people treat angst right here. They want Sasha and Marcy to have abusive parents... Because then they can be told it's okay to reject reality, be given a hug and then move on. Not to explore that abuse but to be given the wish fulfillment of that abuse being met with kindness which is admittedly how you should meet that stuff, please take abuse victims seriously and help them, but life is more complicated than that most of the time.

These are arguments I can understand and sympathize with though. I wish I could see someone using mental illness as now their superpower to be something that makes me happy because it WOULD be nice if my depression made me better than others. I just... don't quite engage with media that way though. It's actually part of what I think makes scripted content harder for me because I engage too genuinely and don't just want a pat on the head and a juice box.

And that isn't to say people who do want that are wrong. I still don't want to be actively hurt by the media I consume. I am still there to be entertained and happy and how that happens will be different for each person. That's part of the joy of life.

So I won't tell people who want Yunan and Olivia to be Marcy's lesbian moms they're bad for wanting that. Just don't tell me that's objectively what happened in the story since analysis and headcanon are genuinely different.

======+++++======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead. If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

A Twitter you can follow too

And a Kofi if you like what I do and want to help out with the fact that disability doesn’t pay much.

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Twenty

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Welcome to the end of our tale, everyone! Thank you so much for reading and enjoying over the years. I love you so much and appreciate you more than words can say. Here's to 2021, my friends! Ad Victoriam, and stay safe! Tagging @anonymouscosmos​, @culturalrebel, @wrestlingfae​, @toxiicpop​,  @mercy-and-malice, @deepkittycollecto, @nelba, @mechanicalism, @commandershepardshtole, @valkyriejack and @kovu-the-mythical-being. Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

Part Fourteen: Dichotomy

Part Fifteen: The Litany Trial

Part Sixteen: Nice Try

Part Seventeen: Preparations

Part Eighteen: Divide And Conquer

Part Nineteen: Lucky

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains holiday celebrations, brief emotional distress and unprotected sex. Stay safe!]

Time seemed to pass both too fast and not fast enough. 

  Synths were accommodated, reprogrammed at their wishes or helped to adjust to their new lives. Doctor Amari and the rest of the Railroad had no shortage of work, and Desdemona eventually tapped MacCready and Cait to oversee their caravan logistics back to the Capital Wasteland. 

  "And the people of the Commonwealth slept soundly, for the greatest monster was gone." Nick had remarked, touching the brim of his fedora in a half-salute. The old detective quickly appointed himself as head of first impressions in Diamond City, making certain that no trouble befell any wayward synth that accidentally wandered in. There was still a lot of work to be done to repair the Broken Mask incident, after all.

  New settlements sprang up overnight and while there may not have been total harmony, there was the sensation of the whole Commonwealth heaving a sigh of relief. Recruits flocked to the Minutemen and Brotherhood in droves as Piper's Publick Occurrences spread the word of their successful campaign against the Institute. 

  Commonwealth boogeyman decimated by combination effort: Brotherhood Of Steel and Minutemen join forces to save Boston from bodysnatchers!

  Deacon had effortlessly deflected Piper every time she asked for an interview, the mysterious man more than content to keep the Railroad shadowy. The less everyone knew, the less they could tell, and that suited him just fine. "You did real good, Icebox. Helped a lot of people."

  Elder Brandis sought approval to establish a permanent outpost at the Boston airport ruins, the former paladin keen to send the Prydwen back to the Capital Wasteland. "Oh the Prydwen's a fine ship, but put me in the field any day!" The airship, once a proud symbol of the Maxson reign, now served little purpose aside from blocking the sun on occasion. Scribes laughed and played in the massive shadow, kicking up dust until the circle where the litany trial had taken place was nothing but a memory.

  X6-88 had floundered for several weeks, the courser falling into a depressive slump that not even Curie could rouse him from. Oddly enough, it was Preston who ended up being able to haul him out of the darkness, the lieutenant making a point to visit the courser to drag him from his room for target practice and other low-effort patrol duties. "Sometimes all folks need is a hand, General." 

  The courser went on to reluctantly take the role of defective defector, working as a consultant to the Minutemen to help ward off any future attacks by desperate coursers or Institute scientists. Preston found his input invaluable, and the duo could often be found in the lieutenant's quarters poring over threadbare maps and trading tactical information. Preston also seemed to have a calming effect on the synth hunter, helping to blunt some of the cold steel edge that X6 had honed his entire life. Add on to that the constant caring presence of Curie, and they made a strange but surprisingly effective trio. 

  With the new supply line firmly established between the verdant utopia of Starlight Drive-In and Oberland Station, the strain of the prior lean months finally eased a bit. Faces grew less pinched even with the increased burden of the synths, and many settlers began to tentatively plan for a small celebration in the beginning of the winter. 

  "'The Holidays' is what they been callin' it, real simple and succinct. Some freaky hodgepodge of everyone's traditions. I guess a lot of folks on that fancy director's board also celebrated around this time of year. Not that the synths would know, naturally." Hancock had muttered, his expression sour. "Poor bastards always workin', and they ain't got fuckall to show for it. Seems like a shit deal."

  Elder Brandis granted Danse an extended leave of absence after the toppling of the Institute without the paladin even requesting it, the large man dumbfounded for a moment upon receiving the news.

  "If you're up for it, I could use a hand back at Sanctuary." Vega had grinned up at him, her eyes squinting a little under the force of her smile. "A lot of prep work goes into a holiday, after all."

  ...

  Danse had taken it upon himself to retreat from Shaun's previous bedroom when he accompanied Vega and her son back to Sanctuary. He debated heavily on returning to the airport; after all, there was no real reason for him to stay in Sanctuary Hills, at least none that he dared to dwell upon. The few small projects that Vega had to manage were easily accomplished and he was left a bit lost in the wake of the excess of his leave.

  Vega, however, had begun framing in what was once the carpark for her house. Sturges helped of course, and once Danse caught on he was touched by the gesture. 

  "I don't want you to feel like there isn't room for you just because Shaun is back." Elizabeth had said, lugging a chunk of scrap metal from the wreckage of her car. 

  The paladin had to take a moment, claiming sawdust in his eye as the culprit.

  Now Danse lived in the area she had partitioned off for him, uncertain if he still believed he was intruding. Those thoughts were troubling, because if he could get comfortable…

  What if Vega eventually decided that Shaun needed a father and what if...what if she chose a real man? Really real, not a sham like Danse was. And if she did, what man would permit Danse to stay? What real man would permit a synth that was currently entangled by these...human emotions to remain on their property, even if Danse proved he wasn't a threat?

  What man would believe him if he claimed to have no interest in Vega? Hell, Danse didn't even believe himself. 

  But he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay. He wanted to tell Elizabeth...well, there were a lot of things he wanted to tell her.

  His silence was more of a burden each day, and Danse knew he must seem sullen. It gnawed at him; it felt like lying every time he choked the words back down because it wasn't the right time or he just didn't know what to say, and he didn't trust himself not to say something foolish.

  He decided he would wait until after the holiday gathering. Whatever the verdict was, it shouldn't take away from the joy she was clearly feeling over the festivities. So Danse threw himself into helping Sturges, Mama Murphy and the Longs around Sanctuary.

  Secretly making a toy truck for Shaun had been a painstaking process fraught with peril. Mainly because Danse was somewhat indelicate and carving tiny wheels had never been his area of expertise. Oh certainly, he could build a survival camp with nothing but a combat knife and time, but a toy...

  The paladin had spent countless hours creating prototypes in his cobbled-together room as he pondered the path he should take, sometimes working into the wan light of the morning. He eventually showed the truck to Jun, immensely fearful that Shaun might not enjoy the toy. Danse couldn't recall his own interests when he had been Shaun's age, and thus fell back on the other man's expertise. 

  "It looks good! Sand the wheels a little more, maybe give it a coat or two of paint." Jun praised the pensive paladin, turning the vehicle over in his hands to examine it. "Kyle loved these kinds of things y'know, trucks and trains and little toy boats." His gaze grew distant for a moment, the rough plaything stilling in his grasp. "Marcy thinks she's pregnant." He said abruptly.

  "Pregnant?" Danse repeated without meaning to, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

  Jun nodded jerkily. "It's been three months now. She's scared, Mr. Danse, real scared. Thinks something bad will happen."

  "What can we do?" The paladin asked sharply. 

  Jun gawked up at him, seeming confused. "We?"

  "I am unfamiliar with this process. What needs to be done?"

  "I...I don't follow, Mr. Danse."

  "To simplify the duration! What precautions can I-"

  "Whoa, hang on." Jun protested. "We aren't sure if the general will even let us stay here with an extra mouth to feed. I've been trying to figure out how to bring up the subject." He admitted. 

  "You haven't even told General Vega yet?!" Danse squawked. 

  "W-Well, no! I figured maybe we would...we'd see how the winter went and play it by ear." Jun mumbled, seeming defensive. 

  Danse seized the other man's arm, heedless of his protests as he hauled him across the front lawn to Vega's abode. Today was the day that Vega had planned to sort through decorations; there were many left over from the fall holiday the Commonwealth had been preparing to celebrate before...well, time had stopped for most when the bombs fell, it was understandable that faded pumpkins and skeletons would still grace crumbling walls with their orangey-cream presence.

  Vega looked up from the veritable pile of brittle, salvaged decor in confusion when Danse barged into their...her home, the paladin immediately halting and offering a sharp salute. "Danse! I...uh, what's wrong?"

  "Mr. Long has something he needs to discuss with you immediately." Danse informed her, tugging the other man forward. 

  "I-I...er, General, you…" Jun struggled to speak, twiddling his fingers wildly. "M-Marcy--"

  "What's wrong, Jun? Is she okay?" Vega asked, getting to her feet and shooting Danse a worried look. "Did something happen?"

  "B-Baby." Jun squeaked. "Pregnant."Backhand went still, her freckles stark against the fresh pallor of her face. "I'm sorry, General, I know we haven't discussed it beforehand a-and I know food's been better as of late...I-I guess she got enough nutrients and got healthy enough for...er, well, you know." Mr. Long looked like he wanted to disappear into the ground. "We should have spoke to you sooner; I don't know if she can leave with the weather being--"

  "Wh-Where are you going? Why leave, what?" Vega stammered, "Jun, you can't travel now, if something goes wrong-!"

  "We weren't sure if you'd let us stay!" The thin man interrupted her frantically. "This is your base, after all, and you didn't sign on for an extra person to worry about."

  Vega inhaled deeply. "Danse, could you give me a minute with Mr. Long?" She requested, her voice suspiciously even.

  Danse obeyed, closing the front door gently and meandering a pointed distance down the main thoroughfare so as not to eavesdrop. He had a relatively good idea of how the conversation would go, despite Jun's misgivings. So he wandered down to the huge tree at the end of the cul-de-sac, fiddling with the truck in his pocket absently as he stared upwards at the barren branches. 

  "Y'know kid," Mama Murphy piped up from her customary chair on her porch and the paladin turned to face her, giving the elderly woman his full attention. "When I had the Sight, I saw this place. Sanctuary." She nodded in the direction of the river, then gestured upwards. "The bridge, and this tree. Massive and old, worn out from all those years." She cocked her head, giving Danse an appraising look. "The tree though, it was...covered in lights. Like what you see in the pre-war mags. The Holidays, shinin' like a beacon of hope at the end of the tunnel." 

  Danse hummed, the vaguest beginnings of an idea taking root in his mind. He couldn't bring Vega's old life back, but maybe...maybe he could bring something from it back to her. Like what you see in the pre-war mags.

  "I think you're pickin' up what I'm puttin' down, kid." Mama Murphy's smile was knowing, the old woman reaching over to pet Dogmeat. The dog seemed to materialize out of thin air sometimes! "Now get to it."

  ...

  Backhand was already scurrying around the kitchen when Danse rose on the morning of the Holiday celebration, the paladin pausing only momentarily to yawn in the doorway before sleepily offering his assistance. "Is there something I can help with, Vega?"

  "Uh, Sturges, he said something about you and stuff from Goodneighbor, I think?" Elizabeth replied, obviously preoccupied with whatever she had in the semi-functional oven. Danse nodded, trudging across the kitchen to tug on his boots by the door. 

  Shaun bounded out of the bathroom, his face still damp from his morning wash. "Oh, can I help too? Please Mom, let me help Mister Danse and Mister Sturges!" He begged.

  "You'd better stay right where Danse and Sturges can see you." Backhand instructed him sternly, one oven-mitted hand gesturing to indicate the gravity of the situation. "Otherwise you're coming straight back inside. Go put on your warm coat."

  Shaun cheered in delight, racing back to his room.

  "It's okay that he's with you two, right? I know he's not your responsibility." Backhand continued in an undertone to the paladin.

  Danse's throat tightened and it took him a moment to respond, "I don't mind at all. He's a very well-behaved child."��

  "Let me know if he's an issue and I'll bring him back inside. I just need to get this done and the oven is being all-" 

  Danse stood up and placed his hands on her shoulders, deliberately schooling his expression into something more stern. "General, you're doing a fine job. Stop worrying."

  "Am I? Shit, I really hope so." Elizabeth mumbled, tipping her forehead until it rested against his chest. Danse prayed she couldn't hear his heart, hammering merely from her proximity. God, his body was nothing but an embarrassment waiting to happen. "I've never really done this crap. Not sure if I'm cut out for it."

  The momentary respite was broken when Shaun reappeared in his oversized flannel and oilcloth jacket, the child bolting past the two adults to put on his boots. Danse reluctantly released Backhand, noting how flushed her face was but not really daring to dwell on it. "I'll...I'll watch him." The paladin said, his voice a bit stilted. "I promise."

  "Thank you." Backhand mumbled, wiping her eyes and then returning to coddle…whatever it was in the oven.

  "Ready, Shaun?" Danse asked the boy, who nodded rapidly and extended a hand. 

  The snow outside was still fresh from the night before and Danse took a moment to appreciate the view of the Commonwealth covered in a thin layer of white. Off in the distance, the towering crimson insignia of the Red Rocket gasoline station stood stark against the backdrop of the gray sky. Even further down the road slumbered the empty shell of Concord, the tallest of the town's dilapidated buildings only just visible from the paladin's position. 

  Shaun tugged at his hand, pulling his attention back to the present. "Mister Danse, Mister Sturges is waiting for us!" The child announced, waving up at the engineer who was currently settled into a crook of the brittle branches that graced the tree on the cul-de-sac island. "Hi Mister Sturges!"

  "Howdy fellas! Come to give me a helpin' hand?" Sturges called, grinning down at the two of them. 

  "What assistance can we offer?" Danse queried, wary that the other man might suggest Shaun climb up to him. His fears were quickly allayed when Sturges instead asked Shaun and Danse to begin untangling the long strands of old lights. 

  Hancock and his ilk had arrived from Goodneighbor, bearing the gifts of dubious treats and many, many mangled strings of lights. Goodneighbor had always been drenched in neon, after all, so Danse had assumed the ghoul mayor would be the best person to call upon for aid. It would appear that Hancock had delivered in spectacular fashion.

  "With your help, we'll have this place lookin' pretty as a picture in no time!"

  …

  Maybe she had bitten off slightly more than she could chew, trying to cook a traditional dinner. Backhand sighed, glumly poking at the cold poultry with a wooden spoon. Her cooking skills had never been much to write home about in the first place, and this only served to solidify that fact. 

  "Oh Mum, I'm so sorry. The old oven just isn't how it used to be." Codsworth commented, his mechanical voice tinged with melancholy. 

  "It's not a big deal, Codsworth. I hate to waste the food, that's all." Backhand muttered, assuring herself that she wasn't fighting back frustrated tears, her eyes were just tired. "Damn thing didn't even get to the warm phase."

  "Mum, if I might suggest…?" The robot started hesitantly, carrying on when she nodded. "Perhaps it can be salvaged. After all, we make bread in that same pan by tucking it beneath the hot coals out front. What do you say, shall we give it a go?"

  "Got nothing to lose, right?" 

  "It will be just fine, Mum! You're an adaptive sort." Codsworth remarked, drifting out the front door to stoke the usual cooking fire to life once more. "Indeed, just fine!" He called. 

  Vega shook her head ruefully. "Oh I'm sure." The woman grumbled. "Can't cook and comes with baggage. What a catch ol' Vega is." At least the bread had come out well, in spite of the brisk weather. She could thank whoever for that small favor.

  Once Codsworth had coaxed the embers to life in the fire pit, Elizabeth bundled up and brought the still-cold cast-iron pot outside. Maybe it had been wishful thinking to believe that the oven portion of her stove would still work. Or even heat at all. It had been promising earlier in the week, but this might be a blessing in disguise. If the whole house had gone up due to a cooking malfunction...well, the holidays wouldn't be too happy then, would they?

  "Please cook." She begged under her breath, troweling hot coals onto the battered dutch oven lid. "I need this, y'know? Just a little victory, that's all I'm asking for here." 

  "Shall I get started on the tatoes, Miss Vega?" 

  Elizabeth nodded, only half-listening to Codsworth. She knew she would have a good forty five minutes to an hour to wait, and it wasn't as if it was colder outside than it was inside. The joys of semi-functional heating! 

  Vega shook her head at herself after a second, since when did she dwell on everything that Sanctuary wasn't? At the end of the day, it was her home. She wouldn't trade it for the world, and she knew she had much more than most people.

  At that thought, her gaze wandered to where Danse and Shaun were. The larger man had Shaun on his shoulders while he patiently unwound a massive bundle of flickering string lights. Shaun, for his part, was passing the untangled lights up to Sturges. The engineer slid down the ladder so he could reach the child, looping the lights over his arm before climbing back up and painstakingly placing them in the gnarled grasp of the tree's limbs.

  The manufactured cheer that the lights had given off pre-war was still somewhat there, though the radiant colors were washed out to pastel and the warm whites had gone dingy gray. Instead of it being a melancholy reminder that her life had changed irreparably, Backhand was overcome with gratitude. For her son's safe return, regardless of his synthetic makeup, and for the man who was currently carrying Shaun on his shoulders. For her home, for her family.

  A family. 

  Perhaps she was getting a little ahead of herself. After all, Danse was still adjusting to life in ordinary time. It would be selfish of her to voice her feelings to him while he was coming to terms with everything that had happened. For better or for worse, their lives were different now. 

  It ought to be enough that he was in her life at all. She should be content. His presence alone was a miracle; for all intents and purposes he should be dead. Yet there he was, mere feet away, helping to brighten up the holiday celebration.

  Tonight there would be a multitude of visitors. God only knew how many would arrive from settlements near and far, to say nothing of Goodneighbor, Diamond City, the Prydwen and the Castle! It would be an incredibly busy evening for certain. Hancock had arrived early with a posse of ragtag drifters from Goodneighbor, all of them offering gifts of food or scavenged ornaments to decorate. Hence the massive mound of lights that was currently being diligently sorted through.

  The aforementioned ghoul appeared to have delegated the task of quality checking the lights, as his form currently leaned against the faded blue siding of her house. With cigarette smoke wafting from his mouth and nasal cavity in equal amounts, he seemed content to just watch the chaos unfold. 

  "Aren't you a little chilly?" Backhand queried, raising an eyebrow. The mayor was still clad in his usual garb of...for lack of a better term, repurposed period dress. Granted it wasn't seasonably cold out, at least not like how she remembered it being before the bombs dropped.

  "Nah, we ghouls run pretty warm. Ham's like a portable space heater." Hancock answered, giving her a lazy grin. "Cute of you to worry, though. I must be growin' on ya'."

  "Whoa there, let's not get too crazy."

  "Whatcha' think, General?" Sturges shouted from his perch, waving to get her attention.

  Danse turned in place, appearing to realize that she was watching as his hands flew up and grabbed Shaun's legs, stabilizing the small boy on his shoulders. 

  Backhand couldn't keep from smiling when she called back, "it looks wonderful! Keep up the great work!"

  "That ain't the only thing that looks wonderful, right Sunshine?" Hancock snickered, rolling his eyes at the now-sputtering woman. "You better give the Brave Little Toaster the ride of his life, that's all I gotta' say."

  "Hancock!" Vega hissed, making a half-hearted swipe at the mayor. "You fuckin'--"

  "Ah ah, little pitchers!" Hancock scolded, tilting his head to the side to draw Vega's attention to the rapidly-approaching form of Duncan, MacCready's son. "Gotta' watch that mouth of yours, Sunshine."

  "This ain't over, ya' raisin-lookin' bastard." Backhand snarled under her breath, pasting on a friendly smile for Duncan while Hancock wheezed with laughter. "Hey bud, how's things?" She greeted the child, who grimaced. 

  "Dad's kissin' Miss Cait again. S'gross." The little boy announced, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 

  "That does sound pretty gross." Hancock piped up before Backhand could reply. "But you like seein' your old man happy, right? The lady makes him happy. Simple as that."

  "Yeah, I guess. Can I play with Shaun?" Duncan asked Vega, eyes wide as he seemed to take in the tree covered with lights. 

  "Go ahead, kiddo! Just be careful and stay away from Sturges' ladder." Elizabeth warned, grinning when the little boy took off with a whoop. 

  Cait and MacCready strode up after a moment, both of them red-faced. MacCready bent double, his hands on his knees. "I'm not built for these bullsh--awful conditions." He panted. "I don't know how the kid does it. He was nearly dead a few months ago and now he's out here kicking the snow in the a--er, butt."

  Backhand glanced around, and then snorted. "You call this snow? It's a dusting. Back before-"

  "Ah ah, easy now Mumsicle, we ain't got time for yer trip down memory lane." Cait teased. "Work to be done, aye? C'mon then, General, shape up. What you doin' on the ground anyway, all crouched like a mother hen broodin'?"

  "I'm cooking." Vega replied tersely. 

  "Oh aye? Looks like yer shirkin' t' me, love. Codsy can manage that mess, c'mon." Cait seized her elbow, levering her up out of the snowy grass. "Now, what needs doin'?"

  ...

  The day was a whirlwind of arrivals, preparations and well wishers. Elder Brandis even stopped by briefly, taking precious time away from his all-consuming duties to distribute some useful supplies and catch up on the gossip. 

  The Diamond City trio graced Sanctuary with their presence shortly before noon, Nat scurrying off to play with Duncan and Shaun while Piper made a beeline for Hancock's merry band. Nick was more keen to meander around the outskirts of the groups forming, amber eyes taking in his surroundings.

  Preston appeared midafternoon with X6, Curie and the entire O'Brian clan in tow, later than expected but apparently they had stopped to help out a settlement along the way. 

  The cul-de-sac soon rang with the laughter of the rambunctious children; even little Siusan was permitted to briefly toddle about in the trampled snow under the watchful gaze of Eamon. The weather was chilly but the sun had broken through the clouds throughout the day, sending momentary waves of brilliance across the Commonwealth. 

  Every table and chair that could be salvaged had been assembled on the old foundation at the end of the cul-de-sac, and it was there that the adults began to gather as the sun set. Metal drums loaded with wood were lit, providing heat and illumination to the many guests of the Commonwealth's first official potluck dinner. 

  "Or rather," Piper amended, clearing her throat with a touch of self-importance as she tapped her notepad, "the first documented official potluck dinner."

  The large tree twinkled and shone in the fast-approaching darkness, the occasional flicker or broken bulb doing little to diminish the cheer it provided. The food was distributed, Backhand's roast chicken disappearing without a hitch. The young woman couldn't help doing a mental dance of victory, delighted that Codsworth's quick thinking had saved that particular endeavor.

  Vega found a place to sit somewhere in the middle of one of the many long tables, red from the praise of her companions and the persistent chill in the air. She got even redder when Preston loudly proclaimed a toast, to the General!, her lieutenant tipping his bottle and everyone else following suit. 

  "I remember when I first met the general, she was half-dead on her feet." Preston began the story, his smile fond. "Sturges couldn't even believe our luck. Hell, none of us could. When freedom called, our general answered!"

  Backhand, who had lived the story and knew all the ins and outs, found her attention wandering to Danse while Preston regaled the crowd with his tale. The paladin seemed to be listening closely, his meal forgotten. Deacon even began to thieve bits of chicken and tato out from beneath his nose, the Railroad agent shooting Vega a sly wink over his sunglasses. 

  Backhand shook her head at the other man's antics, then focused her attention on Preston. "...'Lurk queen, a huge, mean seabug, taken out by landmines! The Castle was ours once again, and we all had General Vega to thank for it." The lieutenant stated firmly. "The one who can get things done in the Commonwealth, the one who gave folks hope when it was in mighty short supply. We uh, we owe you a lot, ma'am." He raised his bottle once more. "To General Vega, leader of the Minutemen!"

  "To Elizabeth!" Hancock yelled, echoed by half the damn populace as Vega tried to wave it off, the young woman laughing awkwardly. "To our Sunshine, the hero of the Commonwealth!" 

  "Synth savior, a regular knight in shining armor." Deacon teased.

  "Well done, General Vega." Danse said warmly, "I can't know for certain whether the Brotherhood itself would be proud, but I certainly am." His praise for whatever reason made Vega's blush feel like it would scorch her skin. 

  Oh she knew damn well why, she was just being willfully oblivious at this point.

  "Speech! Speech! Is that not zee norm for zis sort of occasion?" Curie called, the diminutive synth currently sharing X6-88's coat as well as his plate of food. X6 didn't seem to have any reservations about the matter, his arm slung around her shoulders without a care in the world.

  Much to Vega's chagrin, the majority appeared to be in favor of such a vocal endeavor. She attempted to laugh off the suggestion to no avail, and finally got to her feet. "Alright, alright, settle down. I'll say a few words if it'll get you all off my damn back." She grumbled, her body thoroughly warm now with a combination of embarrassment and gratitude. "I uh…" 

  Vega trailed off as she looked out over the ragtag gang of expectant faces staring back at her. So many friends and neighbors, finally getting the chance to breathe. The chance to celebrate the fruits of their labor...it was sobering.

  "I can't thank you all enough for...well, for everything that you've done. You all sacrificed so much for this peace, stuff I could never imagine doing even before the bombs dropped." She cleared her throat. "My mentor, Sergeant Shaun Cathan, was a great man, and he often had some very succinct or choice words which I'm not about to repeat in polite company."

  "Aw c'mon-!" Zeke began to protest loudly, his voice fading as he noticed the small gaggle of children still gawking at his power armor.

  Backhand continued, her jaw set firmly, "but one thing I can say that he told me is this: a leader who permits their pride to impede their decisions is doomed to failure. Pride built the Institute, and that same pride rotted it to the core. Pride built the Brotherhood of Steel, the Minutemen, and we've seen the both of them nearly toppled." Vega clenched her fist. "Pride brought nuclear fire down on Boston, but people hauled themselves outta' the ashes of that fire. Good people, tough people. Folks I knew. Folks I cared for, even if some of 'em did spend a little too much time on the Cape. If pride can do so much effin' harm, I expect simple compassion and decency to do just as much good. Hell, more than that. Humanity's built itself back up after the cluster that was armageddon, and we ain't through yet." 

  She tipped the jar she had been drinking out of towards the crowd, sternly studying the collection of scavengers, families both new and familiar.

  ...

  "So here's to you, my friends. To all that you've done, and to all that you will do." 

  Vega's salute was rigid, pre-war. Like her helmet on the table beside her, scraped and covered in faded sigils. The mixture of candlelight and the lights on the tree reflected off the worn lenses of her glasses, shielding her eyes from view. Danse wished desperately that he could see her eyes; more than anything he wished to stand up and flat-out state what she had done for him to every soul there, display his...admiration. 

  Was that even the right word? Admiration, adoration, affection--

  His face was strangely warm all of a sudden. Danse flinched, staring down at his mug of coffee with single-minded intent as the buzz of conversation around him picked back up. His mind raced, pieces falling into place in a nigh-unstoppable rush.

  Affection. Like...what he had felt for Cutler? Almost. A little to the left of that. Brighter. 

  Happier. 

  Not perfect, nothing could ever be perfect. But...

  "Elizabeth Vega?" A male ghoul's voice barely penetrated the paladin's consciousness, his words not really registering until, "Beth, it really is you!" The ghoul exclaimed. "I thought I was crazy! It's me, Beth. It's Nate."

  "...Nate?" 

  Danse's head whipped up so fast his neck popped in warning, the paladin having been only tangentially aware of the conversation happening mere feet away from his position. But at that particular nickname his entire being snapped to attention, eyes darting sidelong from where he had been intently studying his mug of coffee. 

  The ghoul man that Vega was currently speaking to was an inch or two taller than her, with a single tuft of dark hair that still remained over his left ear. He appeared absolutely delighted, but Vega seemed...wary.

  "Beth," Danse heard him say once more, and he watched Backhand visibly tense. "I never thought I would see you again! After the bombs dropped--I mean how the hell did...is that Shaun? God, he got so big!"

  "Nate, is there something I can do for you?"

  Nate. 

  Danse's breath caught in his throat and his mouth went dry. Nate? Nate her ex-husband from before the war? Nate, the man who had divorced her once he found out she was pregnant with his child? 

  Somehow he had managed to survive? 

  Oh, what an incredibly bitter thing to think! Danse was somewhat startled by his own dark path of reasoning. But it wasn't untrue; his mind railed at the unfairness of it all. 

  The paladin stood up, his mug of coffee forgotten. He wasn't exactly certain what he was about to do, but he also wasn't going to do nothing. He cast around wildly for a plan as he approached Elizabeth from behind around the table, and Danse latched onto what was probably the least intelligent course of action that he could have conjured up.

  "Elizabeth," the paladin called, loud enough to be heard over the general hubbub. She turned and Danse briefly spied a look of intense relief on her face before he enveloped her in his arms. "You appeared cold, figured I could warm you up a bit." He reasoned aloud, smiling benignly over her head at Nate. "Who's this?"

  Vega began to introduce him even with her face still comically buried in Danse's chest, "Nate, I'd like you to meet-"

  "Paladin Logan Danse, Northeastern chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel." Danse interrupted her smoothly, extending a hand to Nate. "I've heard a great deal about you, Nate. It's a privilege to meet you, and a welcome surprise to see that you endured the radiation."

  "Uh, is it? Well I-I guess it is." Nate looked flummoxed and crestfallen all at once, glumly shaking Danse's hand. "I suppose you two are, er..."

  "Vega is my partner, yes. For over a year now." Danse replied once the other man had trailed off, his tone saccharine-sweet. He heard Vega gasp against his chest. "She is a truly incredible woman. I'm immensely lucky."

  "Yeah, I...yeah. Uh, I have to go...talk to--I'll see you later, Beth." Nate squeaked, sidestepping away from the two of them and making a beeline for the road.

  "I can't even believe it." Backhand's voice grated with tangible irritation. "I cannot even fuckin' fathom--I...dammit, why him?!" She seethed into Danse's jacket, clenching her fists on his hips. "Phew, boy, I sort of thought I'd already dealt with all that resentment." The woman admitted unhappily.

  "You do things in your own time." Danse replied quietly. "Are you alright?"

  Vega went still for a second. Danse felt her unclench her fists, hands going slack on his body. Had he misspoken-?

  "In my own time, huh?" Vega muttered, almost like she was thinking out loud. "I...I'll be back in a little while, Danse."

  …

  I'm not panicking. Definitely not panicking. One hundred percent not panicking, totally fine.

  Backhand scurried away from the paladin, trying to hide the tell-tale redness of her face. She needed to find either Mrs. O'Brian or MacCready, fast. 

  As luck would have it, MacCready found her. The former merc tapped on her shoulder as she bounced up on her tiptoes to search for Mrs. O'Brian. "Hey boss, Shaun wanted me to ask you if he could sleep over with Duncan tonight." The man began after she whirled around to face him.

  "Yes." Vega replied, perhaps a little too quick and definitely too enthusiastic. "Mac you're a lifesaver, I was just about to ask-"

  "-for me and Cait to watch your kid so you and the tin can can get some alone time?" MacCready smirked, giving her a wink. "Dang General, I don't think I've ever seen you so red! Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

  "Shut up, Mac, you're so exasperating." Backhand jabbed a teasing finger into the center of his chest. "You talk, Mayor, and I'll know." The threat was toothless; the both of them grinned at each other after their fierce staring contest. "Thanks for everything."

  "Don't mention it. I figure getting you some Brotherhood...uh, Steel, heh, is a pretty decent way to make up for the fact that I didn't bring you a present." Mac shrugged, fiddling with the bill of his hat. "I have beef with the Capital Brotherhood, but these guys...I mean, they don't seem all bad." He allowed grudgingly, giving Vega a gentle nudge with his shoulder. "Go on."

  A bracing shot of whiskey shored up her tenuous spark of confidence and Vega marched back to Danse, the large man now engaged in conversation with X6 while Shaun, Duncan, Bridget, Nat and Matthew swirled around their ankles. 

  Danse was saying, "--collateral ramifications would be inadvisable, I suggest a soft breach. With adequate preparation-" 

  "Adequate preparation on your part borders on over-caution." X6 interrupted him dismissively. "However, I will take it into account and speak with Preston on the matter. He seems to share your morality. A pity."

  "Play at the unfeeling machine all you want, X6." Danse retorted. "It does you no favors. You have people who care about you now, and you would not have asked for my input if you believed the endeavour would be futile."

  "True enough, Paladin." The vaguest hint of a smile tugged at X6's mouth. "You are capable."

  "I suppose that is the best that I can hope for."

  "Hey, Danse? Can I uh, have a little chat?" Backhand asked, stifling a hysterical giggle when Danse immediately looked guilty. The paladin nodded, bidding X6 farewell and attempting to sidestep around the children who were currently playing tag in an ever-tightening circle. "Not um, here though. Let's go to my house, okay? Shaun, you're all set to stay overnight with Duncan, Mac and Cait, right?"

  "Yeah!" Shaun replied breathlessly, pausing in his chase to give his mother a massive grin. "Already brought my blankets over and everything. Mister MacCready said Duncan and I could sleep in their wagon, and that he'd tell us Grognak stories!"

  Danse's brow furrowed. "We are leaving the gathering, then?" He asked, looking a bit distressed when Elizabeth nodded. "A moment, please." He turned back to the children, calling for Shaun. 

  The boy bolted away from the group, skidding in the muddy slush. "Yeah, Mister Danse?" He asked, his impatience plain.

  "I, er. I...happy holidays." The paladin mumbled, extracting a small bundle from his jacket pocket and giving it to the child. 

  "Whoa, for me?!" Shaun practically crowed, tearing through the old newspaper to reveal the gift.

  It was a sturdy carved vehicle, its edges sleek and smooth. The wood was coated in shiny green paint, giving the little truck a distinct air of newness in this post-apocalyptic world. Danse swallowed audibly as Shaun stared down at the toy without saying a word. 

  Backhand closed her eyes, hoping and praying that the kid remembered his manners. She hadn't even known Danse had planned on giving him something. Did he make the truck himself? It was wood, not the usual plastic or aluminum of pre-war children's toys. When had he found the time to make a toy? She suddenly remembered his uncharacteristically wide yawn that morning and her eyes flew open, darting to look at Danse. He had been staying up, hadn't he?

  "I love it, Mister Danse!" Shaun interrupted her mental panic with his enthusiastic eruption, smiling wide and bolting forward to hug Danse around the waist. Danse's own relief was evident, the large man patting the child on the back with an awkward chuckle.

  Oh Jesus, I'm not going to cry, Vega insisted, taking a deep breath. Nope, won't do it.

  "Mom look, look what Mister Danse gave me!" Shaun exclaimed, as if she hadn't been standing right there the whole time. 

  "It's really cool, right?" Backhand grinned, rumpling his hair and then giving him a kiss on the forehead. "Make sure you wash your face and brush your teeth before bed, okay? I hope you and Duncan have fun. I love you." 

  "I love you too, Mom, I will. Thank you again, Mister Danse!" Shaun rushed to say, clearly eager to return to his friends. 

  "Alright, go on." Vega tapped the end of his nose, "go have fun." She watched him scramble through the slush, nearly tripping again. "Jesus, he's a bull in a china shop," she sighed, making Danse snort. "Shall we, Paladin?"

  He fell into step beside her, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket and his back ramrod straight. He was silent until they were actually in Elizabeth's living room, the young woman barely able to shut the front door before he started babbling, "if I offended you earlier, if I-I overstepped my bounds, I apologize. I just recalled what you had said about the name he used for you and I'm afraid I started moving before I could reconsider-"

  "Danse, do you remember how we started all of this?" Vega cut off what promised to be a downright incredible justification, cocking her head to the side. "How we met, and what happened?"

  "You came to our aid at the Cambridge police station. Then you carried on assisting me with our mission. You helped acquire the deep range transmitter. You greased my armor." Danse paused, fidgeting. "You...said it was alright if I wanted to kiss you."

  “It’s alright if you want to kiss me, you know.” Her smile was gentle. “I wouldn’t mind.”

  Vega nodded, smiling once more. "The offer still stands, naturally."

  "I...things are different now. I'm different. You still...even now, after everything that you know about me?"

  "Of course."

  "I didn't want to believe you felt that strongly about our...about us." Danse was smiling, actually smiling! "I'd given up hope a long time ago that I would ever be enough for anyone. I was never...enough. Smart enough, or strong enough or...well, just enough, I suppose." He shrugged, his smile fading. "With what happened between Maxson and I, and previously with Cutler…" The large man trailed off.

  Vega took a deep breath, nodding furiously. "I do feel strongly for you. Danse, I know that this is a lot, b-but I...uh, I think I love you." She gestured up and down at the speechless paladin, feeling the heat that bloomed fresh on her cheeks. "Not just the wrapping, y'know, but uh. The whole package. You."

  His look of shock and confusion slowly dissolved into something unreadable, and he broke eye contact for a moment to stare down at his boots. 

  "Uh, it's okay if you don't reciprocate! O-Or even if you can't reciprocate, I'm not going to be offended!" Elizabeth rushed to add, waving her hands nervously. "I know that this is a lot to dump on you all at once, I-I'm sorry. I don't want you feeling pressured to give me an affirmative answer just because you don't want to hurt my feelings or whatever."

  "I...I can't say that I haven't thought about it." He admitted softly. "But Shaun, he needs--Vega, I'm not really human." 

  "Neither is Shaun, but I don't love him any less." Elizabeth replied. "Shaun is my son. For all intents and purposes, he is my real son, Danse."

  "It's one thing to overlook it for a child, Vega. But I'm...what if something goes wrong with me? What if there's some sort of fault in my programming, and that's why I'm like this? What if-"

  "It's alright if you don't want me, or even if this is too much right now. I know, it's a lot." Vega interrupted him, her heart sinking but determined to make damn sure he didn't feel pressured.

  "Christ, that's not what I meant. I just want to make certain you know exactly what it is that you're agreeing to." Danse cut her off, his shoulders rigid like he was bracing for impact. 

  "I understand, Danse. I've understood for a while now." Elizabeth dared to rest her hand on his arm. "I want to be with you. I know that nothing in this shitshow of a future is guaranteed and I want to have something good in my life before my inevitable demise at the hands of some overconfident mole rat."

  Danse nodded stiffly, and then grabbed her by the lapels of her canvas coat. Vega found herself abruptly pinned against the wall, Danse's mouth hungrily seeking her own. "You mean that?" He panted.

  The brush of the stubble on his face reminded her of their first kiss in the Cambridge station and drove home the differences between he and Nate for the hundredth time. Nate was always clean-shaven, favored pecks on the cheek and lived saturated with cologne. But Danse was grizzled, earnest, reeking of the outdoors and power armor grease. Nate had been eloquent, while Danse was taciturn or tripped over his words. Nate was cold and calculating, and Danse…

  Danse was fiery and raw, more vulnerable now than she could ever recall him being before. His knee nudged against her thigh and without conscious input, Elizabeth parted her legs for it and threw her arms around his neck to try to urge him even closer. "Yes, Danse," she gasped. "Oh, Jesus, yes, fuck-ing shit--"

  She ground herself down against his leg, relieved that everything seemed to be functioning normally and somewhat impressed by her body's ability to mount such a rapid response after a two hundred-plus year dry spell! 

  "Language," Danse rumbled in reply, his hands tugging her heavy coat off of her shoulders. "Too fast?"

  "No, hell no!" Backhand protested, "not fast enough."

  "Shh," Danse rested his hands on her hips, shoving up her shirt slightly so he could touch bare skin. "I have you, Vega." Vega pushed herself excitedly into his grip, grinding on his thigh and arching her back. The way his breath hitched sent shockwaves to her core; the way he watched her...

  "Danse we should...we should-" Vega's voice wavered as Danse laved her throat with tender kisses. "-should--bedroom, bed."

  "Yes." The paladin growled, making no move to actually follow the direction. That is, until he hoisted her up to rest on his hips. 

  Backhand yelped, her thighs gripping his sides tightly. "H-Hey!"

  Danse pressed his forehead to her own, brown eyes attempting to read her soul. "Elizabeth…" he sighed, his expression gone hopelessly soft. "I should warn you, if we...if you do this, I...listen, I can be a little--a little wordy, sometimes. If I am speaking too much-"

  "Hey, no, you talk as much as you'd like, okay? Doesn't bug me at all." Vega assured him, slightly curious about what this might mean. Wordy? 

  "Elizabeth, you are everything that I never knew I was looking for." Danse murmured. "When I lost Cutler, I didn't think I deserved to be happy again. I assumed that my failure would continue to darken any future triumph, and when the majority of Gladius was...I feared that I was unfit for my rank. How could anyone have faith in my skills after such a catastrophic loss of life?"

  "It's hard being the one making the choices. You have to be able to bear the burden of responsibility and also the burden of guilt." Vega reasoned, sympathizing with his plight.

  "You had faith in me, though. You didn't even know me, but you didn't judge me for my inadequacy and you allowed me some damn peace. I'm just sorry you had to go through that abuse at Maxson's whim for my sake." Danse cupped her hand in his own, pressing kisses to her scarred knuckles. "You've already done so much for me, Vega. Let me undo you?" He offered seriously, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  "Well, I uh, I-I can't say I've ever been propositioned quite like that!" Backhand stuttered, certain that her flush covered her entire body at this point. 

  His laughter, heard so rarely, washed over her like a tidal wave. "Forgive me."

  "Only if you keep asking me to have sex like that." Vega shifted her hand in his grip, intertwining their fingers. "C'mon, bedroom."

  "It's not just that." Danse tried to protest, shaking his head. "I care about you. About your wellbeing. I want to make you happy."

  "You do. So happy. I'm so glad that you're here with me still." Vega turned in the doorway of her room when he set her down, seizing Danse by the collar of his worn t-shirt and tugging him into her arms. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Danse."

  "You don't know how much it means to me to hear you say that." 

  "It's the truth, though!" She insisted.

  Danse surged forward, his kisses still rough and demanding as he fought to claim her affection. But she gave it freely, all he could ever want and more.

  He stripped her of her shirt and dragged his own off over his head, chuckling at the way she greedily drank in the bare skin he presented. "See something you like, General?" 

  He was hairier than she was used to, but Backhand decided it suited him. Nate, after all, had been absolutely adamant that body hair was grotesque, and now look at him. He'd likely never have to worry about that again.

  Thinking of Nate yet again put a frown on her face and Danse paused, giving her a quizzical look. "Is something amiss?"

  "Oh! No, I'm sorry. I was just remembering. Nate was all…" Elizabeth gestured vaguely at Danse's chest. "He shaved everything. I'm not used to all...well, seeing so much."

  "Is it off-putting? I assure you it's within the Brotherhood's hygiene guidelines, but if you don't like it I-"

  "No, I love it. It's new. I've seen your arms, after all, I knew what I was getting into." Vega teased, grinning to ease his worry. "If you can accept all my stretch marks and leftovers, I can definitely handle your chest pelt."

  "I'm planning on doing far more than accepting." Danse cradled her breasts in his palms, the paladin lowering his head to draw his tongue over one of her nipples. "I don't care." He soothed when Elizabeth tried to stammer out something else in regard to her stretch marks. "I don't care. It doesn't make you any less desirable to me, Elizabeth."

  Vega squeezed her eyes shut, kissing his forehead as he continued to cautiously rouse her peaks until they were stiff and aching for more. Then his thumbs took over, stroking in slow, firm circles that made her quiver from head to toe. "You...you're really good at that." Elizabeth said faintly.

  "I'm pleased you think so." Danse grunted when her fingers found his belt buckle. "It has been a significant amount of time for me as well, I...my excitement may be a bit obvious." He admitted, his smile sheepish. 

  Vega's breath caught in her throat, her hands trembling as she struggled to draw down the worn zipper of his jeans. The underside of his cock throbbed against her palm when she dared to slip her hand into his briefs, his skin searing and smooth. 

  Danse huffed out a breath, crumpling a little at her tentative touch. "Elizabeth," he groaned, hiding his face in her neck as he rolled his hips eagerly into her hand. 

  "Keep saying my name like that." She ordered, laughing when the paladin nodded rapidly into her shoulder. "I love you, Danse."

  ...

  Danse rumbled again, words failing him while Elizabeth's fingers wrapped around his cock. This seemed like a dream, another one of his fantasies brought into being. He couldn't seem to do anything aside from stare down at her hand. 

  "Hey, Danse?"

  He jerked to attention, eyes flying up to meet her own guiltily. "Y-Yes, Vega?" He stuttered.

  "Do you...uh, y'know." Backhand fumbled to undo the button on her jeans. "You can, if you'd like." She finished awkwardly.

  No sooner had she given him permission than Danse was pulling her hand out of his pants, urging her backwards onto her bed even as he kissed her battered knuckles again. "Yes." He grated out, kneeling to untie her boots so he could get her pants off. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes."

  "A for enthusiasm, big guy." Elizabeth teased, lazily fingercombing his short hair back. Her veneer of composure was shattered when the paladin eased her underwear down her legs, the young woman covering her face as if she was embarrassed. "Listen, just uh, go easy on me. It's been over two hundred years, after all." She reasoned weakly.

  Danse swallowed hard. Cutler had always praised his dirty talk, the calculated way he could take apart a person with his words and touch alone. Maxson hadn't appreciated his speech, granted, but perhaps…

  "You're saying you don't want me to bury my fingers in you, Elizabeth? You don't want me to open you up, work my way into that beautiful, flushed little cunt of yours?" Danse rasped, two fingers tracing lightly on her pubic mound. Her cesarean scar was faintly visible, and he felt a brief flare of concern before recalling that was indeed where the scar was from.

  "Oh, Jesus. Okay." Vega gasped, blue eyes wide in what Danse could only assume was shock. "Keep that up and you won't have to worry about using anything else. Fuck, Danse, have some pity here." She pleaded, burying her hands in her hair. 

  "Language. Do you deserve my pity? How would you earn it?" The paladin queried, the heel of his hand applying steady pressure to her mound now. 

  "I can be good, Paladin! I can be really good. So good." Her breathless use of his title had Danse's cock pounding, though he tried not to make it obvious. "Please Danse, please touch me…"

  Danse climbed up onto the bed alongside her, gently parting her labia with his fingers. "You'll be good for me, Elizabeth?" He asked, propping himself up with an elbow.

  "Yes, please."

  She had wonderful manners. Danse grazed her clit and her breath stuttered, the paladin spreading the liberal lubrication that she had already created with deft, slow strokes of his index. "Please, what?"

  "P-Please...Danse."

  He cautiously eased one finger into her, exhaling raggedly when her hand sought out his cock. "Vega-"

  "Shh, let me." Elizabeth hushed him, her smile a little dreamy as Danse crooked his finger and rubbed in just the right spot. "Oh, f-uck, Paladin, you--"

  "Language, Vega. Can't have you being a bad example while I'm knuckle deep in your cunt." Danse admonished, groaning when she whimpered. "You're so tight, this could take ages. We'll need to come up with some stretches to cope with this." He teased gruffly, sliding in another finger and spreading her open. "Mm, Elizabeth, you need to relax. Relax." He murmured, latching onto her breast.

  He felt her pussy clench down around his fingers and he took a greedy suckle from her breast, making Vega cry out his name, "Danse!" She twitched and writhed under his deft attack, her thighs quivering even as she tried to spread them wider for him. Her hand fell still on his cock, not that Danse minded. It had always been more about his partner, he couldn't care less if nothing was done for him. Watching someone else fall apart because of him...now that was its own reward.

  "What do I need to do to get you there, hmm?" Danse taunted playfully, tonguing sloppily over the peak of her breast. "What will it take, Elizabeth?"

  She arched her back in response, pressing her breast firmly against his mouth, and Danse gently nibbled on the sensitive area she had offered up. Elizabeth sobbed out, shoving one hand down to her cunt to spread herself even wider for his plundering fingers. "More, Danse! Please please please-" she begged, her moan when he pressed a third finger into her absolutely enough to have Danse hurrying to talk himself down. "Yes, Danse." She was practically growling, her arousal something primal and untamed. 

  If Danse had his way, it would stay like that forever. 

  "What is it that you want, Vega?" His inquiry was almost lazy, three fingers stroking in and out with much less resistance now. "Hmm, I wonder if you're wet enough to take me."

  "You can't just-" Vega made a noise of dismay. "That's not fair, Danse, that's not fair, you know it's not. Please, please fuck me." 

  Jesus. Danse almost choked on his own breath, letting his fingers slip out of her cunt. "How do you want me?" His voice broke noticeably. It felt like a lifetime since he had been desired, wanted in such a blatant and strangely pure fashion. She loved him. She wanted him inside her. Wanted him to make love to her. Wanted him.

  The speed at which she flung herself up a little higher on the bed made Danse want to laugh, but then she was arching her back and looking over her shoulder at him and he suddenly forgot how to breathe for a moment. "This okay?" She panted, brown hair all tumbled around her face as she took off her glasses and pitched them in the general direction of her bedside table.

  Danse nodded hurriedly, kicking his pants off. "If you need me to stop, just grab my hand." He instructed.

  "This isn't exactly my first time getting fucked, Danse-"

  "Language," the paladin reprimanded her with a chuckle, greedily fondling her rear as he mounted up behind her. "You have such a beautiful form, Vega." He murmured, leaning over to press a kiss between her shoulder blades. "An absolute vision."

  "I do have nice tits." 

  Danse rolled his eyes, slipping his hands down to grope said breasts. She gasped out, rocking back against him as he agreed, "yes you do, that can't be denied. Soft, the perfect size, they fit in my hands so well, and so sensitive." He found himself laughing when she whimpered again. "Don't offer up all your weak spots unless you want them taken advantage of, Vega."

  "The only thing I want to take advantage of right now is the raging hard-on I can feel." Elizabeth wriggled and Danse grunted, shuddering. "Pl-ease Danse, please put it in me."

  The paladin slipped his cock between her labia, the hot, slick flesh pressing against him mercilessly as he teased her. He suddenly felt her fingers on his cock and then-

  "Fuck." The paladin grated out the uncharacteristic curse through his teeth, his fists meeting the bedding on either side of her body as he fought the urge to thrust himself home in one breath.

  Elizabeth half-collapsed while he slowly, slowly rutted into her, the woman panting and clawing at the blankets. "Mmmgod, Danse-" she slurred, sighing loudly. "So good, fuck, Danse…"

  Danse toyed with her nipples, stupidly snarling "language," as she keened in reply. "I'll take care of you, Elizabeth. Be good for me." He pressed a kiss to her temple, smirking at the way her body quaked when he finally bottomed out in her. "That's it, look at you, taking all of me so well," he praised. "Now, how can I make you come?"

  "Fu--Please use your big cock to get me off, oh please Danse!" She begged and Danse fondled her breasts yet again.

  "You don't want me to touch you here, just like this?" He asked, stroking over her nipples and lingering to tease the area. "They're so hard, though, begging for my attention."

  Backhand made a noise of despair, burying her face in her pillow. 

  "I think you need me to play with them, don't you? You like when I touch them like this." Danse muttered, thinking out loud and coming to that realization even as the words left his mouth. "What is it about it that you like?"

  "S-Sensitive." Vega whimpered, "feels good."

  Danse rumbled again, bending over to press his chest to her back so he could whisper in her ear, "does it feel good when I'm inside you, Elizabeth? Can you feel how hard I am for you? Feel how badly I need you?" 

  Elizabeth gifted him this pitiful sound, canting her hips and clenching down around his cock so tightly it took Danse's breath away. "Yes, I love it. I need you too, Danse." She murmured, shifting back and forth ever so slightly.

  "Good. I'm glad." Danse took hold of her hips, seating his cock as deeply as he could in her cunt. Elizabeth whined, burying her face in her pillow again as he slowly began to make love to her. 

  Paladin Logan Danse, pride of the Brotherhood of Steel, had never been a man who took sex lightly. It was too important. Even after everything that had happened with Maxson, Danse still held to that belief. The display of vulnerability, the offer of power in exchange for pleasurable release, the brief moments of tenderness in an existence that was soul-crushingly difficult…

  It was serious. It always was. 

  Vega's arms gave out and she slumped onto the bed, but Danse followed her down. Covering her with his body, the paladin thrust into her again and again, her soft whimpers and cries of his name music to his ears. "What do you need, sweetheart?" He asked raggedly when she began to squirm and arch back against him. "What can I give you, Elizabeth?"

  "Fuck me, Danse!" She pleaded, turning her head to the side so she could see him. 

  "Language," Danse smiled, kissing her temple again. "But understood, ma'am."

  …

  For the first time since she'd awoken to an irradiated hellscape, Vega was wholly content to just lay down and be taken care of. 

  Danse was huge, proportionate to his already overgrown size, and he made the most incredible sounds when she inadvertently squeezed down on him. Groans burring in his chest like some untamed animal; he seemed content to just slowly fuck her into oblivion. Which was honestly more than she thought she would ever get. 

  Her fantasies, much as she'd believed they were wrong or silly at the time, didn't hold a candle to the reality of having Danse on top of her. She had gotten off more than once to this exact idea, being dominated and pinned by the massive paladin. This was a dream come true.

  Elizabeth whined when he bottomed out in her again and just rutted himself back and forth slightly, making her feel every inch of his cock. The underside of his dick throbbed against the spot that made her see stars and then, the bastard, he slid his cock out of her cunt to press the head to her clit for a second. "Turn over for me?" He requested, punctuated by a gentle smack to her ass.

  Vega rushed to obey, eager to have him back inside her as quickly as possible. The woman spread her legs wide so Danse could settle in between them and when the paladin did, he shifted upwards to kiss her tenderly. 

  "I've wanted this for so long." He admitted quietly.

  "So have I!" Elizabeth replied in delight, her grin beaming. She was sure she looked like a mess, her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat and her face all flushed. But the way Danse was smiling at her…

  She found she didn't really care about her appearance at this point in time.

  "I love you." Danse murmured as he slid back inside her. 

  "I l-love you, Danse." Vega stuttered, the natural curvature of his cock applying steady pressure to her g-spot. "Make me feel so good, fuck."

  "Language." He growled, making her laugh and then moan. 

  "Feels too good, brain can't cope." She gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck and tugging him closer until all he could do was grind down into her in a merciless manner. The motion flung her towards her peak, disconnecting her mouth even further from her brain and making her ramble into his ear, "God, I love you so much, make me feel so good--"

  "I love you too, Elizabeth." He panted into the hollow of her throat, "you feel incredible. Outstanding."

  Elizabeth wasn't sure how she could feel both so aroused she thought she might die and so annoyed that she wanted to explode. "Danse, did you just call my pussy outstanding?"

  "It's not an incorrect statement, from my perspective. It's perfect. Wet and tight and hot." The paladin praised her freely, a hand lowering to apply gentle pressure over the scar on her lower stomach. "Beautiful."

  I am not going to cry, Vega told herself sternly as she hid her face in Danse's neck. Definitely not going to cry, not going to.

  A sob somehow escaped her as she came and Danse froze, his whole body flinching when her cunt clenched down on his dick. "V...Vega?" He asked tentatively.

  "I'm fine! I'm fine, I promise, m'not hurt or anything. My brain is just dumb." Elizabeth hiccupped, rubbing her eyes. "I'm okay, Danse, I'm fine."

  The paladin seemed uncertain and she couldn't blame him, she didn't seem fine even if she felt a thousand times better than she had in literal months. 

  "I swear I'm okay, that was just...it was really intense, y'know?" She mumbled awkwardly, unable to make eye contact anymore. 

  She felt Danse shift his weight and then he settled down on top of her, holding her close and tight. "You're sure?" He murmured, "if you're overwhelmed, that's entirely acceptable. I'm not hurting you, am I?"

  "No, shit no, you feel incredible. I'm not going to be able to walk after this." Vega huffed, giggling a little when he rolled his eyes. "Keep going, okay? It feels fantastic."

  "If you're certain." Danse acquiesced, kissing a hot trail down her neck when she nodded. "Let me know if you need me to stop." 

  Watching his forearms cord with muscle as he propped himself back up again, Vega's mouth went dry. "I have to say, this might be the best night of my life." 

  Danse pressed a sweet kiss to her forehead, the tenderness of the action a wonderful contrast to the needy way he sheathed his cock in her body once more. "I've thought about this." He confessed again, punctuated by a roll of his hips. "What you'd sound like, look like beneath me. You put my imagination to shame." 

  "What did I do in your dreams?" Backhand asked, unable to keep from breathlessly laughing when Danse hid his face in her neck. "So shy, Paladin! Even with that huge cock in me?"

  "It's lewd, Elizabeth, I-I'm not proud of it." He mumbled. "Shouldn't have thought of you that way." He spread her legs wider, one hand on the back of each knee to urge her to bend. 

  "Mm, you thought about fucking me? Nice to know I'm not the only one with dirty thoughts." 

  "I did not." He protested staunchly. His cock slid back and forth between her pussy lips in a purposeful teasing motion. "I thought about how...I thought about how good it would feel to make love to you." He continued, his voice wavering slightly as his dick brushed her entrance and he plunged deep yet again. "Thought about how good I could make you feel."

  Now it was Vega's turn to be shy, the woman looking away from him and flushing.

  "It was still inappropriate at the...time, but I assure you it was never about that. I am not-" Danse struggled for a moment to find the words, before he sighed and rested his forehead against her own. "This already isn't simple, and I know I make it miles less so. Forgive me."

  "I feel like it's pretty simple." Vega gasped, twitching as his fingers landed on her clit. "I f--fuck, Danse--I feel like it's real simple. You like me. Love me, yeah?"

  "It's more than that, dammit." Danse growled, rubbing her clit in merciless circles. "What you did for me...how can I ever be worth your affection? Hell, your time?"

  Elizabeth threw her head back, arching her entire body up into his chest. "Whatever good I give to you," she moaned, almost exasperated that they were even having this discussion, "you deserve it. Take it." 

  Danse's hands latched down on her hips, thumbs stroking back and forth over her pronounced stretch marks as he fucked into her so fiercely that Vega swore she saw stars. His pelvis ground against her own, body hair providing a delicious new sensation that had Vega grasping at the blankets in an effort to keep herself grounded. "I'm going to come, Elizabeth." Danse panted. "Where do you-"

  "Inside." Backhand implored him, "come inside me, Paladin, please come inside me-" Her voice broke as she begged and Danse groaned loud, the sound incredulous.

  "You...inside? Are you sure?" He asked through gritted teeth, dark brown eyes conveying his uncertainty. In reply, Vega dug the heels of her feet in beneath his rear, effectively locking him in place. 

  She caught a handful of his hair, gently tugging it until he leaned down again so she could seethe in his ear, "yes."

  "Oh, dammit." With that wonderfully characteristic swear, Danse shoved his mouth against hers gracelessly. The heat in her belly spilled over from the onslaught of his enthusiastic thrusts and Backhand cried out, fingernails digging into his back when she came a second time. 

  Danse, either spurred on by her sounds or by the way her pussy gripped his dick (maybe a combination? Backhand mused) found his release seconds after, his voice breaking and dropping into a lower tone as he moaned her name. Her real name.

  Elizabeth.

  Vega cupped the nape of his neck, guiding his face into the hollow of her shoulder. "Lay down, sweetheart, you're shaking." She murmured, stroking over his quivering back.

  "Don't want to flatten you." Danse rasped, his dick still throbbing inside her.

  "Lay down. It's okay." Elizabeth flexed her bicep. "I'm strong, I can handle it." Danse laughed wearily, almost immediately going limp on top of her. She wrapped her arms back around him, fingers digging into the knots that she found to ease out the tension. "There, isn't that better?"

  "Mmmmuch." Danse slurred into her neck, sounding exhausted. "Love you."

  "I love you. Sleep, okay? We'll get cleaned up later. Right now though you seem like you could use a nap."

  Danse nodded, the tangled mess of his hair mashed flat against her cheek in the process. "Want...to be a good parent." He mumbled several minutes later, just as Vega had thought he was dozing off. Danse propped himself up with one arm, cradling Vega's cheek in his palm. His thumb absently traced the cryo burn marks from the stasis as he continued, "a true partner for you. I don't know if you...if you even want me in that capacity, I--I don't know whether you would prefer that Shaun thinks of me as simply your friend, but I-"

  "Danse," Elizabeth interrupted him sternly, raising an eyebrow. "Someone who's simply a friend wouldn't be balls deep in me."

  Danse sputtered, his blush spreading down his neck to his chest. Despite his proclivity for dirty talk in the moment, he was endearingly embarrassed by her blunt words. Vega felt her heart pound as he floundered to collect himself, the large man looking away. 

  He's really nothing at all like Nate.

  "Danse." Her voice was gentler this time, unmistakable affection bleeding through. "I would have to ask Shaun, of course, and I'd like to have an adjustment period before I do so that he can get comfortable with the idea on his own, but…" The young woman swallowed hard. Why was she so nervous all of a sudden? Oh sure, she could handle the vulnerability of being naked and fucked with absolute abandon but this? This was where her brain drew the line? Unbelievable, Backhand grumbled at herself. "I think the odds are in your favor." She concluded with a grin.

  "You...even though I'm not-?"

  "He's probably the last person to care about that kinda' stuff, Danse. C'mon." Vega chided, running her fingers through his sweaty hair. "Now. We are...absolutely disgusting. We need a bath big time."

  "I...you're right, of course." Danse agreed absently, still seeming shocked at the whole scenario. "I should...w-we should bathe. Er, at the same time. To save water." He didn't meet her eyes, his attention focused somewhere by her left shoulder. 

  Elizabeth laughed, bumping their foreheads together before carefully scooting up the bed. His cock slipped out of her and she couldn't help her sigh, the noise echoed by the paladin who tilted his chin to catch her with a kiss.

  "You are amazing." He breathed when they parted, his smile small but sincere. "I'm...I'll be hard-pressed to keep my hands off you, Elizabeth."

  "Why bother?" Vega asked, chuckling as he ducked back in for another kiss. 

  ...

  Hours later, Danse laid awake while Elizabeth slept peacefully on his chest. The paladin stared up at the ceiling, his mind running rampant.

  The future.

  He hadn't really dared to think about it since discovering his true identity. Hadn't felt like it was something he deserved. After all, if he was just a machine, it hardly mattered. But Elizabeth…

  She thought it mattered. She wanted him. Wanted him to stay with her. Wanted him to act as a father. Pending Shaun's approval, of course. 

  It was surreal how much his life had changed, how far they had come in such a short amount of time. Danse was a little overwhelmed by it all, if he was being honest. Scared, yet hopeful at the same time. And, he thought as he wrapped his arm around Elizabeth, incredibly, immensely grateful.

  This new world was unforgiving, the universe coldly testing the mettle of a man time and again. But Danse had finally come out the other side, and he liked to think he had changed for the better. 

  Whatever the future held, they would face it together. 

  Ad Victoriam, General Vega. Thank you for having faith in me.

[chaoskirin]

Book Review -- The Heartstrikers Series

This is a book review about the first three books in the Heartstrikers Series, which starts with Nice Dragons Finish Last.

I liked these books, but I didn’t love them. It's definitely a solid three stars, and I'll read the last two books to see where it goes. Overall, if you like fantasy with YA elements, you will probably enjoy this series.

This review will contain some minor spoilers in order to justify my rating, with some MAJOR spoilers at the end.

First, the good. The plot is absolutely solid and it's clear the the author had a good idea of what she was going to do before she wrote it. It has a very mobster-type feel which I would expect with the way the dragons are characterized. The writing is occasionally clever and the main character is likable, relatable, and I'm able to empathize with his situation. The author may be projecting a bit as Julius' situation can get a little heavy-handed, but the theme of a found family is definitely present and well-executed.

I love the world that's been created. I'm originally from Detroit, so it was a pleasant surprise to find that the entire first book takes place in a sort of ghost-town version of it. I can picture the descriptions of the houses (I used to work in an old mansion converted in to an office, in fact!) and it's pretty clear that the author is from Detroit, or at least spent a lot of time there. Sometimes it got a little name-droppy as far as locations were concerned, but I kept hoping the author would namedrop the place where I'm from, so it's a fair trade. XD (She did not, sadly, but it was still fun to read about.)

The spirits and how they exist is also very interesting. Algonquin is an amazing villain in the second ant third books, and I can't wait to read more about her and the other spirits in the last two books.

There's also a great amount of action interspersed with the narrative, so that kept things interesting! Some books tend to either get lost in endless exposition or endless action sequences, but this book balances them very well.

Now for the not-so-good.

I picked up the first book expecting dragons. The title is "Nice Dragons Finish Last," after all, and while it's very clear from the description that the main character, Julius, is "sealed," I had hoped that there would be at least some mythological creature action. This is kept to an absolute minimum, though, in favor of dragons in their human shape. It's even a rather contrived "rule" in Detroit that dragons aren't allowed to be there. This trope has become outright cliche... I've been reading books for years and this was a common theme way back in the days of Dragonlance--take an incredibly powerful being and shove them into human shape, but add a coolness factor by calling them a dragon. (I wrote this part after the first book: there's much more ACTUAL dragon action in books 2 and 3. I still wish there was more.)

But they aren't really dragons. They think like humans, they act like humans, they seem to have the same emotions as humans... Except for another fantasy trope, which is taking every member of a species and shoving them into a single alignment (lawful evil in this case). Julius is the one exception, so it's a very Drizzt Do'urden situation and it's always been odd to me that every member of a species could be evil/good just because of what they are. (this is especially a problem with goblins and rampant antisemitism, but that's another discussion entirely.)

It's a problem that allows justified racism. If the entirety of one species is mean, it's really easy to make everyone hate them, and you lose the nuance of what real racism is. I would suggest that people not write about racism unless they've either experienced it or they've consulted with members of their community who have been the target of it. This becomes more of a problem in the second and third books when Julius is trying to prove that Not All Dragons Are Bad. And it becomes clear that both humans and spirits are very racist against dragons, but it completely lacks the reality of what racism really is. As one poster on tumblr said, "racism isn't just one species being mean to another."

Essentially, it puts all dragons on an uphill battle against everyone else, fails to become a proper allegory, and discards depth and warmth.

A small problem that I should mention is that sometimes plot points sort of fade? There was a situation where Julius' mom visits and he was very mean to Marci, and she was very upset about that, but it's never actually addressed. It sort of fizzles and ends and then everything moves on. It should have at least been mentioned and tied up.

Another problem is repetitiveness or filler text. When I'm going through beta reading for my books, I ask my readers to tell me ANY TIME they skim over text. When your readers are skimming, what you've written isn't interesting, and it has to be changed. I found myself doing this a lot in this book. I forced myself to read back and see what I've skimmed over, and it was usually information I'd already read being presented in a slightly different way. My advice would be to allow the readers to infer information without explaining it into the ground. One thing I would avoid is the discussion of plans before executing said plans--even if they ultimately go wrong. It's enough to say that your protagonist HAS a plan, then let the text speak for itself. These planning phases were what I tended to skip the most.

I can supply one sample of repetitiveness without spoiling the story too badly: One of the main characters is talking with a dragon character about a plan at the beginning-ish of book 3. And breaking the text down to its basics, it goes like this:

Amelia: You have to. Marci: I don't know... Amelia: But you have to. Marci: I don't know... Amelia: You really should do this. Marci: I don't know... Amelia: It's a good idea. Marci: Okay I'll do it. Amelia: Are you sure? Marci: Yes I'll do it. Amelia: Are you sure???

And the argument became VERY spread out over the whole chapter, interspersed with the same explanation of why Marci Should Do The thing, most of which I ended up skimming to the part where Marci ultimately accepted Amelia's idea.

Another chapter I skipped was in book 3 where two human characters had lunch with Marci. And as soon as it became clear they were discussing stuff Marci basically already knew, I just skipped the whole chapter. It was an unnecessary bit of writing that could have been summarized in one or two paragraphs instead. I went back and actually read it later. I didn't miss anything.

(my examples are from the third book because I just finished it and it's the freshest in my mind, but this is an issue in the first two books as well.)

I think there's a certain amount of realism in conversations like this. The problem is that your readers have already figured out where something is going, and they want to get there. If the author reads this, my suggestion would be this: Sometimes it's okay to cut events out when they're uninteresting. If you hate writing it, and your beta readers hate reading it, it can go. I wouldn't follow the advice that you should cut out EVERYTHING irrelevant to the plot, because sometimes it's fun to have fun, but the extra boring tedium can be safely summarized.

Next, Marci.

I first want to state here that my PREFERENCE is writing female characters. Most of my characters are women. And I understand there are a lot of readers who outright dislike all female characters, but I'm not one of them. I feel like that's an important thing to state before going into more detail about my issues with Marci.

I wanted to read more of the series before posting this review, because I felt Marci was a shallow character after book one. She felt like a female character who was STRONG, but NOT a strong female character.

And through the first book, she felt like a prop to the other main character, Julius, instead of a character all her own. (And to be fair, her ENTIRE story from the first book is sort of... hand-waved in books 2 and 3.)

In the first book, Marci isn't really written with a story arc. She's a sort of deus ex machina for Julius; she appears into his life mysteriously as he's looking for a mage, first of all. And while it SEEMS that she does have her own arc, it becomes clear by the end of the story that she's only a catalyst for the dragons' stories. The thing she's protecting eventually ends up in the hands of the dragons; she's essentially just a walking suitcase for them. She's a roadblock for the villains. And there's not even a true explanation of Why She Has The Thing They Want except that it's really cool and she wants it.

This alone may have prevented me from reading the rest of the series, but I'm VERY glad I did--While Marci has a slow start, her story does pick up in the second and third books and she becomes much more likeable. She still feels like a prop at times (other characters refer to her as a "weapon" even) but within that description, she's fighting her own battles and has become much less shallow.

I do wish she had more agency. I wish her decisions truly felt like hers, instead of the manipulations/machinations of those with higher power. But she's not the worst-written female character I've ever read, and the author makes it clear in the second and third books that she knows how to write good female characters (cough chelsie cough) so I can forgive Marci's shortcomings.

There's one Bad thing that I want to address, too, which mostly came up at the end of book 2 and throughout book 3. And this is a fairly major spoiler, I'm sorry.

You don't give a tyrannical dictator power after you defeat her. You just don't. Julius could have banished his mother if he refused to kill her. He could have let someone else kill her. He could have done any number of things. But the first thing he does is give her a seat on the new council and is just like "yes you still get to make decisions." And as you can imagine, this goes very wrong.

And book 3 is FULL of Julius refusing to let his brothers and sisters kill anyone, even when it's justified. This has always been a trope that rankled... You can't write about a coup and then have nobody die. It suggests that genocidal dictators Can Change If You Give Them The Right Opportunities, and we all know from real life that that doesn't happen. Tyrannical people in power will fight to keep that power. They don't learn. And props to the author for showing that these people don't learn, but... seriously, you don't keep people around who actively want to kill you.

I was so annoyed with Julius by the end of book 3, and the hoops the writing had to jump through to show his decision was good and right. He felt naive and almost stupid. And (VERY major spoiler here, just stop reading if you don't want the end of book 3 spoiled!)

...

...

...

...

...

...

Julius' mother had enslaved his sister for hundreds of years. When the sister was released, she immediately tried to kill her mother.

This would have justified ALL of Julius' actions up until that point if he'd just LET HER. Bethesda hurt Chelsie the most out of ANY Of her children. It would have been a PERFECT way to allow Chelsie to get her well-deserved revenge AND end the problem of Bethesda (who REALLY deserves to die.) And Julius made her stop, because That's Not How We're Doing Things Anymore.

I don't like that Bethesda is effectively not paying for the thousands of atrocities she committed over the last thousand years because the main character is a pacifist. It just doesn't sit right. And IDK if the author is building to Bethesda's death in the last couple books or not, but letting Chelsie kill her would have been the PERFECT end, and I'm really disappointed. No end for Bethesda would have been better than that.

Anyway.

As I said at the beginning of this review, I still recommend reading the series. It's a really interesting urban fantasy-type book, and while it crosses into YA territory, the fantasy aspect is interesting enough to keep me reading.

[unfolded73]

To Come Out the Other Side (1/1) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: David mourns his husband. That’s it, that’s the fic. (AO3)

Notes: I wrote this for the SC darkest timeline collection on ao3, a place intended for sad as fuck fics that don’t have a happy ending. I didn’t think I’d post it here at all, but based on the reception it got last night, I’m going to. WARNINGS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH (in the recent past), grief, loss, and a brief mention of suicidal thoughts.  Don’t read if wallowing in sadness isn’t something you want to do. Rated Teen, 4500 words.

_________________________________

Three months, two weeks, and two days

David crosses and recrosses his legs, shifting on the generic loveseat in the overly pastel office. He looks up and down at the therapist who introduced herself to him earlier as Vanessa. She’s visibly pregnant, and he feels a flash of irrational anger that she could get herself in such a state when she’s got patients to see. When she’s taking on new patients like him who are going to need her full attention. What right does she have to have a baby? What right does she have to have a happy family when he’s so—

“I’m sure it’s been a difficult few months,” she says.

He laughs bitterly.

“I know, that goes without saying. What prompted you to make an appointment to start seeing me?”

“My best friend kind of insisted.” He drags his hand up and down on his thigh, scratching at the soft denim. “She worries.”

“Well, that’s understandable. It was brave of you to actually go through with it, though.”

David sneers. He doesn’t want to hear someone calling him brave. He isn’t brave. If he were brave, he wouldn’t have spent the last hundred and eight days ghosting through the empty remains of his life like he has. He’d have done something dramatic. Something concrete. Sell the house. Sell the stores. Leave town. Walk into traffic.

“Can you tell me what a typical day is like for you right now?”

David heaves a sigh. “I sleep late. I have employees who open the stores.”

“The stores?”

“Yeah, we own…” He stops and corrects himself; even the act of correcting his language is becoming a habit now. “I own three general stores in the area. Schitt’s Creek, Elm Glen, and Elmdale. It’s called Rose Apothecary.”

There’s a spark of recognition in Vanessa’s eyes. “I’ve been to the one here in Elmdale. It’s great.”

“Thank you.” He looks down at his lap. “I sleep a lot.”

“That’s common, with grief,” she says in a kind voice. He doesn’t want that kindness from her. He wants her to fix him. He wants her to tell him if feeling like this will ever end. He wants her to tell him he deserves to feel like this, for daring to be the one of them left alive.

“I usually go in and check on the Elm Glen or Elmdale stores by noon. Spend the afternoon calling vendors, or…” Or staring at his laptop, not doing anything.

“You live in Schitt’s Creek, though, right?” Vanessa asks.

“Yes.”

“You don’t go to that store? The one near home?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Why not?”

He rolls his eyes. She’s sussed out the answer, she just wants to make him say it, obviously. “That was the first one we built. Before we were married. Before we were even a couple. We…” He feels tears burning behind his eyes. How can there still be tears left, David wonders. It doesn’t seem possible.

“That store symbolizes your relationship with…” She consults the clipboard she’s holding. “Patrick.”

He’s instantly furious with her for speaking his name out loud, and also for having to check what his name is, for not having it seared into her brain. For having it written on a piece of paper like it isn’t something sacred. Perhaps together with words like ‘aneurysm’ and ‘grieving’ and ‘widower’.

“Yeah, I fell in love with my husband there, so it’s not a huge fucking mystery why I don’t want to be there,” David says, crossing his arms and giving her his haughtiest, cruelest look. Vanessa seems unphased. She just gives him more of those kind eyes. He hates her. He imagines himself storming out of her office and never coming back, but Stevie would be disappointed in him, and Stevie is the main reason he’s made it through the last three months, so.

David sighs and stays put.

“How long were you married?” Vanessa asks.

“Thirteen years,” he says, his breath betraying him and hitching on the words. “Unlucky thirteen.”

“So what do you do after you go to work in the afternoon?”

“I go back home.”

“Do you still live—”

“In the house we shared? Yes.”

She waits, letting the silence stretch out. It’s excruciating.

“I packed up all of his things in the first couple of weeks. It gave me something to do. Boxed up mementos to give to his parents. Donated his guitar to the high school. Same with the piano — I paid a special moving company to come and take it away. Boxed up all of his boring clothes to go to Goodwill.” He stares at an ugly painting of purple flowers up on the wall.

“You didn’t keep any mementos for yourself?” Vanessa asks quietly.

“No.”

He expects her to ask why not, figures he’ll have to describe how Marcy Brewer had asked him the same thing, causing him to break down in front of her for the fourth time in as many days. She doesn’t ask. What she asks is worse.

“Do you ever think about harming yourself?”

“Yes, but not— I don’t have a plan.” He remembers that from a psychiatrist whose care he’d been under in high school. The overheard murmur as Dr. Herndon spoke to his parents. He has intrusive thoughts, dark thoughts, but he hasn’t made a plan to commit suicide. Having a plan was important.

“What form do these thoughts take?”

“I’m not going to kill myself,” David says with a huff. “He’d be so angry.”

“Patrick would?”

David nods. Not that he believes in an afterlife, but Patrick would find a way to be angry anyway.

~~~

Seventeen days

Alexis crouches next to him on the floor of the bathroom, and he can feel her hand resting on his back as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

“I can do this on my own, thanks,” he says after spitting into the bowl. His stomach is still churning.

“I know you can.” She doesn’t move, other than to rub his back.

He was crying before his stomach decided to reject the dinner he tried to feed it earlier, and the tears coming out of his eyes now as a result of vomiting don’t seem that different. He wonders if they are different. If some scientist with a fancy piece of equipment somewhere could measure a chemical difference between the tears that come from your eyes when you’re throwing up, and the tears that come from missing someone so desperately that you literally don’t think you can go on living without him.

He heaves again, but nothing is left to come up.

A few more minutes has him cleaned up and back on the sofa, Alexis wiping the sweat on his forehead with a damp cloth. She’s 44 now, and elegant, and as beautiful as he’s ever seen her.

“You should have gone back to New York a week ago,” he tells her.

“Actually, it was L.A. that I was supposed to be in a week ago, but it’s fine.” She combs her fingers through his hair, her eyes roaming over his face. He wonders if she thinks the way his hair is flecked with bits of gray now makes him look too much like Dad. “What good is all of this technology if I can’t do these meetings remotely?”

“You can’t babysit me forever.”

“I’m not planning to babysit you forever, David.” She sounds annoyed, and the sound of her annoyed voice is weirdly soothing. It’s the cadence of those years in the motel. It’s her being irritated by his cologne and his time spent in the bathroom. It’s her pining over Ted and talking him down from bumps in the road with Patrick. It’s the morning of his wedding when she fluttered about, making sure that everything was perfect on the best day of his life.

He starts to cry again, and Alexis pulls him into her arms. She’s deceptively strong, his sister, and he lets himself be held.

~~~

Four months, three weeks, and one day

“What did you do this week?” Vanessa asks, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her, he actually doesn’t. He wants to be the kind of person who can walk in here and say, I’m a little bit better this week. I went to the gym. I looked at a flower. I appreciated the ephemeral nature of life and love.

“I watched three seasons of Justified.”

Vanessa doesn’t show any judgement on her face. “How was that?”

David shrugs. “I don’t remember. Timothy Olyphant is hot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

She smiles then. “What sort of thing?”

“That cowboy thing.”

“Ah.” She’s silent then, doing that thing again where she lets the silence settle to see what he’ll do to fill it. David studies his nails, trying to call her bluff. The seconds tick by.

He loses the battle.

“Sometimes I think if I’d just had time to prepare for it. If he’d been a heavy drinker or a drug user or if he’d gotten cancer. Something to ease me into the idea of him… of him dying. Instead one day I’m having a completely normal, mundane day, and the next day my whole world had fallen apart.” He stares hard at the ugly flower painting. “I gave him a handjob the night before, did I mention that?” His eyes slide down to Vanessa’s, to see if he’s shocked her. It doesn’t look like it. “After he… I kept thinking over the next few weeks that if I’d known it was the last time, I’d have… I would have made the sex more special. Not just given him a stupid handjob.”

“Any type of sex is special if it’s between people who love each other,” Vanessa says, and David throws his hands up in frustration. She’s missing the point.

“My point is, I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to do anything to make his last day on earth good. He deserved… he deserved a good day. All the good days.”

“Who’s to say he didn’t have a good day? Also, you were married for thirteen years. I bet you gave him lots of good days.”

David shakes his head. “I was difficult. We were very different, and sometimes we argued.” He inhales shakily, trying not to cry. “I gave him bad days too.”

“Another thing that is totally normal with someone you were married to for thirteen years.”

His laugh is sharp. “Stop being so understanding.”

“You want to feel like you didn’t deserve him?” she asks.

“I didn’t.”

“It’s a way of explaining why he was taken away from you too soon. That it was karma or something. That you deserve this.”

David looks away, blinking rapidly.

“You don’t deserve this, David.”

~~~

One month

The edibles kick in just as the second episode of Great British Bake Off is beginning. He wouldn’t say he feels good — he hasn’t felt good for a single solitary moment since he lost Patrick — but the edge of the huge knife buried in his chest feels a little blunted. He can stop treading water for just a minute and float. He’s still in the icy cold water, still drowning, but he doesn’t feel the cold at the moment.

Stevie giggles at one of Sue Perkins’ terrible puns. David snuggles deeper into their blanket and tries to let himself get lost in the drama of baking a perfect Opera cake, but his mind wanders and he imagines that Patrick is at baseball practice, or out having beers after the game with his team. That he’ll come home late while David is on step four of his nine-step skincare regimen, smelling vaguely of cigarette smoke from the cluster of smokers who loiter outside the door of the Wobbly Elm. Patrick will shower to wash off the grime of the day and they’ll snuggle in bed together, David letting him be the little spoon for once.

He’s so lost in the fantasy that when he finally notices Stevie crying, her face red and puffy, it seems like it’s been going on for a while.

“Sorry,” she says, wiping under her eyes with her sleeve. “These weed gummies might not be for me.”

David watches her for a second, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet. “You miss him too.”

“David—”

“Stevie, fuck, I’m so sorry.”

She eyes him with annoyance. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

“No, I’ve been leaning so hard on you that I didn’t even think about the fact that you’re… that you’re hurting too.”

“David, you lost…” He can see the wheels turning as she tries to come up with some way to say it that doesn’t just lay it all bare, ragged and bleeding like it is. “What I’m feeling is not relevant compared to what you lost. It’s a mosquito bite compared to your…”

“Gaping chest wound?”

Stevie laughs, and then just as quickly claps a hand over her mouth. “I’m a monster. I’m the worst friend.”

“No, you aren’t,” David says, pausing Netflix and turning to face her. The high is making words need to spill out of his mouth. “Do you know what I was thinking last night?” Stevie shakes her head. “I was thinking that Patrick would be so pissed off at himself for dying. Because it totally messed up all of his plans, and he hated having his plans messed up.”

Stevie laughs again, and this time she doesn’t try to stop herself. “God, you’re so right. He’d be fucking furious.”

“Not that he didn’t plan for it. I mean, we had wills only because he insisted on it, and he left me a file with all of his passwords in it, and to be honest, I kind of wish he hadn’t? Because now I have no excuse not to pay the bills.”

“David, I’ve been paying your bills.”

“Right, like I said.”

She kicks his shin under the blanket, and they regard each other in silence for a moment across the length of the couch.

“I started jerking off again,” David says with a sigh.

“Congrats,” Stevie says.

“Shut up.”

“No, I’m being sincere, I think? It’s a little piece of normal. It’s like… life moving on.”

“I don’t want life to move on.”

“Of course you don’t, you want to wear funeral blacks and pace around at the top of a lighthouse until you die of grief.”

“Consumption would also be acceptable,” David says, sniffing imperiously.

“David, I know it’s a long way away, but the day will come when things will get normal again. When you’ll wake up and feel okay, when you can go to the store and not be constantly thinking about him, when you even—”

“Don’t say it—”

“Date again.”

“I’m not going to date again. I lost the love of my life; why on earth would I date again?” He’s once again glad for the weed gummies, because speaking those words out loud sober would probably ruin him.

“Because some day you’re going to get tired of your hand, and I’m not going to fuck you.”

He picks up the remote to unpause the TV. “Well, warmest regards to you.”

Stevie shifts over, nudging and prodding him until they are snuggled together on the sofa. “Best wishes, David,” she whispers against his chest.

~~~

Six months, one week, and six days

He pours himself some of the terrible, burned coffee that percolated from the ancient coffee pot to give his hands something to do. He hates being here. He’s only here because Vanessa made him promise right before she gave birth that he go to group therapy at least three times during her maternity leave. David can stand three hours of anything, even sitting in a sad circle with other sad people with this sad styrofoam cup clutched in his hand.

The facilitator of course makes him introduce himself, because he’s new, and in that moment he despises Vanessa and her stupid baby more than he’s ever despised anyone.

“I’m David. My husband died six months ago,” he says simply, hoping that can be enough. The expectant looks on everyone’s faces tells him it isn’t. “It was a ruptured brain aneurysm, so there was no warning. One day I was married to the love of my life, and the next day I was wondering how the hell I was supposed to organize a funeral for…” He inhales and exhales slowly. “... for the best person I ever knew.”

People around the circle greet him with sympathetic smiles and platitudes, and he bites the inside of his lip to keep himself from telling them to fuck off. They go around the circle and talk about their grief — an older woman whose husband died of pancreatic cancer, another whose son died of an opioid overdose, a man whose teenage daughter committed suicide. All of their stories are tragic, as tragic as David’s, and maybe it’s supposed to make him feel better, knowing that people in the world are struggling the same way he’s struggling, but it doesn’t. It makes him think that the world in general and humanity in particular is irredeemably fucked up.

When he’s forced to talk again, he can’t think of what to say, so he ends up telling these strangers about the phone call he had with his mother-in-law earlier that day.

“She wants me to come out for Thanksgiving in a few months, but I just… I don’t think that would be good for anyone.”

“Why do you think it wouldn’t be good for anyone?” the facilitator asks.

“Because the last thing the Brewers need when they’re mourning their only son is to have their son-in-law who is different from him in every possible way — and generally agreed to be too much in every situation — in their house, reminding them of what they’ve lost.”

One of the older women reaches over and pats him on the arm. “You said your husband was their only son, but looked at another way, you are now their only son. Maybe it would help them to be with you. And maybe it would help you too.”

He tunes out the rest of the sad stories, and when the group session mercifully ends, David flees before anyone can talk to him. He doesn’t go back, his promise to Vanessa be damned.

He does tell Marcy he’ll think about coming for a visit, though.

~~~

Two months, three weeks, and three days

“David Rose,” Ronnie says when she encounters him in the cereal aisle of the Brebner’s. She looks at him as balefully as she always has, which is a comfort when he’s still getting sympathetic glances from everyone in town every damn day that he manages to leave the house. As if he didn’t have enough reason to avoid the café, Twyla’s eyes well up every time she sees him. It’s more than he should be expected to endure when he just wants a grilled cheese.

“Mayor Lee,” he answers before returning to his contemplation of the cereals on offer. Patrick liked cereals with nuts and granola in them. David is trying to decide if there is any reason not to buy a giant box of Fruity Pebbles.

Ronnie is looking in his cart, which actually isn’t the collection of shameful frozen meals for one that she probably expects to find. He may not have known how to cook when he moved to Schitt’s Creek but he knows now, and he’s trying to get into the kitchen again now that he’s run out of the frozen casseroles from friends and acquaintances that filled his freezer for the past several weeks. Besides, there’s something meditative about chopping things, even if he does end up throwing most of the leftovers away. It’s a step.

“How are you, David?” she asks, her eyes coming up from the contents of his cart to meet his own.

He shrugs. “I’m out of bed.”

She nods, and then reaches out and touches his arm. “It’s good to see you,” she says, and he feels his eyes burn with tears at the unexpected affection.

He turns and grabs the Fruity Pebbles, holding it up to her. “There’s no one to shame me about buying garbage cereal,” he explains, his mouth pulling to one side as he puts it in the cart.

“As long as that’s not your dinner,” she says.

“No, I’m actually making a stir fry for dinner.”

She eyes him sidelong. “Sounds like you might need company to help you eat all that food.”

David tilts his head. “I’m sorry, but are you inviting yourself over to my house?”

“Call it the mayor's prerogative,” she says. “I’ll bring the whiskey.”

An unfamiliar smile comes to his lips. “See you at six-thirty.”

Ronnie turns out to be the perfect houseguest for a grieving person. She talks about the problems she’s having with the current council members (“I never would have thought I’d long for the days of Moira Rose on city council, but here we are”) and her contracting business and she asks after the store, and whether he’s still liking the cabinets she installed two years ago. She doesn’t mention Patrick, but she also isn’t visibly avoiding mentioning him the way some people do. It’s only when they’ve finished eating and she pours a measure of whiskey for both of them that she gives David a nod and clinks her glass against his and says, “Patrick was a good man.”

David scoffs. “You hated him.”

“I didn’t hate him.” She takes a sip of her whiskey and tilts her head back. “He rubbed me the wrong way at first, but I got over it.”

“I think he’d be surprised to hear that.”

She smirks. “He just needed someone to keep him on his toes. Everyone else thought he was too perfect.”

David drinks his whiskey and mulls that over. “You had a lot in common, you know. Queer, small-business owners, an unhealthy fixation on baseball…”

Ronnie laughs, a satisfying cackle that’s as smoky as the whiskey they’re drinking. They both stare into their glasses. The constant ache in David’s chest swells with how much he misses Patrick.

“I’m furious with him sometimes for leaving me,” he whispers, surprised that the words have come out of his mouth. He’s not sure if he could have said them to anyone else, even Stevie.

“You’re allowed to feel that way,” Ronnie says. “You gotta go through all that to come out the other side.”

He lets go of a half-laugh, half-sob. “There’s another side? I’m starting to doubt that.”

“So they say. Give it time; you’ll get there.”

“Thanks for coming,” he says after a while, his voice raspy. “This was… it helped.”

She pats his hand. “I can always go for a meal I don’t have to cook myself. Anytime you want some company, you just give me a call.”

~~~

Seven months, two weeks, and two days

“Thanks for… helping me with this,” David says to his father.

Johnny Rose glances up at him over his reading glasses. “That accountant you hired could probably help with this as well as I can.”

“I’m sure she could, but the stores are keeping her plenty busy. I don’t want to burden her anymore than I already do.”

“It’s her job, David; it’s not a burden.” His hands tremble as he sets the paperwork down on the table. His father is getting old, David thinks, and he resists the urge to bundle his parents off to the hospital to have every possible test done, to try to extend their lives as long as he possibly can. “But I’m happy to help, of course,” Johnny continues. “Are you sure this is what you want to do with the money, though? Patrick’s life insurance money is there to help you. There’s no shame in using it to make your life a little bit easier.”

David’s been thinking a lot lately about the fact that he was once a person who grieved for the loss of his money, for the loss of luxury. Now he knows he’d go through that a million times over just to have his husband back. He’d sleep in a moth-infested tent, he’d give away all of his clothes, he’d spend the rest of his days in a pair of overalls from Walmart if he could just see Patrick standing in front of him again. It puts a lot of things he cares about in perspective.

“I’m keeping some of it. But this is what I want to do with the rest,” David says, tapping the papers.

His father gives him a smile, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “He’d be so proud of you, son.”

~~~

One year, two months, one week, and six days

He stands next to the grave marker. It was several months after the funeral before he could even bear to drive by here. Then the anniversary of Patrick’s death came and went, and he started to feel a pull to come stand next to the grave. Now spring is in full bloom, and David looks around and has to admit that it’s a beautiful spot. Maybe he should have been coming here all along. Maybe it would have helped.

“Ronnie fixed the leaky pipes in the basement. And she gave me a good quote for the upgrades to the Elm Glen location. I know you’d say get quotes from at least two other contractors, but you aren’t here so I’m just going to give her the work.” He imagines the look Patrick would give him, the indulgent annoyance of it, and he smiles.

“They named the new band room at the high school after you because of the money I gave them. The plaque they put up is horrible, but I was gracious about it. You would have been proud.

“I still miss you every day,” David says, his voice husky. “Stevie suggested maybe it would help to stop wearing your rings, but I told her to eat a bag of razor blades. Maybe she’s right, but I don’t think so.” He twists one of the gold bands now. “It makes me feel better, I think, to have this tiny piece of you with me.”

The wind blows gently, rustling through the grass.

“I did go on a date with that alpaca farmer, though, the one I told you about. Chloe.” He runs his hand over the top of the headstone. “We realized we were at Coachella three of the same years, back before she left Los Angeles. She might have been even more ridiculous in her early thirties than I was.” He imagines Patrick laughing at that. “It’s true,” he protests, laughing a little bit himself.

“I don’t think I’m ready to love anyone else. Maybe I never will be. But it’s nice to… it’s nice to be with someone sometimes. Not all alone, rattling around the house. You always said I was starved for affection, so… Anyway. I think you’d like her. I think she’d have liked you.”

He stays for another several minutes, staring out over the rolling fields, watching a hawk circle in the sky.

Before he turns to go, he pats the headstone again, gold rings against the granite. “Love you, honey.”

[kaitiemakesshit]

I

By The Powers That Be

I spent my Saturdays the way most haggard and weary husbands do; clutching a purse while seated on any available surface I could find, waiting to finally go home. Only I was not a haggard and weary husband, but a haggard and weary bigender babe holding the purses of my two best friends. We were in a local indie clothing store that they knew and I knew we would be leaving empty-handed. But I also knew that it wouldn't stop us (read: them) from spending a minimum of two hours browsing all the clothes and knick-knacks. The inventory rarely changed but we stopped here during every trip downtown regardless. I highly suspected that Marcie had a crush on the hipster girl who ran the cash register.

My only saving grace was my tablet, which I was reading one of over a hundred books on. I was an avid, voracious reader and would usually be reading several books at the same time. In this case I was absorbed in Lord of Shadows, the latest book in my favorite series. I generally preferred the show over the books, but that was because the show was so damn amazing. The books were still greatly enjoyable, even if the older ones weren't that great.

I was just getting to a good part when I sensed a presence next to me. I glanced over to see a woman sitting next to me on the display couch. A double-take revealed that she did, in fact, look exactly like Jane Lynch in a crisp, white linen suit. I was baffled. I didn't know where Jane Lynch lived, but surely she wouldn't be anywhere near a dumpy little suburb like Campbell. Nor did I imagine she would sit next to me and stare at me with a smile that said she had many secrets and I knew none of them.

“Hello,” she said. Her tone was quite friendly, but I was still on edge. This didn't seem right.

“Um, hi.”

She cocked her head and studied me up and down. “Is this really what you're willing to settle for?”

I puzzled. “Excuse me?”

She gestured around at our surroundings. “Do you really want to settle for this...mediocrity?”

“...I don't follow.”

A snort. “I've been watching you for a long time and—“

“That's...really creepy.” I leaned away from her.

She shot me a glare that shut me up. “And I noticed that you have so much potential. You could be so much more than this. Why are you settling?”

Everything about this was unsettling me. “I'm happy with the way things are.” At her incredulous look I added, “...Mostly.”

“Well I'm going to change that,” she said. The smile was back and even more unsettling than before.

I nervously scooted away from her, as far as I could get on the couch, and clutched my friends' purses tighter. “I'd rather you didn't.”

She reached out to touch my cheek, to which I flinched away. “Tough shit, kiddo.”

“I gotta—“

I had started to say that I had to go, but out of nowhere my legs suddenly felt like jelly. I knew I wouldn't be able to stand up without falling flat on my face. I desperately looked around for my best friends in hopes to call them over to rescue me, but they were both occupied. They were separated and were talking to two different people that made me even uneasier. They wore the same white linen suits as Jane.

My attention was taken back to Jane as she stood up. She seemed too tall, much too tall. She took my face in her hands and I whimpered, finding myself unable to pull away. I couldn't move a single muscle.

“I don't want this,” I pleaded, afraid of whatever she was about to do. My mind was flooded with images of knives and guns or whatever else one could commit acts of violence with.

“You'll thank me later,” she said softly, stroking my cheek with her thumb.

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Jane if you wish. The short answer is that I am a member of the Powers That Be. We watch over all the universes. Normally we're not supposed to interfere, but...I think an exception can be made. Just this once.” She winked.

“Bullshit,” I blurted. She made herself sound to be some all-knowing entity, but those didn't exist. I believed in a lot, but this was hard to take.

“You'll believe eventually.”

Before I could respond, a feeling came over me. My skin fizzled with what felt like static electricity, making the hair on my arms and neck stand up on end. My vision went blurry, despite my glasses still being firmly planted on my face. By the time my vision cleared up, it was dark and Jane was gone. I don't know how it got dark so fast, because it had seemed to take only a few seconds. But there was darkness and I...wasn't in the store anymore.

The couch and I were still together, but my friends' purses and the store and Jane were long gone. Instead I was in a smelly alley like I'd never seen before. The jelly feeling in my legs was now gone, so I jumped up and walked out of the alley, clutching my purse like it was my last life line. Which it might very well be.

Glancing around, I found myself in a small commercial district of some kind that I didn't recognize. How did I get here? Where even was here? I tried to ignore the growing dread in my stomach as I looked for anything familiar. Nothing. But...

Suddenly I heard screaming. I nearly jumped out of my skin and looked around for the source. A couple stores down there was a woman on the ground, screaming in terror at the hulking figure above her. They were dressed all in black and had her pinned on the sidewalk. I had my phone out before I could fully comprehend the situation and I was shouting, “HEY!” as I approached. Most attackers and rapists ran at the sight of trouble, and surely they'd see me dialing 911 and run for the hills.

They didn't.

The attacker whipped around to look at me and I froze in my tracks. The owl demon. The owl demon from Shadowhunters. Surely it had to be someone in a cosplay or something. Just so happens that a fan of the show is also a rapist asshole. That theory was quickly disproved when he suddenly appeared in front of me, fast as The Flash. I screamed and took off running away from him. I didn't look back to see if he was chasing me, because quite frankly I didn't want to know. I didn't even look back to see if the woman at least got away.

It was in that moment I wished I wasn't such a lazy slob who spent all day on her ass. All I could think about was how I couldn't run very fast and how I was probably going to trip and fall on my face and die. I never tripped, but I did get knocked off my feet sideways into a wall. It was a brick wall too, so all the air got knocked out of me. As I gasped for breath, the owl demon loomed over me. This was it, this was how I would die. Or get possessed. One of the two.

Just as it reached for me, an arrow suddenly lodged in its shoulder. It let out a loud, angry noise and clutched at the injured shoulder, whipping around to see the offender. I stared in shock at Alec and Isabelle Lightwood as they stood across the street, Alec's bow already notched with another arrow.

“Get away from them!” Alec commanded.

The owl demon growled and zipped over, lunging at them. Isabelle knocked it away with her whip, sending it skidding back on the pavement while Alec sent another arrow flying into its chest. The owl demon, to its credit, yanked the arrow out and quickly disappeared, off to places unknown. As soon as it was out of sight, Alec and Isabelle ran over to where I still sat on the sidewalk against the wall.

“Are you alright?” Isabelle asked me with concern as she knelt down next to me. Alec stayed standing, looking around in case the owl demon came back for another try.

I was dreaming, this had to be a dream. I was still back on the couch in the store, having somehow passed out while waiting for my friends. These thoughts ran through my head as I gazed into Isabelle's deep brown eyes and nodded.

“Just stunned.”

“Come on,” Alec said as he reached down to grab my hand, hauling me to my feet. “We'll take you home.”

“I don't live here,” I blurted before I could entirely think it through.

“Where do you live?” Alec asked.

“California.”

“What are you doing in New York then?” That was Isabelle.

“Good question,” was my reply. They both looked at me like I was insane. Which I very well might be.

“I don't understand.” That was Alec.

“It's a long story. Short version is I'm here against my will. Or I'm dreaming. One of the two.”

“Well...Why don't we take you somewhere safe and you can tell us the full story.”

“I don't...think that's a good idea. You'll think I'm insane.”

Alec and Isabelle shared a look, a look that was meant to convey “We know more than this person”. In reality, I was in on it, in a really weird sense. “Why don't you let us decide that,” Alec said as he and Isabelle led me off.

“Where are we going?” I asked curiously.

“A place called The Institute. Normally your kind isn't allowed in there, but I think for this we can make an exception.” Isabelle explained. I had an unfortunate flashback to Jane. She said she was making an exception for my case as well. I wanted to complain that I shouldn't be allowed in the Institute, but I wasn't sure if I should tip my hand just yet.

“You guys don't have to,” I said sheepishly.

“Where would you even go?” Alec inquired. He took my ensuing silence as answer enough. “Exactly.” He did have me there.

After what felt like hours of walking, but was probably only several minutes, the Institute was in sight. Alec and Isabelle didn't start relaxing until we were walking up the pathway towards the doors. Alec opened the door and ushered Isabelle and I inside. Immediately we were accosted by a Shadowhunter I recognized as the asshole one.

“Who's this?” he said, clearly displeased with what he was witnessing.

“Izzy,” I explained.

He sneered at me before turning back to Isabelle and Alec. “Did you seriously bring a mundane to the Institute?”

Alec could barely contain an eyeroll. “She was being attacked by the owl demon and she has nowhere to go. What did you expect me to do, Raj?”

“Anything but bring it here!”

“Did you just call me an 'it'?”

“Raj,” Alec said warningly.

“I was gonna offer to leave until you called me an 'it'. I have a gender. I have two in fact.”

“What?” was the general consensus from everyone else.

“It's called being bigender. I identify as male and female, so I respond to both male and female pronouns. Just fyi.”

There was a beat of silence as everyone processed this. Then Isabelle spoke. “You owe us a story, if I recall.”

I groaned. “You have to promise not to lock me up after.”

“I think we can handle it,” Isabelle chuckled.

“Right.” I hesitated. “So basically I was sitting in a store waiting on my best friends when this woman who looked exactly like Jane Lynch approached me. She said she was a part of this thing called The Powers That Be and that she was going to help me live up to my potential. She touched my face and next thing I know I'm here in New York and the owl demon is attacking someone.”

“How do you know—“ Alec started.

I held up a finger. “Not finished. Where I come from, all of this—“ I gesture around us. “—is a TV show based on a book series. You guys are Shadowhunters who protect mundanes from the Shadow World which is filled with Downworlders like vampires and werewolves and warlocks. You're Alec and Isabelle Lightwood, you live here with Jace Wayland-slash-Herondale and Clary Fairchild, are friends with Simon Lewis who is a vampire who's dating a werewolf named Maia, and you're currently dealing with attacks by the owl demon who's working for an unidentified greater demon.”

“How do you know all that?” Alec asked me suspiciously.

“TV show, like I said.”

“Right. Do you know who the greater demon is?”

“Yes.”

“Who is it?”

Before I could reply, there was a rumbling from the sky outside despite it being a clear night. “...I don't think I'm at liberty to say.” There was more rumbling, but this sounded almost...pleased.

“So not only is it crazy, it's useless,” Raj snorted.

I glared. “Stop calling me 'it'.” He ignored me.

“Well she's staying here whether you like it or not. It's our job to keep mundanes safe, and that's exactly what we're going to do,” Alec said firmly. There was no arguing with his tone, not even Asshole Raj. He looked decidedly displeased, but remained silent. I stuck my tongue out at him because I am a mature adult.

“Come on, I'll take you to your room,” Isabelle said with a smile, taking my arm and leading me down a long hallway. Eventually we stopped at a door which she opened upon an empty bedroom. It had no signs of anyone staying in it, like a new hotel room. I guess this is where I would be staying until they decided I would be safe to let loose on the streets. “This will be your room.”

“It's nice,” I said appreciatively as I walked inside and looked around. The walls and floor were a dark wood and the lights cast a soft, yellow glow. The bed was made with crisp white sheets and a slate gray comforter.

“We'll figure out the clothes situation in the morning.”

I arched an eyebrow. “I'm not gonna be here that long, am I?”

“Just until the owl demon is dealt with.”

“So an entire season. Fantastic.”

“Get some rest. I have a feeling you'll need it.” And with that ominous warning, Isabelle left.

I sighed, slipping off my shoes and my jacket, climbing into the bed. The Powers That Could Suck My Dick were at least kind enough to alleviate my insomnia, because I was asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next morning I woke up bright and early, a first for me since my school days. I reluctantly climbed out of bed and slipped my shoes back on when there was suddenly a knock on the door. “Come in,” I called.

It was to my great displeasure that Raj popped his head in. “Alec wants to see you in the library,” he said, sounding even less happy to be talking to me than I was to him.

“I don't know where that is,” I said as if it should be obvious, which it should be.

Raj rolled his eyes. “Come with me, mundane,” he huffed, opening the door wider so I could fit through.

“Wow, I'm not sure if that's better or worse than 'it',” I quipped as I very reluctantly followed him.

“You shouldn't be here.”

“You don't say.”

Raj stopped in his tracks and turned to loom over me, trying to be intimidating. I am angry to admit that it kind of worked. “You don't understand anything, do you? You're just a child bumbling in things you don't understand—“

“Look, asshole. I didn't ask to be here, okay. I was brought here against my will.”

“So you say.”

“What even is the point of this? I'm stuck here for as long as Alec and Isabelle say, so why are you yelling at me as if it'll get me to leave?” I said, waving my arms about angrily. He was really getting my blood boiling and I desperately wanted to punch him.

“Don't touch me, mundane!” Raj growled, recoiling as if he'd be set ablaze at the slightest brusgh.

“I'll do worse than touch you, you little—“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” came a familiar voice as a body stepped between me and Raj, the angry, spitting cats. It was Clary, and I was mildly shocked to realize that she was shorter than me. So tiny and yet could so easily kick my ass. “What's going on here?”

“Alec wants to speak with the mundane. He's in the library. You take it,” Raj spat before skulking off. I flipped him off behind his back, though I wouldn't have minded if he'd seen it. My pulse raged through my veins as I turned to Clary, who was now stuck with me, it seemed.

“I would say he's not as bad as he seems, but he really is that bad,” she said sheepishly. My anger ebbed a little, mostly because she was so tiny and cute. Even if she could kill me in seventeen different ways with her pinkie finger alone.

“Yeah, I've gathered that much,” I snorted. Clary turned and started down the hall, motioning for me to follow her, which I did. I wasn't in much position to say no to these folks. They were kindly letting me stay here for safety until the Powers That Be decided to send me home. Which would hopefully be very soon.

“So Alec and Isabelle filled me in on your story,” she said as she walked, passing various other Shadowhunters. I couldn't see her face, but I could tell by her tone that she was dubious at best. I couldn't really blame her. I still wasn't convinced this wasn't a dream or a hallucination.

“I know it sounds super crazy, but I swear it's true. I can prove it.” I jogged to catch up with her at her brisk pace and lowered my voice. “I know about the wish.”

I knocked into her after that, as she stopped suddenly in her tracks, a look of panic on her face. “What wish?”

“The wish to bring Jace back,” I whispered. “But it's okay, I won't tell anyone, I swear.”

She cleared her throat and straightened her back. “Good,” she said, moving again. I fell into step behind her, trailing like a lost puppy relying on someone to guide them. She eventually led me through a large set of double-doors into what I could only assume was the library. It was a giant room full of books, it was a safe assumption.

At the center of the room was Alec and Isabelle, no doubt doing some research on the owl demon or trying to puzzle out who the greater demon was. They both looked up as we approached, and neither looked too shocked to see Clary leading me instead of Raj.

“I was summoned?”

“Yes,” Alec said as he stood up straight. “I had some more questions for you.”

“Fire away.”

“I wanted to get a better idea of what your world is like,” he said.

“Just like this world, only minus everything supernatural,” I said with a shrug.

Alec, Isabelle, and Clary all looked as if that was the weirdest thing they'd ever heard. “Not even magic?” Isabelle said.

“Nope. I mean, there's illusionists, but no real magic. Angels? Probably don't exist. Vampires, werewolves, warlocks? Definitely don't exist. Magic? I wish.”

“So it's nothing but the mundane world?” Alec said incredulously.

I nodded. “Basically.”

“It can't be,” Alec said. “There probably is but you don't see it. Like here. Mundanes are perfectly in the dark about our world.”

“I—“ I paused. What if he was right? What if there was some secret supernatural world that was being kept secret via magic and other suck tricks. I mean, a supposedly all-powerful being just sent me into the world of my favorite TV show (supposedly), maybe such things were common and I was just glamoured against seeing it. I shook my head. “My head hurts.”

Clary, the closest one to me, put a hand on my shoulder. “It's okay. I felt the same way when I learned about the Shadow World for the first time.”

“I'm still not convinced that this isn't some kind of dream or hallucination, but this is just...” I shook my head again. “This just can't be real. It just can't be!”

Alec, Clary, and Isabelle shared a look between them that clearly said they worried for my intelligence/sanity. Alec approached me and gently took my hand...and sliced a knife across my palm.

“Ow!” I yelped, jerking my hand away as blood began spilling from the open wound. Clary hurried to my side to tend to it.

“Alec!” Isabelle scolded. Alec paid her no mind.

“Still think this isn't real?”

“You're a dick!” was my witty reply as Clary searched for something to stop the bleeding. Isabelle walked over with a handkerchief and pressed it against the cut in my palm. I hissed in pain.

“It worked, didn't it?” Alec shrugged, crossing his arms.

“That doesn't make you less of a dick.” He snorted.

Eventually the bleeding stopped and Isabelle and Clary got it bandaged up. I flexed my palm and winced. It stung like hell, and I wanted to slap Alec with it. I know it would probably only hurt more, but it made me feel good on the inside to imagine it.

“We need to take her clothes shopping,” Isabelle said once I was no longer in danger of bleeding to death (thanks Alec).

I piped up before Alec could. “I don't have any money.”

“Why can't she just borrow some from the others here?” Alec asked.

Isabelle gave him a Look. “She's a mundane, Alec, not a Shadowhunter. Shadowhunter clothes are made for fighting. And she needs underwear.”

Alec was clearly done at the mention of underwear. I was done at the mention of underwear. “Alright. I'll grant you guys some funds and you can take her shopping.”

Isabelle smiled pleasantly and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.” She turned to Clary and I, the former apparently getting roped into this. She didn't look too put off though. She actually looked like she might enjoy it. I guess even Shadowhunters enjoyed shopping trips. “Come on, let's go. We have a mission to do.”

“Wait, don't you need the money?” Alec called after us as Clary and I trailed after Isabelle, who was walking out of the room.

“No need. I have your credit card,” Isabelle called smugly over her shoulder as she sashayed out of the room.

“Hey!”

[cinemamablog]

Literal Cult Films

I spent a lot of time reading about cults as a young adult: books on Jonestown for fun and books on Scientology as preparation to play Karen Weston in August: Osage County. So I felt like a knowledgeable woman when I strolled past the Scientology solicitors on Hollywood Boulevard one summer evening. Kris and Adam stopped to talk to the smiling man, handing out FREE PERSONALITY TESTS to ideal targets: impressionable people with a weak sense of self. I kept walking, hoping that the boys would use me as an out: “oh, we have to go, that’s my friend/that’s my fiancé…” But no. They smiled, nodded their heads, listened intently, and walked away with an informational pamphlet.

“You guys know Scientology’s a cult, right?”

“How is it a cult?”

“They get you hooked with some pseudo philosophy that makes you feel good about yourself and then they start asking for money and bleed you dry.”

“How is that any different from Christianity?”

That stumped me. I never considered the fine line between religion and cult. I pondered the boys’ retort and I realized that I find cults so fascinating because their very existence reflects two innate human instincts: the need to belong and the desire to be a part of something bigger than yourself. Some people satisfy these instincts with religion, some through their work, or family, or art. And some unfortunate souls find a sense of belonging by putting their trust in something or someone with sinister intentions.

Cinema loves cults. How could it not? Ceremonial robes in rich colors, graphic rituals, charismatic megalomaniacs into which actors can sink their teeth, and endless potential for melodramatics. Satan, mass suicide, pleading parents of devotees, oblivious smiles of trusting followers. The subject lends itself to the dramatic arts.

While some of cinema’s cults defy categorization because their unique takes have yet to be duplicated onscreen (such as the powerful sex maniacs of Eyes Wide Shut and whatever the heck is going on in Suicide Club), most fit into neat boxes: satanic cults, witches, cults of religious personality, pagan cults, and cult aftermath/deprogramming.

Movies that center themselves on cults that specifically worship Satan tend to play the human sacrifice angle to create conflict. Usually a young woman acts as the sacrifice, as in Jennifer’s Body and Satanic Panic. If the plot does not revolve around a sacrifice, then the antichrist has been brought into the world by Satanists, as in the Omen, the House of the Devil and Rosemary’s Baby. One exception to this rule of sacrificial women and evil babies is the 7th Victim, in which the young woman on the other side of the Satanists’ condemnation isn’t considered a human sacrifice, but rather a traitor to her comrades and must die for it.

I find this common, sacrifice-crazed take on Satanic cults unbelievable: members delight in evil, yet don’t find answers in it. They worship Satan for Satan’s sake. They don’t get much in the bargain, only acting as foot servants to the devil. They’re easy “bad guys” to write, but lack motive. Not like the followers of cults of religious personality.

With clear references to the real life tragedy of Jonestown, Ti West’s the Sacrament captures the final hours of the Guyana massacre with realistic style, showing us the gritty details of coldblooded mass murder. One of my favorite found footage movies, Amy Seimetz (Pet Semetary, Alien: Covenant) shines as a faithful follower of the cult’s leader. In more fantastical films, like the Veil and the “Safe Haven” segment of V/H/S/2, elements of the Jonestown massacre surround more mystical forces, from ghosts of former cultists to summoned demoniacal monsters. (I can’t think of a better short in an anthology than “Safe Haven.” To quote the menu at Shahi Palace: simply perfection.) The followers in all three of these movies have been encouraged to believe in something bigger than themselves, regardless of whether their leader’s promises lead to fruition or death.

Pagan cults (or as I like to call them: ancient religions that Westerners don’t respect) are most famous for the human sacrifices in films like the Wicker Man, the Kill List, and Midsommar. That said, filmmakers have done paganism’s PR team no favors. Similar to the representation of pagan cults, witches also get a bad rap in film. Like the witchy predators in both the 1973 and 2018 versions of Suspiria and the coven in the Love Witch, most witchy cults onscreen use magic at the dear expense of their unassuming victims. Quiet a far cry from the sage and candles you’d find in real life when visiting pagan and witchcraft shops.

And now for my favorite category: cult aftermath and deprogramming. In both Riley Stearns’ Faults and Jane Campion’s Holy Smoke!, older men work as deprogrammers to cure younger women of their warped, brainwashed mindsets, at the behest of their desperate families. Both movies twist and turn in surprising ways around two strong lead actors. In contrast to these two films’ games of tug-o-war, Martha Marcy May Marlene presents the aftermath for one ex-cult follower as something closer to trauma. In Elisabeth Olsen’s breakout role, she plays her character with heartache and poor communication skills, who can’t help her loved ones help her get the help she needs.

While I recognize that the subgenre of cult films contributes to an aura of danger and fear surrounding the subject of cults, I think we can learn a lot about ourselves by examining the groups we demonize onscreen. Why do we worry so much about the devil? Why do we dwell on inhumane massacres when we have no tidy answers for why they occurred?  Why do we fear women and men who worship nature or cast spells? Why do we ostracize, and get frustrated trying to fix, trauma survivors? I adore films about cults because they cut to our deepest fears about each other, ourselves, and the spiritual world. We don’t have the answers and we don’t trust those who claim to, yet we long for a sense of understanding. It’s a mad world and cults are just one way to make sense of it.

[svt-husbands]

When Thoughts are Louder than Words

❤ Soulmate Drabble (9/13) ❤

Member: Jun Genre: Fluff Word Count: 1,010

At eighteen you form a telepathic connection with your soulmate. 

At the age of eighteen, everyone hears their soulmate’s thoughts for the first time. It’s a simple connection that helps you find the other person, or at least figure out who the person is if you already happen to know them. It’s something that everyone waits with baited breath for; finding out who they’re destined to spend their life with. It doesn’t happen immediately on your eighteenth birthday of course, but somewhere within your eighteenth year. You remember when your cousin first heard her soulmate’s voice; she had been visiting at your house and halfway through dinner she gasped and dropped her fork. Your mom worriedly reached a hand out and asked if she was okay, and your cousin just looked up with a smile and tears in her eyes.

You turned eighteen a few months ago and so far it’d just been silence. You were getting a little antsy, but you knew that it’d happen soon enough. Maybe not this soon, though. You were trying your hardest to go over your notes for a big exam the next morning. It was almost midnight and you just couldn’t get the information down. Your own scribbled handwriting was glaring up at you, and you felt hatred for the lines of purple ink on the page. Why couldn’t you have done a better job at getting down the information from class? You wanted to scream, but you also didn’t want to wake up everyone within a 50-mile radius, so you tried your best to keep the scream on the inside. It turns out that someone had heard you even still, though.

“Nǐ hái hǎo ma?” a small voice asked somewhere in the back of your mind. Your eyes popped open and you sat up straight. Could that really have been what you thought it was? Was that...your soulmate? You focused as hard as you could to try and reach out into the spirit-net and say something back.

“Hello? Are you there?” you all but whispered to yourself, thinking it as hard as possible.

“Ó, wǒ de shàngdì” the low voice replied. Oh, well, shit. Okay. Yep. Definitely your soulmate. And that definitely was not a language you understood.

“Do you know English?” you asked him carefully. There was a long period of silence. You bit your lip and fiddled with the pen in your hands as you waited for him to say anything. The second hand moved all the way around the clock on your wall three times before you heard him reply.

“He...llo. My...name is Junhui.” the voice struggled to say. “I speak...no English, I live from China.” Oh god. Your soulmate was Chinese. You could feel your heart beat a mile a minute in your chest. This was going to make things a lot harder. God, what did you know how to say in Chinese? You knew how to say hello in Mandarin. You prayed he didn’t speak exclusively Cantonese, because then you’d be screwed.

“Nǐ hǎo, Junhui” you thought back to him, quickly grabbing your phone to get to google translate something as fast as possible. Your fingers flew across the keyboard, and you tried your best to read the romanization of the complex characters that popped up. “Wǒ de...míngzì shì...Y/N. Wǒ bù shuō…….zhōngwén” (My name is Y/N. I don’t speak Chinese). You hoped that had been understandable. 

You stayed up way too late that night having completely forgotten about the exam you needed to be studying for, but instead having a slow, broken conversation with Jun through clunky google translated phrases. You learned that he liked acting, singing, and martial arts. You tried your best to tell him about yourself, but you eventually fell asleep as the sun began peeking through your window.

You got a less than stellar grade on the exam the next morning, but you’re not even phased as you race to the bookstore to buy as many beginner’s Chinese textbooks as you could afford. You spent the next year studying as much as you could, and Jun was doing the same thing with English. You loved hearing him excitedly thinking about a new English phrase he had learned that day. You managed to grow close with one another; mentally, of course. You still lived in totally different countries, but that would change soon. After a long year of sharing thoughts, dreams, and songs stuck in your head with each other, you finally were able to communicate well enough to set up a meeting.

You twiddled your thumbs at the airport, waiting in front of the arrival gate and trying to remember to breathe. He had gotten a direct flight from the Shenzhen Bao'an International Airport, meaning he’d be pretty tired. You didn’t want to overwhelm him, but you were also dying to meet him. You looked through the crowd of people walking towards the baggage claim, scanning each face worriedly.

“Where are you?” you thought to him, shifting your weight from foot to foot anxiously.

“Turn around.” you heard much louder and clearer than usual. You whipped your head around, and there he was. Tall, golden, and beautiful; your Jun. His mop of dark hair was swooped to the side, and he was wearing a big sweatshirt that spanned over his broad shoulders. You couldn’t believe your eyes. After all this time he was right there and you couldn’t even process it. He seemed to be drinking the sight of you in just as deeply, and the rest of the world seemed to fade away to the two of you.

“Wow,” somebody thought. You weren’t entirely sure which one of you had thought it, but it represented your feelings just the same. You finally broke out of it, throwing your arms around him.

“Zuìhòu,” you whispered into the soft material of his hoodie. He hummed into your hair, gripping you just as tight.

“Mmhmm. At last.” he murmured back. The sound of his voice was so much more satisfying than the sound of this thoughts. It sounded deep, warm, and so much like home.

- Marcy

[zoesjournals]

05/Sept/ 2013

Marcie’s letter to me ( we thought it would be romantic to exchange letters)

To my dear Zoe,

I’ve never really liked starting off letters or starting anything actually. But I especially do not like starting letters. You are more than dear to me but I cannot express that so I felt instead of starting of as dear Zoe, I’d say MY dear Zoe. I have a tendency to babble and I feel I talk a lot differently writing stuff down then when I do actually talking.

Have you ever just sat back and thought, not just your big mind exploding thoughts but just the small little ones. I like to try to track back my thoughts, so I can see what thought started what thought or what started that one. I could start thinking about something as simple as potatoes *tummy grumbles* and suddenly when I finish thinking, I’m all the way to something like how excited I am to go the show this year. Somehow all my thoughts are either always about you or always end up about you. When I realise this, I blush and scold myself but then I get extremely happy because I know my thoughts are spent on something as amazing and life changing as you. So that was just a random thing of today. All the little thoughts that go through a persons head.

Assignments are a drag but I syke myself by giving myself a treat. Such as every assignment, I progress, finish or practise. I watch a bit of yaoi; of course if you were here, my special treat would be kiss from you. That thought goes through my mind about 50 times a day.

I have to say I’m glad that I thought of this letter idea as it makes me feel as if you are here with me and I get to talk to you about little things I usually keep to myself. I still get lonely though without you here but it just makes me all that more excited to see you.

One inspirational, thought provoking exploding feels song I happened to listen to today: Dedication by Asking Alexandria. Listening to this song, I cried ( crying a lot lately). This song caused many feels but also many thoughts (no wonder I have headaches, all these thoughts ARGH)

I don’t fear death. I fear that once I die, yes people will be sad but they will get over it. I fear that people will get over me too quickly; that I didn’t make a big enough impact, that I didn’t matter. I have to say my deepest deepest deepest thojghts but that’s why I’m so “dramatic”. It’s because I want to make an impact. I don’t want to be forgotten so easily. Please remember this as when I have my episodes. This is exactly what I think about and that’s why I say that no one cares. Please remember this. Please remember me.

Sorry this letter has been a bit depressing, but I’ve let you into my deepest thoughts so please take this seriously. I wouldn’t have been able to tell you some of this so I’m relieved that I could write it down for you instead. I hope now you understand things about me a bit better.

I love you Zoe,

Please remember me forever. I’ll remember you forever and always. Marcie xoxo

Future note: I don’t think I truly read this when she gave it to me, just skimmed. I think that says a lot in hindsight. That what I felt towards her, and she towards me, wasn’t really love, we just thought it was cause we were so young. It’s funny looking back on it. I found this crammed in my old journal, and reading it now feels like I’m reading about someone’s else’s life. Still it gave me a smile. I burnt the letter, time to move on and stop holding onto things like this. Can’t wait until I get to the point I can easily let go of other memories. I’m still working on that.

[obsidianarchives]

Marci and Ako

Marci & Ako are the podcast duo behind The Colored Pages Book Club, a bi-weekly podcast discussing fiction, fantasy, and magical realism written by writers from colorful backgrounds. Through this lens they discuss their own lives as well as bigger social themes such as liberation, anti-oppression, and intersectionality. 

Marci is originally from Atlanta, Georgia, but, while they’re always repping Atlanta egregiously, they haven’t actually lived there since high school. A lover of Motown, anime, dance, and tea parties, Marci can often be found pounding vegan yogurt or engaging in rodent-like shenanigans with friends. While not always an avid reader, Marci’s love for storytelling dates back to his days as a wee lass enjoying cartoons, playing Japanese Role-Playing games, and living a life filled with hijinks and tomfoolery that honestly just had to be conveyed to others.

Ako has lived a decent bit of her life in one place or another. She considers home to be where her heart is — and anywhere she can find a decent slice. She never leaves her bed without her wits about her, and is always down for an adventure, a little mischief, or nonsensical turn of events. Her diet consists steadily of afro-futurism, sci-fi, fantasy, and comics. And she firmly believes a good story, heard at just the right time, can change a life. 

Black Girls Create: What do you create?

Marci: Through our collective vision, we create a virtual space of radical love for readers, writers, video game nerds, fantasy lovers, anime geeks, artists, and so many others that dare to imagine. We focus on centering the stories, narratives, and discussions that mainstream society tries to erase by centering the most marginalized or, in our words, most “colorful” individuals. 

Ako: As Marci said, we’re just making Black kid magic or youngblood joy. We’re trying to create a corner of the internet that’s a little off the beaten path. Somewhere you can laugh, relax, and maybe think a little.

BGC: Why do you create?

Marci: Both of us share the core belief that imagination is the greatest catharsis and is the vector we need to create a better world. For that reason, literature has been a very transformative part of our lives. We wanted to create a show that made discussions around the precious medium more accessible. Conversations around books can be hilarious, serious, silly, and have the charm of two good friends catching up. So, we wanted to encourage imagination and change what it means to be someone that consumes and appreciates literature. 

Ako: Yeah, I think all people create in some form or another, whether it’s tangible or intangible. Creating is what we do with our lives and imagination, and I feel CPBC is one of the tools we do it with. I create to figure things out, to deal with life, to change my life, and sometimes, frankly, to escape my life. I create because I want to experience something that’s not there or I want to give my take on something that is. So for us, just like Marci said, we wanted to create a place that honors imagination, by interacting with it. You open a book and you see someone else’s whole perspective on life and you ask yourself, “How do I feel about this? What did I learn? What do I think?” and then get to talk to your friend about it and that conversation becomes this creation of fun, joy, healing, and growth.

BGC: Who or what inspires you to do what you do? 

Marci: Whether I was telling some ridiculously dramatic story on the bus or literally getting sent out of Calculus class for sharing some ridiculous tale, I’ve always been a storyteller. What can I say? But more than CPBC serving as a platform for Ako and me to tell our collective story — a story of friendship, social action, and rule breakers — we’re inspired by all the great stories that precede and exist alongside us. Stories are the key to building empathy, creating community, and fostering visibility and it’s the potential of stories and the act of storytelling that inspire us the most. 

Ako: For this podcast? I guess Marci inspires me. I mean they called one day and said, I have this idea for a book club and I thought of you. Before that I had very little intention of doing anything related to podcasting. But it was one of those moments when someone says, “Hey, I found this magic carpet and I’m gonna take it on a joy ride. Are you in or you out?” And at first I was worried — “What if we fall? What if we run into a plane? What about altitude sickness?” But then I thought, “Well if it's Marci, it’s sure to be an adventure, and moreover, I certainly don’t want to regret not giving it a shot!” It’s moments like this, that when life asks you if you dare — and whatever you answer kind of tells you the life you want to live. 

BGC: Who is your audience?

Marci: Listen, we invite anyone to listen to the Colored Pages Book Club! While the show is about fiction, fantasy, and magical realism, Ako and I love us some anime, 90s cartoons, and similarly imaginative mediums. So, for our readers out there, tune in if you’re looking to be part of a virtual book club, trying to find more books by colorful writers (women writers, LGBTQ+ writers, writers of color, etc.), and ultimately looking for hilarious discussion and intersectional analysis to accompany your reading experience. And, for everyone else, tune in for the anime references, the personal anecdotes, the hilarious sidenotes, and the general nerding out that take place. (And don’t worry if you haven’t read the books. Think of the show as Sparknotes: Blerd Edition.)

Ako: I agree, anyone who wants to join the conversation is more than welcome! That’s what’s so cool about having an online “book club.” We get to be like, “Yo, people somewhere out there, we read this book and we had some thoughts — what about you?” Of course, injustice and hatred isn’t really our speed, so if that’s what you’re into, we’re probably not for you. But otherwise, if you like books, blerd stuff, nerd stuff, or just something fun and a little different from the usual, you’re in the right place. 

BGC: How do you balance creating with the rest of your life? 

Marci: Lately, I have been really intentional about crafting time each day for the things that matter most to me. I am someone with a lot of varying interests and curiosities and keep myself on a set morning self-care routine that ensures I’m equally contributing to my personal, mental, and creative health. So, while that means I can’t quite binge YouTube video game reviews or the latest season of Pose like I used to, it’s well worth it. 

Ako: I don’t…or I’m learning how to, I guess. But often my life bleeds into my creative process and vice versa. Sometimes it’s not great and sometimes it is amazing. An experience will influence a creative project I’m working on, and often my creative projects influence how I live my life. Mostly, I just try to make sure one doesn’t sideline the other — but I would be lying if I said I had it all figured out. 

BGC: Why is it important as a Black person to create?

Marci: As Black people, our voices and stories have been erased, disregarded, and misappropriated for centuries. So, by creating, we are able to control our own narratives and ensure our stories are being told honestly and respectfully. But, in addition to that, as a Black, queer individual, I understand that my liberation is not mutually exclusive to the liberation of others. That it is just as important for me to lift up and support others on my journey of creative expression since, quite frankly, we can ALL eat. There’s more than enough to go around.

Ako: Because we’re humans, and creating is the human experience. Often times the world tries to deny or define that experience for Black folks. But honestly, we’ve created in the face of oppressive forces that have tried very hard to stop us before and we continue to create in the face of those forces now. Why wouldn’t we? We exist on this earth experiencing all that it is, and so it only makes sense that we influence it, and we leave a part of ourselves here in whatever form that it takes. 

BGC: Advice for young creators?

Marci: My biggest advice would be to not be afraid to create in ways you haven’t before. Learning to podcast was definitely a learning curve and historically, I’m not someone who really fell in love with reading until fairly recently. I spent so much time in the beginning stages doubting my ability to realize this idea and to manifest our vision for CPBC. It’s very normal to question your ability to do something you haven’t before, but dare to believe in your ability to learn, expand, and grow and, most importantly, trust that your spirit would never manifest an idea that you were incapable of actualizing.

Ako: I think just start. It doesn’t have to be good, in fact it probably won’t be, but who cares? Creating is for you. It’s not for the world, although you might share it. It’s a way of freeing yourself, or working things out in your mind, or imagining possibilities. Don’t think so hard about what it should be, just start, and allow the experience to tell you of what it is. 

BGC: Do you have any future projects?

Marci: So, in the vein of challenging your perceived creative limitations, I am actually in the process of writing my first novel. It’s an idea that has constantly shifted and expanded throughout the years, but I’m finally working to actualize this creative vision. Details to come.

Ako: I’m really excited to one day start an animation company. Animation, to me, is such an innovative and dope medium. It allows a creator to play with so many aspects of storytelling. And when I think about how those aspects could be used to tell different perspectives I get really excited. So, that’s my dream and I honestly look forward to it.

Follow Marci and Ako on Twitter @TheColoredPages and find their podcast at www.thesecoloredpages.com.

[firstumcschenectady]

“The Stories We Have to Tell (and tell, and tell)” based on Psalm 145:1-5, 17-21 and Job 19:23-27a

Several years ago I had the honor of celebrating the life of a woman who had spent her life as a nurse.  She was fiercely independent, had never married, was wonderfully fashionable, and LOVED being a nurse.  At the end of her life, she had dementia, and it took almost everything from her – knowledge of her loved ones, words, mobility, and the rest.  All that was left of HER at the end of her life was one simple motion.  It was the careful, life-saving motion of surgical preparation - washing her hands.  After she'd lost even her own name, she kept on washing her hands.

I often wonder what that piece of me would be – the one last lingering aspect of myself that would go last.  Truthfully, I've never figured it out, but it feels like an important question. Similarly, when I am spending time with a person earlier stages of dementia, I pay attention to what stories come up time and time again.  My theory is that those stories are core identity stories, they are key to how the person understands themselves.  As such, I try to notice what stories I'm telling repeatedly (hopefully to different people), and figure out why those are the stories I'm telling.

Not to give away all my secrets all at once, but I also pay attention to the phenomenon of repeated stories in groups – because I think stories that more than one person tells are likely stories that matter.  Also, I find the nuances and differences extra interesting.

The stories that we repeat are the stories that are important to us.  I suspect there are at least two aspects to why we repeat them:  first because they are part of how we make sense of the world and secondly because we're still trying to make sense of the stories.  Telling our stories, and having others respond to to them, helps us figure them out.  

A few years ago I came across a distinction between two types of stories we tell.  Most of us, most of the time, tell what this theory calls “ego stories.”  Ego stories make us look good, focus on life's high spots, portray us as having control in our own lives, are well practiced and linear, well told, and sometimes well spun.  These are the stories of interviews, of parties with people we don't know, of invulnerability and image crafting.

The other option, according to this theory, is “soul stories.”  Soul stories are the stories underneath ego stories, ones that tell about both shadow and light, suffering as well as gladness.  They have a lot of twists and turns, including telling about when our plans were undone by life.  Telling soul stories allows us to integrate the fragments with the whole, in part because they are unafraid of change, fear, loss, failure, shame, mystery, passion, or ecstasy. They are often told in poetry, music, or art.  They are the stories we hold onto in the hardest of times, and the ones most important for our loved ones to know.  Soul stories are likely to be the ones we are revisiting at 3 AM, or when we have dementia, or when we die.1

The truth is that in most settings, soul stories are hard to tell.  They make us vulnerable, and they tell about things we are afraid of or ashamed of.  Yet, when we don't tell them, they get told through us without our awareness.

All of this thinking about stories started for me with the language of Job and the desire in that passage to immortalize Job's story.  For a little context, we are hearing Job himself speak in this passage and, “Since Job has parodied and rejected the language of prayer (vv 21-22) and realized that his outcry brings no response or justice (v. 7) there appears to be no way for him to bring his words before God.”2 In part, Job worries about how his story will live past his death. That's what this is about – preserving his words as a testimony to the injustice of his life.  “It appears that Job describes three materials on which his words might be recorded – scroll, lead tablet, engraved rock – each more enduring than the last.”3

The phrase translated “For I know my Redeemer lives” refers to a “kinsman redeemer”, that is “It designates the nearest male relative, who was responsible for protecting a person's interest when that individual was unable to do so.  The [kinsman redeemer] would buy back family property sold in distress, recover what has been stolen, redeem a kinsman sold into slavery, or avenge a murdered kinsman blood.  The [kinsman redeemer] is the embodiment of family solidarity.”4 Now, just to be clear, this means that what Job was actually saying was “I have a family member who will avenge me, and even after I die, he will be working for justice on my behalf.”  And, further, the assumption is that the kinsman redeemer will be working towards justice for Job against Job's opponent: God.  Which is to say that this passage means exactly the opposite of what I thought it did when I first read it.  It is NOT the same gist as the Psalm from a different angle.  This is a passage really angry with God.  (The fact that I missed this means I wasn't really thinking about this being the book of Job when I read the passage, definitely a poor choice.)

In terms of understanding the passage, there is one more important piece.  The very end is distinct from what comes before it.  The commentator in the New Interpreter's Bible suggests it makes the most sense to read it this way, “'I know that my defender lives, and that at the  last he will arise upon the earth – after my skin has been stripped off!  But I would  see God form my flesh, whom I would see for myself; my eyes would see, and not a stranger.”  That is, Job returns to his constant refrain in the book:  that he wants to be heard by God, that he wants justice from God, and that he wants a REPLY from God.  Even having his kinsman-redeemer fix things after his death, or having his story be immortalized isn't enough.  He wants to take up this issue with God directly.  

In function, the book of Job is one long soul story, interspersed with some ego story assurances from Job's friends.  Even God's answers take the form of a soul story.  The yearning that Job has to have his story heard fits with the description that they are the stories we want the people we love most to know – and I think in this case that includes God.

I've always assumed that God knows my stories, in fact thats one of the assurances of life – that even if I forget my own stories, they are still alive within the Divine.  But that means I don't tend to tell God my stories as often, even though the telling of stories to God is inherently good.  And, the book of Job is the great reminder in the Bible that God is big enough to handle our anger, and it is OK to RAIL against God.  God doesn't punish us for expressing our anger, and God knows the injustices we've experienced, and yet we are welcome to keep on telling them to God as long as they need to be told.  Because God, of course, can handle our vulnerable soul stories with shadows and light, and doesn't need or expect things cleaned up into ego stories.  This is sometimes one of the weaknesses of formal worship.  When we have hymns, anthems, and prayers in poetic and formal language it can lead us to thinking that God requires us to be able to express the inexpressible.  When in fact, God can handle any communication, including “sighs too deep for words.”

Have you tried telling God your stories, instead of just going over them again and again in your head?  Sometimes it can really help.  For me, it is most helpful when I WRITE to God (longhand!).  I keep a prayer journal and I find that all the things swirling in my head and smashing into each other can be extricated one by one, examined, and a bit of order can sometimes be found among them.  Or, at the very least, I can find out what things are in conflict within me.  What seems massive within, when written to God, becomes less heavy and more manageable.  I also notice, as I write, what themes I go back to.  Which is helpful because it helps me to have a better idea what my version of handwashing might be.  

I thought, before I did my research, that I'd be ending this sermon talking about the stories we have to tell of God's goodness.  Our versions of “I know my redeemer lives” before it became clear that was NOT God after all.  (Oye).  I do actually think those are important stories, imperative ones even.  None of us are here without a good reason.  That's just not how life works.  But do others in your church family know the core stories of your personal faith journey?  Do they know why you trust in God, or what you are struggling with in trying to trust God, or why you keep showing up at all?  Are these some of the stories you keep on telling?  (Why or why not?)  Those might be interesting stories to start telling – even if they are soul stories and more than a little vulnerable.  So here is your homework this week.  (Homework!?!)  Tell one member of this community one of your personal faith stories – why you are committed to being a part of this Jesus-movement.  Together, these are the stories we have to tell, and tell, and tell.  Amen

1  Parker Palmer and Marcy Jackson, “Ego Stories & Soul Stories” © 2012 found at https://www.clearpathcounsel.com/files/4313/3029/8683/Ego_Stories__Soul_Stories.pdf

2  Carol Newsom, “The Book of Job” in The New Interpreter's Bible Volume IV ed. Leander E. Keck et al (Nashville: Abingdon Perss, 1996)  477-8.

3  Newsom,  478.

4  Newsom, 478.