#Betsy knows how their egos are or were

[liliannadelaphinehartifelt]

Alastor - [ DEVOTION Pt. 6 ]

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Blame my obsession with K-dramas for how dramatic this last angsty part is. Also, to be clear, I do know some of you head-cannon Alastor as a ‘charismatic psychopath’ because of the way he acts in the show but personally I see him as more of a ‘dynamic sociopath’ while he was alive. I’m telling you this because I know authors tend to depict their faves so out of character just to progress the plot of their stories without any logical reasoning behind it. I am not that type of writer and therefore I don’t think my perception of (Human) Alastor is strange. Anyways, enough from me. Let’s get back to our regularly scheduled broadcast shall we?

WARNINGS: [ MDNI ] + [ MENTIONS & DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOOD / HORROR ] + [ PREGNANCY TROPE…it’ll be over soon I swear…] + [ IMPLICATIONS OF A MISCARRIAGE ] + [ DESCRIPTIONS OF A DEAD BODY ] + [ HEAVY ANGST ]

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On a cozy November evening, the Garden District of New Orleans bloomed with life. Its magnificent houses and mansions stood tall in the late-day sun, and the woeful winter breeze passing through the dazzling neighborhood rustled the greenery lining each home.

Many of the Jazz City’s locals regarded the area as an affluent attraction for outsiders to gawk and marvel at, while those who resided there took pride in its beauty.

You considered yourself fortunate to be a part of such a gleaming community, living a subtle life of luxury due to Alastor's wild success, but not entirely involved with other well-kept wives of similar influential figures.

Socializing had never been your forte; though it was required of you in mannerable situations, the constant exchange of loose friendships with strangers never entirely appealed to you.

Although, being married to a renowned public figure with an image to uphold puts you in compliance with the aversion.

Parties, local events, and even headlining musical performances became your routine social appearance.

Alastor was immensely proud to have you on his arm, charming the masses with your soft approach, swooning the newspapers with your angelic appearance and kind public gestures.

You did your best to make a lovely impression on anyone you encountered, wordlessly adhering to Alastor’s commanding ego and polishing the rough edges of his public image with practiced selflessness.

Few knew you personally, and even fewer saw you as a socialite.

Sure, you'd been polite to anyone who passed on the street, made small talk with neighbors, did charity work for those who thought to ask, and even donated effort towards Rosies spontaneous book club meetings every other weekend -though they were thinly veiled gossip sessions she'd orchestrate with fellow homemakers.

There wasn't a single person you could call a 'friend' who wasn't already close to your husband…

How Rosie had managed to crowd her stunning home with so many familiar yet strange faces, claiming to be precisely that -your friend- baffled you in more ways than one.

Yes, these people were acquaintances and admirers to some degree, but your friends?…

You had none besides Alastor, willing to remain by his side in matrimony just as you had from the moment you met him, reluctant to make any other connections since your shared childhood.

It didn’t help that Alastor developed a habit of scaring away new acquaintances behind your back and even resorted to violent acts of service to keep other suitors at bay before your shared vows.

As a result, the happy faces you saw now felt fabricated; every congratulatory remark didn't resonate with your heart, and the more people that arrived to celebrate you and Alastor, the more lost you felt.

They didn't know you.

No one knew you, but they adored your husband and, in turn, fawned over you.

Liars.

Everyone spouted half-truths, mirroring the ones Alastor had been telling you for months, and your heart grew heavier with each one told.

You could manage seeing him falsify his real identity to the public, to unsuspecting strangers, and to posh parasites.

You could handle being put on a pedestal, seen as the perfect wife, and expected to echo his ideal perception.

Lying to others was child's play, a game you two had grown to love, but Alastor developing the need to lie to you wasn't a tolerable offense.

The party began smoothly; guests swooped in with delightful gifts, either handmade or recently bought from the showcases of New Orleans's finest shops; gentle swing music wafted through the air of Rosie’s lavish two-story home that sat only a block away from your own.

She'd gone to the extreme for the whole ordeal: live music, tantalizing food laid out on tables in the parlor, decorations befitting a small ball neatly adorning the house exterior, and the creme de le creme of Louisiana's socialites filling the guest list.

Alastor uttered nothing but praise for his dearest friend's efforts, thanking her for the collaborative success with a broad smile and chaste kiss.

You followed his gratitude with a gracious nod, content with sitting at your designated table now lined with small gifts from an array of affluent attendees.

"My, Rosie, you've outdone yourself again! You even got Anthony and that grump Husk to show face," Alastor chuckled, eyeing the chattering crowd carefully until his gaze landed on the two opposing men.

Rosie hummed triumphantly, champagne flutes in one hand as the other flicked off an imaginary offense, "Oh, come now, Alastor, you know I'd do my best for the occasion! Everyone in town begged to be here. Not every day they get to meet radio's biggest star and his wife!"

She flashed a genuine grin at you, noting the slight glare on your face as you returned it, but said nothing.

Her attention reverted to the man beside her, who continued observing the crowd, sharing passing remarks with Rosie when a person of interest appeared.

You oversaw their exchange, deliberately soft-spoken the whole evening, often having to avert your focus to converse with a couple who'd come to give their gift and admiration.

Still, the minute the guests left to join the party again, you'd zero in on them.

Alastor felt your eyes on him, burning holes into the back of his head despite you sitting down to rest as the party moved along.

He refused to acknowledge your staring, patiently waiting for you to call for his attention rather than assume you needed it.

After ten minutes of idle chit-chat, he was obliged to give it to you, as Rosie excused herself for the time being.

You said nothing as he peered down at you over his shoulder, amber eyes glinting gold under the lowering sunlight pouring in from the opened bay windows behind you, lips curled into a familiar smile that you considered returning for a moment.

It was hard for you to deny how magnificent Alastor looked in the thrall of pride, dressed in a Burgundy suit with cream accents, hair neatly styled to hide his natural brown curls from the eye of others, and his skin glimmering under natural light.

He was beautiful, deceptively desirable even in your eyes filled with one-sided hurt, and you wished to let go and stand by his side with the utmost confidence in him just as you'd done so many times before.

It would be so easy to forget his transgressions then, to fully enjoy the celebration of your children's oncoming arrival together, but as he elegantly turned on his heel to approach you, splinters of suspicion pricked through your forgiving nature.

You wouldn't t let him charm his way out of this.

Enough was enough.

Alastor watched as your expression grew hard, hidden from the festive crowd by his lean frame as he knelt at eye level with you.

To those around you, the gesture came off as romantic, an endearing sight of a husband tending to his pregnant wife, and not the unspoken detachment of trust between a loyal lover and her predatory protector.

Alastor reached for one of your hands, subtly tugging it from resting on your stomach to resting in his palm.

A sickeningly sweet smile plastered his face as he placed a ginger kiss on your gloved knuckles.

His eyes never left yours as he enacted the loving gesture, swirling with unabashed mischief as you dug your nails into his skin, and the slight pain beckoned him to hum with delight.

You were angry and even enraged with him, but you showed it subtly and practiced, and if he were an ordinary man, Alastor would've considered feeling guilty for it.

But your husband was far from average, far from the definition of guilt, and you wouldn't have him any other way because, despite all his faults and evils, you loved him.

You loved him, felt loyal to him, would do anything for him, yet he lied.

He carried on belittling your trust to mere innocence.

Resentment radiated off you in waves, barely drowned out by the party's happenings but settling on Alastor's shoulders with force.

"Is there something troubling you, my dear?" he asks lowly, eyes steady on you as your smile tightens.

"You." is the only word that leaves your lips, laced with lethal rage in the softest tone, and the contrast elicits a rare frown from him.

He lets your response linger, tangling with laughter and music but remaining in his consciousness as he rises to his feet.

A specific anger curls in Alastor's chest, one he seldomly felt for himself, but the look on your face as he rose to his full height above you made it potent.

Something was different; that sweet girl he'd grown to cherish now looked tainted, and now he knew it was his fault.

"Darling…" he began to formulate an inquiry, faltering in his well-tailored demeanor to conjure a suitable remedy for your anger, but his excuses weren't quick enough.

You carefully stood to your feet, forcing a smile before raising on your tip toes to kiss his cheek, smoothing a hand over his suit until it rested where his heart was.

Your lips neared his ear, whispering spiteful words that didn't match the loving aura you showcased to the onlooking guests.

"You, my love, are a heartless lying bastard. Keeping secrets from me, your wife, of all people? Is that what your devotion to me means? Not trusting the woman who loves you? The mother of your children? If it is, then you can burn in hell with satan himself..'

The strain of smiling through your pain began to take its toll.

Tears welled in your eyes as each hurtful word fell on his ears, but you refused to cause a scene at such a lovely event and resorted to walking away from him as swiftly as you could manage.

Alastor was left to stand alone, his jaw clenched and his control wavering as he heard your heels click further away.

A few guests tried to gain your attention, but you quickly and respectfully declined their engagements, barely making it out of their view as tears streamed down your face, but by fate's grace, you found solace in Rosie's kitchen.

All of the cooks, maids, and waiters were absent.

Everyone was upstairs enjoying the festivities, celebrating you and Alastor's happiest time, but here you were.

Alone.

Beside yourself and utterly alone.

You tried to sob quietly, choking back frustrated screams while pacing, but the look on Alastor's face after you'd confronted him about lying brought more tears.

You'd never seen him hurt, taken aback, guilty like that.

He'd always been so perfect in your eyes, composed and deliberate about his presence.

Now, you'd ruined that image, and at what cost?

Would he come clean now or shut you out even more?

Was your anger worth any of it? Was his lying worth it?

Your heart was a mess, desperate to connect with his, but reluctant to it all at once.

“….”

Maybe father was right…

The sound of quick footsteps approaching the kitchen didn't register to you, drowned about by your excessive crying, but another presence was made evident as two gentle arms wrapped you in a hug.

"Oh, honey, come here…" Rosie cooed into your hair, frowning as your cries became hysterical, muffled by the frilly fabric of her dress.

"H-he's been lying to me, Rosie! Alastor…..a-and everyone else in this decrepit city has been playing me like a fool!"

You shuddered violently, trying to breathe correctly despite a filled stomach and a rush of anger taking its toll.

Rosie hushed you gently, letting you cry in her arms until your breaths came steadily.

She ushered you to sit somewhere comfortable as she gathered a few items to help your nerves settle.

"He lied to me," you repeat tiredly, watching as she throws together a pot of tea, using herbs you know all too well.

A sprig of Lavender, sprinkle of cinnamon, bits of rosemary, and a few drops of honey. Finally, a dash of lemon for taste.

This a simple but potent recipe for a calming and effective cup of tea.

Rosie sighs, debating what to say as she lets the mixture steep in a porcelain cup of hot water.

You weren't wrong; Alastor was hiding things from you, and though she hated to see you so distraught because of his hidden deeds, the possibility of hurting you with the truth weighed on her.

Betray, her closest friend's trust, tell his wife the haunting truth and pray she still loves him after hearing it.

Or, keep up the charade he'd so carefully created to protect you, risk driving you mad with resentment, and contribute to the cycle of pain you felt?

Rosie had difficulty choosing which path to follow but soon made her decision as you spoke again.

"Rosie…tell me the truth. Is he…is he seeing another woman? Planning to leave me? To leave us?.." you glance at your stomach, fearful of her answer and terrified your assumptions might be right.

Oddly silent, she doesn't answer your questions immediately and finishes preparing your fresh cup of hot tea, "Rosie, please! Whatever Alastor is hiding from me, I need to know. I…I'm his wife, and I have the right to at least know what's being kept from me. What is he doing out so late all the time? Why can’t I leave the house without him anymore? And for goodness sake, why does he insist I don’t read the paper?!”

The blonde freezes where she stands, whipping her whole body around to stare at you intently, and you stop yourself from rambling seeing her serious so suddenly.

"Al isn't being unfaithful, dear. That I can tell you for certain.."

"Then what in god's name is he-"

Rosie drew closer to you, dawning an all-too-sweet smile you'd learned to dread.

That happy expression was practiced, used only to console your fears or quell any questions you had.

She'd gotten so well at fronting the mask that you nearly began to believe anything she said when it was on, but now you knew better.

You knew that smile meant more lying, and in that moment, you lost the will to trust anyone in Alastors' close circle.

Even Rosie.

"I think it's time you go home and rest, dear. All this stress and crying isn't good for the babies," the blonde moved you gently, helping you stand and walk the expanse of her kitchen, up the stairs, and down corridors until the ongoing party reached your ears again.

That entire trek back upstairs felt meaningless, a distant woeful memory you existed in just to be flung back into reality by Rosie's voice, "I'll go get Al and have him take you-"

Your head snapped up at the mention of the one man who'd caused so much sorrow, tongue poised to speak harshly about him, but your penchant for politeness tempered it.

"That won't be necessary, Rosie. I'll get home just fine on my own."

She balled, clutching the string of pearls around her neck, "Oh goodness no, dear! This may be uptown, but it is still no safe place to walk about all alone. And dare I say, Alastor’s just wouldn't have it-"

"Rosie. I don't wish to see or be near him!.." you hissed as quietly as possible, lips pursed and eyes glaring daggers into her crowded parlor room.

Despite her better judgment, Rosie let the matter go, frowning as she made a heady suggestion.

"Why don't I have a close friend walk you home then? Just in case. There is a murder running 'round, and we can't have you getting hurt or caught up."

There it was again…

We…

You knew she was referring to anyone but you. Alastor, Angelique, her.

Everyone but you seemed to have a significant stake or curious investment in your unborn children's well-being.

The eerie overprotectiveness always made you weary, but at this point, you found it alarming, to say the least.

However, Rosie was right to a point.

There'd been a murder -or several- running a muck in Louisiana’s deep south.

Specifically, New Orleans.

Although the gruesome crimes were frequent, morbidly committed, and consistently reported on by papers and radio shows alike…

No one, not even the expert authorities, seemed to pinpoint a suspect or apparent killer among the public.

All that they knew was the killer's intangible motives, their style, their choice of victims -but nothing substantial enough to apprehend them.

You couldn't care less about a possibility of the Bayou Butcher coming for your head.

Your anger towards Alastor proceeded your worries for personal safety.

Rosie didn't wait for you to come to reason with her observation, already scurrying into the parlor to find your husband and tell him of your wishes to leave.

It irritates you how fragile she, Alastor, and everyone else he knows treated you.

It was as if you couldn't fend for yourself, as if he was the only one capable of cognitive thought in your marriage, and to some degree, the realizations stung your pride.

Traces of anger grew in your heart towards him minute by minute, something you never dreamt of feeling for him, but dreams can quickly turn into nightmares as your father would say…

This moment was that turning point. You could feel the shift as you turned away from the packed parlor, ignoring those who gave greetings as you stalked toward the front door.

Some asked if you needed assistance, and others watched in confusion as you slipped out the door and let it slam shut behind you.

Not many people were on the front porch and lawn, and those who were let you pass through without saying a word.

You presumed they were just waiting for the moment to gossip again, whether it be about you or someone else.

The need to care wasn't one you had, taking brisk steps down the sidewalk under a setting sun as rare chilled breezes sweep the southern heat from your face.

It was convenient that Rosie only lived a block and a half away from you, and Alastor’s shared estate.

The semi-long walk gave you time to think, time to enjoy the scenery around you and get away from the suffocating expectations put on you simply by being the Radio Star's perfect wife.

You scoffed at the thought, trying not to get angry again as your steps took you around a familiar corner, but the negative feeling quickly lessened when you felt a gentle rap of kicks in your stomach.

The twins gave a subtle tussle, sensing their mother's distress, and to some degree, you believed they were trying to cheer you up.

Their tiny gestures worked, putting a smile on your solemn expression and keeping it there to your destination.

You shuffled up the steps to your home, tired, feet sore, and ready to cry again as the large structure reminded you of the man you'd left to endure the company of his admirers.

His.

Not yours.

That had always been the difference.

With a sigh, you unlocked the front double doors, shutting them swiftly as street lamps began to light up and locking the ornate wood panels right after.

It was a habit Alastor insisted on and one you didn't intend to break tonight.

He'd have to come through the back door, and as small as the hassle would be, you still found it a suitable enough sign of discontent from you to him.

With nothing but sleep on your mind, you trudged up the staircase, pulling your gloves off and preemptively pulling pins from your styled hair.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your hair flowed loosely down your back, and your dress zipper was pulled down (by some miracle, you managed to do it on your own).

You tossed the pins on your vanity, jewelry, gloves, and clutch purse, following suit.

Your shoes regained their spot in the closet, your clothes were thrown into the bathroom hamper, and your nightrobe was thrown over your arm as a replacement.

You were ready for bed after one hot shower, a face care routine, and a hair brushing session.

Alastor still isn't home yet…

The clock had struck midnight thirty minutes ago, and he'd yet to show his face.

You half expected him to, but after years of seeing him angry on very few occasions, you highly doubted he'd return without cooling himself down first.

He tended to go hunting as an alternative…which left you alone for hours on end.

Sadness and guilt crept into you as the argument replayed in your mind.

The emptiness of your shared bed did not help your aching heart, and the heavy silence of the house made it worse.

You may have gone too far.

Maybe he wasn't hiding anything, and I overreacted?

Maybe I was wrong to doubt him, to worry and fret over something trivial.

Your thoughts spiraled again, tears filling your eyes as regret got the best of you.

"What have I done…?" you mumbled in earnest, glancing around the room, wishing to apologize to Alastor or at least explain yourself in a better tone.

Sleeping without him felt foreign, unreal, and even like a self-inflicted punishment.

You saw no benefit to it, and you were consumed with worry.

I can’t do this…

With your mind racing but your body ready to rest, you decided that taking one of Angelique's tonics would soothe you enough to relax.

You left the room on a mission, carefully treading downstairs and into the kitchen, and with haste, you found the cabinet holding the container of vials she’d gifted to you every month.

You opened it swiftly, hoping to find what you needed, but the box was empty.

"Oh, for the love of!-" you hissed angrily, shoving the box away with a grimace, but the sour expression didn't last long as you remembered where to find extra tonics.

Angelique was an insightful woman, cautious enough to give you extra in case something like this happened.

Fortunately, Alastor insisted on putting the additional vials somewhere else so as not to mistake them for regular tonics.

You'd agreed to his idea, allowing him to keep them safely locked in the basement, but now you needed them.

Leaving the moonlit kitchen, you drifted into the second hallway, walking straight ahead to the basement door.

Its key hung on a hook to the left, a small silver trinket Alastor kept a tight watch on, and you tended not to mess with it.

That went for the basement as well.

It was his area of the house you stayed away from not only out of personal reluctance but also out of explicit instructions from him.

His reasons for your avoidance ranged from "Trust me, It's too dangerous for you, darling.." to "Just as you have the library as a safe haven, I have the basement as mine…"

You hadn’t thought to question him, having no reason to, but for once, you disregarded his wishes to grant your own.

He'd never know you went down there only to retrieve medicine. What harm could one peek do?

You plucked the key from its hook, unlocking the creaky black walnut door before reaching into the dark abyss for the lamp switch.

Your fingers found it on the left wall, flicking the switch to bring a warm golden light into the damp room.

The steps croaked under your slow footsteps, holding firm under your nearly doubled weight until you stepped onto the cold wooden flooring.

Alastor kept the space oddly clean; a chair sat in one corner, his hunting gear was neatly arranged on one of two long oak tables, and the walls held other hunting equipment.

You noticed most of the hanging instruments were carving aids, something your own father used to cut and properly clean his own game after he went hunting during your childhood.

Seeing the array of butcher knives and other tools did not frighten you; they were familiar and expected from your husband's choice of hobbies.

Nothing caught your attention at first, usual kickbacks and things tucked away in corners and a hefty radio set on the second table, but little stood out.

You treaded carefully though, peering curiously at different items as you searched for the spare box of tonics, but they were nowhere to be found at first glance.

You figured to look deeper, rummaging through cabinets and under the table, mindful of your swollen belly as you bent down or reached above.

The longer you searched, the more anxious you felt.

Somewhat afraid of being in the basement alone, and a little scared Alastor would find you down there, though he explicitly asked you not to be.

"I have to hurry.." you mumbled, eyes frantically searching the space again as the last cabinet you searched held nothing important to you.

A particular corner of the room caught your gaze. Right behind the armchair was a stack of boxes of different sizes.

You drew closer to them, spotting the extra medicine box on top, gently grabbing it from the pile, but you couldn't look away from the most enormous box sitting right at your feet.

It was huge and made of sturdy metal, unlike the rest, and you were sure a whole person could fit in it if they tried.

How odd…

You'd never seen it before but the box felt sorely out of place, among other things.

You couldn't peel your attention away from it, some invisible force urging you to look inside, and despite your better judgment, you gave into the desire.

Setting the medicine box down on the chair, you moved the other cases off the larger one, clearing it off before cautiously kneeling to open it.

There was no lock, only four bolt latches, which you found easy enough to undo, but the real task was lifting the heavy lid up high enough to see inside.

You managed it with a few determined huffs escaping your lips, letting the heavy lid hit the stone wall before taking a look inside.

You immediately wish you hadn't..…

"Oh God…" you whispered in utter shock and horror at the sight in front of you, feeling undeniably sick from it, mind racing to make up a rational reason for the vulgar sight.

But what rational reason on Earth could justify your beloved husband hiding a literal mutilated body in the basement.

Your heart sank seeing the poor souls' faces sunken in with dread, drowning in their blood, maned at various points as if an animal had mauled them.

Body parts were missing, skin had been flayed, and you almost couldn't tell if the person had any recognizable features left.

It was horrible…a brain-altering nightmare come to life before your very eyes, and it made you sick.

You began to cry, unconsciously sobbing hysterically as the dead body lifelessly peered back at you, terrified of it… slightly afraid of the man you presumed caused the damming scene.

With a sense of urgency, you reached to shut the lid, flinching as loose blood splattered onto you from the impact of the box closing, and the chill of red liquid dripping down your skin was enough to make you scream in pure disgust.

It was a guttural, frantic cry you'd only expressed in recent nightmares, but a deserved one.

Your body began to shake in peril, the gruesome image engraved into your mind as you scrambled to get to stand, but you weren't as composed as before and stumbled backwards haphazardly as a result.

Everything moved faster than you thought; your body had abandoned control, leaving you to fall without warning.

The room spun as your head collided with a table's edge, a dull pain erupting in your skull on impact, and your consciousness wholly disrupted.

The blinding pain of falling to the hard floor didn't register to you as panicked tears seeped down your face, screams you couldn't hear left your lips, and blood began to pool from your head and between your legs.

Shock, terror, helplessness, fear, and panic were all you could feel.

Intense pain in your stomach and head amplified the emotions but became distant sensations as your vision blurred and faded.

The very last words you remember speaking was a cry for help, a desperate plea for everything you'd seen to be a mistaken dream, a cry for anyone -no- your husband to save you from the terrible ordeal.

A plea for him to appear and tell you it's not true, that the body in the bolted box wasn't his doing, but your hope of him hearing you -anyone hearing you- dwindled rapidly as your concussion took hold.

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Rosie found Alastor quickly enough, merely having to spot his neatly styled curls drifting in the wind as he stood out on a balcony alone.

A drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

He blew smoke into the murky winter air, eyes dark and narrowed as he stared at the evening sky.

It was rare to see him frowning.

Alastor Hartifelt, of all people, not smiling?

Rosie nearly couldn't believe it the closer she drew to him.

He was…upset.

Irritated.

His smile was thoroughly washed away by your harsh words and prods for the truth.

You'd managed to take his cheer in one fail swoop, leaving him alone to think, and he couldn't blame you.

You, his ever-so-loving wife, his confidant, and his soon-to-be motherly doting doe, were rightfully at odds with him.

He'd hurt you, the very reason he'd began lying in the first place was to avoid doing so, but it'd happened anyway.

A genuinely ironic turn of events, in his opinion.

Alastor glared at the rising moon, cursing whatever higher power meddled dared to meddle in his life of all people, but his inner ranting was cut short as the sound of Rosie clearing her throat hit his ears.

The radio host spun on his heel to face her, fronting a slight smile to hide the agitation he felt at the moment, "Done socializing already, dear Rosie?"

He strived to sound polite and unbothered, but the edge in his tone showed through despite his best efforts.

Rosie paid no mind to his touchy attitude, knowing where it stemmed from.

She came to stand by his side, nodding in response to his question, "I didn't have much time to. I was with your lovely wife…trying to calm her nerves."

Alastor's frown returned at the mention of you, a thin line on his lips and a glint of guilt in his gaze.

"How is she?" he asks quietly, and Rosie's cheery expression falters hearing it.

"She insisted on returning home… by herself. Incredibly distraught on her way out.." She admits.

His chest tightened, heart sinking instantly picturing you at home alone, "Why didn't she-"

Rosie clicked her tongue dismissively, interrupting his line of questioning, "Al, she was severely distraught. Please let her be. I only know a fraction of what went on between you two, but it's obvious to her that you're hiding something. Not to intrude on your marriage, darling, but you must make a choice before something irreversible happens to it…to Y/n."

The blonde couldn't hide her somberness, staring at her long-time friend with a sense of earnest sincerity as she continued, "I shouldn't be the one to tell you this….but if you really do care for the girl, love her like you say you do, then you'll tell her the truth. You'll tell her, and she'll still be by your side…."

Alastor lowered his head, and for the first time in his adult life, he felt perplexed, stuck at impasss of foreign emotions.

He cared for you; some might call it love, and he'd been aware of it since childhood.

You'd told him all your secrets, good or bad, and trusted him.

You trusted him enough to reveal the mental abuse your father had put you through during childhood.

Trusted him enough to tell him how badly you wished you'd died instead of your mother to make your father somewhat happy again.

Alastor even knew of the times you'd been left completely alone as a child for weeks on end, how your father's neglect made you feel less than, and the permanent effect it had on you.

Your desire to fill a void, be loved without being shoved off, and be seen as more than a convenient soft-hearted person for someone to trifle with.

He knew every little thing about you, and it was because you had faith in his loyalty.

He found it easy to divulge his thoughts to you in the same manner, but allowing his secrets out into the open made him uneasy, even if you'd proven trustworthy from the beginning.

Then there was the matter of killing for you.

Alastor had done it so many times without your knowledge…

Stalking down men who stared at you too long for his liking, carving up anyone who spoke ill of you, happily taking the life of those who spoke down on your relationship.

Most of his murderous tendencies were purely driven by his obsession with you, a twisted kind of possessiveness he couldn't let go of, and one that made it easy for him to spill blood for you in the blink of an eye.

He did it to keep you safe…and that’d only be possible with him and no one else.

What stopped him from telling you how far he’d gone to do so, showing you that unnatural side of him only his victims saw, could only be described as fear.

Fear of losing you.

Fear of stripping the warmth from your heart.

Fear of losing the one thing, the one person who'd loved him despite all his flaws.

Fear of never truly smiling, never feeling a genuine emotion again because you -your presence in his life- allowed him to do just that.

Alastor hated to call it what it was, but as he was evading your attempts to understand, lying straight to your face and hoping you'd dilute your intuition was a way cowards way out of telling you the whole truth.

His pride dimmed, a frustrated grunt rumbling his chest as he glared at the drink in his hand.

Rosie sighed, flashing him a soft smile of pure reassurance, "Go to her, Al. Put a stop to her worries and relieve yourself of the burden. If not for your marriage, then for her sanity. She is too lovely of a girl to be treated so faithlessly."

He tongues his cheek at her words, a bitter burn of smoke and whiskey on it as he swallows thickly before nodding in agreement, "Seems I have no choice."

"You best head off. It's getting rather late, and I'm sure she misses you dearly, Al."

Alastor took one last drag of his cigarette, dropping it in his half-full bourbon glass before letting Rosie take it from him as he straightened his suit.

"I'll bid you good night then. You have my gratitude, Rosie, and the party was a splendid success, if I may add." His tone was back to normal, engaging, and mildly charismatic. Rosie smiled wide at his improving mood, accepting his thanks before shooting him off with a quick peck on his cheek.

“Au revoir monsieur!…”

“Au revoir mademoiselle..”

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

Alastor made it home without trouble, humming a snappy tune to distract himself from the evening's progressing events.

However, as he reached the back door of your shared home, his shadows twinged with alertness.

His hand froze over the gold doorknob, a certain heaviness settling in his chest as the specters frantically twisted against the back porch walls.

Something is wrong. Can't hear Y/n. Can't hear their heartbeats. Can't feel them-

Alastor stiffened as his shadows enlarged, fueled by the panic he was resisting, "Find her!" he bellowed the order out on instinct, and the leering spirits dove into action as he barreled into the darkened home.

"Y/n!?" he yelled for you, head whipping in every direction as he searched the first floor, stomping up the stairs next to search the second floor but coming up empty.

He stood in your shared bedroom, remaining calm as he tried to figure out where you could be.

All your belongings were here, and you had readied for bed from the looks of your tampered vanity, but nothing else gave him a clue about your whereabouts.

That was until his shadows called to him; a certain bellow of wailing sounded from the lower part of the house, and one Alastor didn't like the sound of.

A warning.

A frenzied one at that.

Found her��hurry.

Without a second thought, Alastor bounded back downstairs, following the whips of his shadow self as it traveled through the halls, only to stop in front of a doorway he dreaded.

The basement. Its door was wide open, the lamp light eerily aglow as his shadows whirled past the steps to engulf the room.

“Y/n?!…” Alastor called for you again as he crept down the creaky wood steps, voice stiffer than he intended it to be, but its edge paled compared to the large lump forming in his throat when his eyes spotted you.

Splayed out on the floor, on your side, lying limp and motionless.

A small puddle of blood was forming near your head, another was quickly growing in between your legs, and splatters of it covered your face, hands, and nightgown.

For the second time in his life, Alastor felt true terror, bewildered by the sight of his darling wife in distress and paralyzed by the powerful possibility it was his fault.

He’d only felt this fearful once before, afraid his father would end his mother’s life right in front of him after a hefty night of drinking, but even then, he found the courage to act.

Merely killing his father out of pure rage-filled instinct, but now…how he would remedy your suffering alluded him completely.

She's barely breathing… Their heartbeats-

"That's quite enough from you!" Alastor roared in utter frustration, moving without thinking, willing himself to do anything but panic.

He worked as quickly as his mind would allow, trying not to break down as he knelt beside your still body, "Y/n…darling…wake up… please…" he begged quietly.

Being as cautious as ever, he cradled you close, praying to whatever cruel god there was that you'd respond or at least open your eyes while he carried you out of the haunting basement.

Your body twitched at the sound of a familiar voice, feeling lighter as solid arms lifted you from the cold floor and whisked you from the damp room.

The sound of a rapid heartbeat thundered in your ear as waves of coherence fought to establish itself in you, but the severity of your wounds made it a struggle to function.

You settled for listening to the heartbeat, the voice accompanying it a vague background noise but a comforting one.

Your vision wasn't any better, only allowing you to see a murky image of a man, one you knew well but couldn't determine was real or not in the moment.

“Al..astor?..”you whispered in awe, smiling sadly as he looked down at you, clearly worried.

“Stay with me, darling… Keep breathing, please…”

Alastor felt you shiver violently in his arms hearing him speak, racing up the stairs as cautiously as possible to avoid hurting you more, barging into your shared bedroom seconds later.

He laid you down on the bed, disregarding the blood and dirt staining the sheets as he tried to assess your injuries. "Fuck…fuck…fuck!" he rambled angrily, breaths coming quick, and his mind in a rare frenzy as a result.

Your eyes refused to stay open, an apparent wound was on the side of your head, and the impact of your fall had indeed done something to warrant your lower half bleeding.

He needed to stop the bleeding from both areas, keep you awake, and determine the twin's state all at once.

Alastor knew this but struggled to pull himself together, only able to grasp at one of your hands with both of his to ground himself as a frustrated smile adorned his face.

Pull it together, or she and your children die.

It's all my fault… it's all my fault…

She'll die if you don't act…

It's all my fucking fault…I-

She needs help! Wallowing in your depraved guilt won't change that!

His shadows chittered, reasoning with their host despite the panic they felt seeping off of him.

Alastor screwed his eyes shut, an anguished growl leaving his chest as he tried to think of a solution and push away his panicked state.

You remained still, on the verge of passing out again, trying to hold onto reality a little longer, squeezing your savior's hand back as a weak tether to it.

Alastor froze, feeling your gesture, head lifting swiftly as you attempted to speak, "It h-hurts.." you muttered painfully, acknowledging a new ache you'd only felt a few weeks prior.

Intense shocks of strain spread in your abdomen, noticeable contractions that felt different than previous ones, but as much as you wanted to articulate the agony they caused, you couldn't find the strength to.

You screamed instead, gripping Alastor’s hand hard as the constant pains grew more robust, making your cries grow louder.

The terror in your screeches struck him hard, an almost unnatural sound he'd never imagined coming from you, but your following words gave the sounds plausible clarity.

"Th-they're c-coming!" you choked between labored breaths, feeling dizzy as your blood loss took its toll, but the growing urge to push trumped your need to pass out.

Alastor came to his senses upon hearing your warning.

Fully aware that he couldn't handle this situation alone, he did the only thing that made sense to him.

Ask for help. Something he hated to do but saw no alternative for.

"Go get Rosie. Make it quick. Find my mother next and get her here as well…" he commanded his shadows quietly, heart still racing as he took solace in comforting you.

The bed dipped as he sat down, free hand cradling your head as the other raised yours to his lips.

He planted a kiss on your knuckles; brows furrowed as the feeling of your fingers gripping his slightly lessened, an indication of culminated exhaustion and blood loss.

"Stay with me, ma chere. Just a while longer, alright? Everything…everything’s going to be fine…" Alastor muttered soothing words into your ear, a ploy to keep you and himself calm, and to some extent, it worked.

You hung onto his every word, confused and alarmed by him but clinging to the safety his presence brought.

You couldn't forget what you saw in the basement, the horrid image still stuck in the back of your mind as you cried in agony and writhed in desperation for help.

You couldn't believe that Alastor, your perfect husband, the man watching over you now so fervently, had done something so horrible to another person.

You had many questions, fears, and even more confusion than before.

Nevertheless, your dire position now completely overshadowed the underlying nightmare that was your marriage.

Your children.

That's the only thing you could clearly envision, enduring the heartache, suffering through the genuine threat to your life, all for their sake.

Confronting Alastor could wait.

Surviving the night and bringing healthy twins into this world couldn't.

xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx

I'm putting the reader through a lot...but you all will survive... Maybe. Also, the song choices for this one kind of hit just right. ;)

TAGS ❤️: @rapturenyx @michi-keinz @shealizxx @nissrinina @destinyisastar @bubblegumheartsy @sailorsmouth @aestheticgals-blog @rameisa @ellesette

[ BONUS CONTENT + ]

This edit is so fitting, I fear... Credits to creator ❤️

[zuzsenpai]

Full story (so far) of the work project from hell that's lost me vacation time, lost me sleep and hair, caused a number of panic attacks, and literally gave me my period when I'm not supposed to have periods and haven't had one in a year and a half.

I'll put it under a cut because I'm sure most of you don't want to read all this shit. I just wanted to vent and get it out.

So around the beginning of September, a video project request came into our office. The way it was explained to us by the project coordinator in marketing (who I will call "Sam"), was that it was going to be a TV spot as part of a big campaign that the CEO is requesting. The topic is letting people know that our healthcare network has a zillion awards for all 15 of our hospitals, compared to the other healthcare network in our area (this is a VERY common marketing strategy for us even though it's been proven the public does not give a shit which network has the most awards). It's a very dull "look at us and our awards and stats" video that, again, the public couldn't give a shit about. But the CEO wants it because ego.

We were told the video needed to be produced in two weeks, because the CEO wants to see the campaign ASAP. This means, for my team, that we don't have time to shoot new footage for this campaign. We were given a pretty mediocre script (we do not write the scripts), with directions to get it professionally voiced and to use old footage we've already shot in order to get this done in time.

That's where I became involved. I'm not a videographer (I do the animations and various other things). I know how to edit, and I know how to edit fast. But if this were a piece we had time for (that had a much better script), our video team of FOUR videographers would have handled this. But I got the project because of the bullshit reasons that I "know where all our footage is" and "can edit fast".

This was a week before I was supposed to go on vacation. I was supposed to go on vacation for a week and a half. My manager (who I will call "Betsy") KNEW I was going on vacation, but she still gave me the project. I know I should have given it to the video team and that point, but I didn't. That was my first and biggest mistake.

The higher-ups in marketing took their sweet ass time choosing an ending tagline and creating graphic design elements I could use in my video. I still didn't have them by the end of that week. We had our voiceover guy record half a dozen taglines that were supposed to be chosen from, just so something could be eventually edited in.

I had a draft that didn't include the tagline or graphic design elements ready by the end of the week. Meaning the day before I went on vacation. My second and almost just as big mistake was saying I would work on it over vacation. But honestly, this was for the CEO, and the VP of marketing hadn't approved my raise yet and I am always feeling like I would be the first on the chopping block if we needed to downsize the department. So I wanted to prove myself.

Anyway, while I was on vacation, I kept all the channels open: Teams, Outlook, etc. I had a VERY hard time relaxing because I knew at any moment I'd have to pick this project up. I also have massive burnout and just could not get myself to chill out. Anyway, a couple things happened by Thursday of that week: the tagline was finally chosen, the script changed and a whole 20 seconds was added to the video, and the graphic design elements came in. Keep in mind the project was supposed to have been done in two weeks. Meaning by the literal NEXT DAY. That wasn't happening at this point, so I was given a new deadline of a first draft by the following Wednesday.

I scrambled to coordinate the voiceover guy coming in again even though I couldn't be there. I scrambled even harder to find 20 more seconds of footage while I was over 100 miles away and had incredibly slow access to our video server. In fact, I could barely view or download video at all. I panicked for DAYS trying to get video downloaded, but it was just NOT happening.

I cut my vacation short and got in by Tuesday morning that next week. I had a single day to figure this video out. I was able to manage it by the skin of my teeth. I sent the draft on Wednesday and eventually heard back that Sam, the VP of marketing (who I will call "Ken"), and a few other higher-ups in marketing loved it. Great. The end!

Except the Chief Strategy Officer (Ken's boss), suddenly needed to approve it. I will call him "Ray". So Ray is new at his job and apparently needs to have his fingers in ever single piece of marketing that comes out of the marketing department. This is the opposite of how the old guy who retired used to do it. Ray is also the CEO's son-in-law. So, a Jared Kushner if you will. He's trying to prove himself and in the process, he is micromanaging to the extreme. But also it takes him forever to make decisions. Great combination there, all around.

It takes Ray over a week to even look at the video, during which I start getting other projects with quick deadlines. And when Ray does look at it, he comes back with the unhelpfully vague comments of "it's unsophisticated", "doesn't look like a sleek big city ad" and "is not emotional". So he rejects it and asks for a completely new video to be done, ASAP. Marketing collectively loses their minds in a bad way. The project coordinator (Sam) decides to inform me of this by immediately sending me an email outlining everything that was "wrong" with the video, despite having originally said he loved it. He told me a new one needed to be done and it needed to be done FAST. It needed to look like a polished, high budget, big city ad.

Well that wasn't getting done. I told him this. He didn't care. Ray gets what he wants. Even though Ray did NOT say that's what he wanted from the beginning. Even though I made a good video based on the shitty script I was given. The script that was supposedly approved by Ray himself. The script that had no story, was unemotional, and given an unreasonable deadline to get produced into a video.

This was last Thursday. I had a breakdown in my office, sobbing and hyperventilating. I decided I would finally bring in the video team. I needed one of them to do this. I needed to be done with it. I had 4 other projects with deadlines fast approaching (all of them animations, so I was the only one who could do them). Betsy called an in-person meeting with her, myself, and the 4 videographers.

I was still having a massive panic attack as I tried extremely hard to be normal in that meeting. I tried my best to explain to the team what I needed. The videographers were super angry on my behalf that I was even given the project in the first place, and they were extremely willing to redo the video from the ground up. I was grateful beyond belief. My video was scrapped, which sucks, but I didn't care at that point

A few days later on the following Monday (this past Monday), around 4PM, I was told that Ken decided we were going to go over Ray's head and "just edit the video we already have into a sleek, emotional, big city ad". Using the same script and most of the same footage. Just "make it better". Ken's reasoning was that this video was for the CEO and not Ray. And the CEO wanted it weeks ago.

Because this was an update to the existing video, Betsy informed me that I had to jump back on the project to make the edits. The edits that were a nebulous "make it better". I knew the project already and I can edit quickly. So it's mine again. Again, I had 4 other projects with deadlines of THIS WEEK. I had to send emails apologizing to a few people for not having the projects done.

So I spent Monday evening (at home) and all of Tuesday (yesterday) fucking around with the video. I asked the video team their thoughts on what would make it better and "sleeker", and they came back with things like "no amount of tricks and transitions is going to make that old footage look any better". So, unhelpful as fuck. Sam just kept saying "use tricks from big city ads! Just copy them! make it emotional!"

I did what I could. I found an emotional song, I used some flashy transitions, I slowed down some footage for dramatic effect, and I found a few pieced of stock footage that looked more "polished" than the footage I had. Granted ALL of the footage I originally used was local. It was our hospitals and our doctors and our staff. It just wasn't shot for this video. I tried to keep as much of that local feel in as possible, because I know the CEO likes that. I neglected projects for this. I stressed about this. Couldn't sleep. Got my fucking period after a year and a half on birth control.

I sent out a draft at 3PM yesterday. To Sam and Ken. Didn't hear back, but that's pretty normal (Ken sends work emails at like 10PM). 4:30 rolled around and I got up to leave. Betsy called me into her office as I passed by.

Betsy: I have something I need to tell you.

Me: ?????

Betsy: This morning Ken told me that we farmed your project out to [freelance video production company that we sometimes use].

Me: I'm sorry what.

Betsy: I didn't tell you because I didn't want it to upset you or hurt your feelings.

Me: But... then why did I work the project all day????

Betsy: Because I think we needed to show Ken what we are capable of.

Me: But that's irrelevant. He asked the other company to do it.

Betsy: Yes but I think he really wanted us to do it.

Me: So I sent a draft to Ken after he'd already farmed it out to the other company?

Betsy: Yes. But I sent him an email explaining it.

I didn't know what to say. I was furious. But Betsy is in charge of asking Ken for my raise, so I waited until I got to my car to start crying and screaming. I was in a bad state last night.

Got in this morning to an email from Ken just saying "Please find time to discuss tomorrow afternoon". So essentially a "see me after class". This could go one of three ways.

He could tell me he likes it and here are a few edits (unlikely, though he DID like the original and it's not too different from that?????)

He could tell me it needs a lot of work and changes and I need to do it ASAP (likely and stressful)

He could get mad I wasted my time, which is entirely Betsy's fault (likely and gets Betsy in a load of trouble)

The meeting with him is at 3PM tomorrow. I'm working from home because I need it at this point. I'm so sick of this. I'm so done. I'm even done typing about it right now because I am just so out of steam. I have so many deadlines and I'm so burnt out and I am so exhausted.

[kurtty-drabbles]

Justicar Verse au (part 3)

N/A: As I mentioned before. I want to make this in 5 parts IF possible. I want to move the plot further and see if I can do this in 5 pieces. I want to show more of this world and its character.

@dannybagpipesarecalling @djinmer4 @bamfoftheundead @everykurt @muninandhugin

Brian wears the Justicar uniform and is not a demotion on his part as the Justicar uniform and Captain Britain are almost similar to the point of being a meme-maybe, it is a meme. Brian recalls how Steve Rogers not so subtle mentions this little and even suggests changes to Brian´s uniforms and is politely rejected as Brian points out ''Captain Britain exists way before Captain US" and even points out how Captain Brazil doesn´t seem to even want to wear a uniform and is doing better than the rest- and right now, all Brian can do is put his poker face and march on this area.

"Halt, who are you?" the voice of a fellow Justicar only makes Brian clench his fist hard enough to the point is getting white now. The man comes closer and asks for identification. Brian hands the ID and the man reads the paper and snaps his eyes to Brian´s face. "Something is not right here...I´ll ask you to leave"

Brian sighs and only nods saying. "And I´ll have to ask sorry for this" and he punches the Justicar knocking him out- thankfully of his medical background is easy to testify the man is not in real harm and this makes Brian sigh in relief- and Brian continues to walk around the area. "I´m sorry" he speaks one last time to the man. "But my sister is hiding something and I´m Captain Britain and I´m here to protect everyone...not a few" and with this, the man looks to the orange place.

And only closes his eyes as he witnesses the discrepancy in her sister´s story. Brian took a photo from his pocket and read the description. "a nice place for all the magical creatures to stay while Justicars protect them" and Brian looks to the cruel reality. "Oh my God..."

"Yeah...Oh My God" a feminine voice speaks and Brian only had time to see a blonde woman lifting her arms and shooting an energy attack knocking Brian out. "I can´t believe it works...Brian, you´re a fool" Meggan Puceanu states and takes his body without breaking a sweat. As she flies away from the now devastated camp- not wanting to remember bad memories of this place nor want to give leads of her whereabouts, Meggan cast the spell but with one problem- and Meggan has to bite her lips for a moment.

"Damn...how Wanda uses that spell?" and finally it comes to her mind. "Oh right. Do not reveal the truth...let them still think the prisoners are still on death row" and now that the prison looks full again with prisoners waiting for death. Meggan can leave.

The Justicar that was knocked down wakes up and snaps his eyes open and using his telekinesis summon the telephone to his hand. "This is Justicar 444. We have a problem...Captain Brittain was here" and the person on the other side give an order. "no, all the prisoners are still on the place...understood. Time to kill them...and Captain Britain? I see...Understood, All glory for Justicar and our leader"

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Justicar Bull is not strange to mix work with pleasure- there´s a rumor she tried to slept with Captain Britain and no one ever denies this claim- but, even so, Justicar Bull knows the difference in an innocent flirt and whatever Kurt Cadbury does when Kitty Pryde is around. Again, what one does in their private life is entirely on them and Justicar Bull knows people love a man or woman in uniform, but, again...it has limits that no one should cross.

Justicar Bull crosses her arms and even though she´s using her helmet is possible to feel her cold stare. Kurt Cadbury finishes his task- talking with the survivors and getting leads about U Go Girl and what will happen to the cure- and now walks bravely to his boss. "Justicar Bull"

"Cadbury...we got another video of you doing sexual role play with that cute woman" Justicar Bull didn´t let him speak "Look, I get it. She´s cute and who can say no to a man in uniform...but this is getting ridiculous. You can´t go around accusing anyone to be Shadowcat" and now her tone is tired. "I know you want to catch her ...but you´re not helping the cause by being so obvious"

Kurt Cadbury. "I´m not ...wait, people think me and Kitty are a thing?" and Justicar Bull shows her phone showing how social media show the famous bachelor is head over feels for the normal human, Kitty Pryde.

"Wait...am I a meme?!"

"Yes"

Human? You´re that good...or am I that bad?

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Prof Charles Xavier can walk- there´s an old rumor going around that Magneto did cripple him and how convenient this rumor did spread when Magneto tried to join the politic life of Justicar- and offers his smile that shines as much his bald hair. Magneto is present as well and can play the game as his mouth twists into a smile mimicking Prof X nicely.

"It seems we´re here again, my old friend" Magneto´s tone is sharp but not impolite. "Still believe in your vision of humans and mutants co-existing?" Magneto asked in his dubious tone.

Prof X drops the smile. "Yes, and you´re still holding on old wounds, my old friend?" Xavier asked in a forlon tone full of pity and sadness for Magneto.

Elisabeth Braddock enters in the room-asking permission as any proper British lady should- and has great news for them. "New Mutants were located in the asteroid M and we have proof those mutants are Omega level or better saying" Betsy looks impressed for a moment as she took her time to speak. "above omega level"

And she bows her head in respect as the two men nod at her information and let her leave as now the two powerful mutants on this planet have to talk what´s the best course to follow here. In the end, it was agreed they must leave as soon as it is possible and no one needs to know about mutants above omega level.

No one notices Betsy Braddock smiling as she gives messages to her Justicar. "You know what to do next"

And Wanda Maximoff was drinking her tea when the TV announces the explosion of the ship where Magneto and Prof X were. Scarlet Witch has no feelings for her abusive father, while, Wanda is not entirely happy with his death.  "If he´s truly dead...who will be the next ruler?" and Quicksilver enters in her house for once is too late to give a piece of information to his twin.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Kitty Pryde watches the news with a serious look on her face. Yana is on her side-still looking adorable and evil at the same time and Kitty wonders how powerful and scary an adult Yana would be- analyzing the situation. "The real boss is moving fast...no more Magneto or Prof X...means this person has total control over everything...meaning...every mutant or human must play her game or else..." Yana has a macabre tone and is fitting for such a revelation. No pretense of being a cutesy girl now.

"And this only means one thing..." Kitty trails off as her mind is already thinking in many scenarios and possibilities. Yet,  she didn't conclude her sentence as someone else does.

"We know who is behind this..." Gloriana says to the tied up Brian Braddock who is without his powers thanks to Meggan have taken his medallion. The man´s face scream resignation as he completes for Meggan.

"My sister, Elisabeth Braddock is behind this..."

"Yes...we know this for years now...and now, you finally know too"

[featherssideblog]

Feathers Reacts: Motorcity - Episode 7 - Blond Thunder

I’m here ten years late, but I’m bringing the enthusiasm! Also, I decided to start writing down my live reactions at episode seven, so this is the beginning! The reactions before this exist only in my head.

EPISODE 7 THOUGHTS

Mike, about Chuck: “The things I do for that kid.”

How old is anybody in this show?? Is Mike older than Chuck? I thought the Burners were all roughly the same age. Admittedly, Mike definitely behaves like he’s responsible for everyone else; maybe he’s older? Maybe that’s just Mike! Maybe Chuck is younger?? Maybe that’s just Chuck! If anyone has answers to this, lemme know.

The Duke is constantly smelling people. It’s so weird, and I love it.

I also love his spontaneous musical interludes.

Chuck: *nervous laughter* “I don’t even know what I just said”

Relatable, Chuck, relatable.

I am LOVING the way the Duke’s motions are animated. Whatever this character is doing, he’s 1000% committed to it.

Chuck has nine toes??? Explain???

The Duke: “I am nothing if not --”

Mike: “Crazy?”

The Duke: “. . . thorough.” >=[

Poor Dutch stays up all night decorating Chuck’s car and doesn’t even get a thank you. :(

I have never heard as much terrified screaming in a piece of media ever before. I would not be surprised if Chuck’s voice actor wrecked his voice recording this episode.

“Heavens to Betsy!” - I just love the Duke, okay.

Given the frequency with which Mike Chilton jumps on top of speeding cars it is a miracle this guy hasn’t died. He has the power of god and anime on his side.

Concluding thoughts:

Mike Chilton has self-confidence bordering on arrogance, but it’s not like it isn’t warranted??? Also, Mike’s belief in himself extends to everyone around him - maybe he just thinks that the stunts he pulls are not that hard? Excessive confidence in the absence of an ego, resulting in this weirdly naive belief that both he and his friends are capable of near miracles. Actually, that would have made him a wonderful soldier for Kane. :(

AND CHUCK. Chuck has nine toes, a shy bladder, a kitten-phobia, and can’t drive a car despite the fact that he’s in a car-based gang. Someone make this kid a cup of cocoa. Someone make him some baked goods that aren’t okra mayonnaise muffins. He’s the only person in motorcity reacting to death-defying automobile stunts with the appropriate amount of screaming, and half the time he can’t see what’s going on because his hair is in his face! Being friends with Mike Chilton is enough to give you an inferiority complex without throwing social anxiety into the mix, but Chuck is just lucky that way. Good thing being friends with Mike Chilton means an infinite supply of supportive pep talks.

Finally, the Duke of Detroit has gotta be one of the most characters ever.

[schrijverr]

I Wrote My Own Deliverance

Chapter 10 out of 10

Alexander Hamilton is reborn as Alex Hambleton. He is desperate not to make the same mistakes twice, but it seems he is stuck in the narrative, unable to get out. Familiar faces pop up all around him as he attempts to keep his previous life a secret and write himself out of the story.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none, but tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!!

~~~~~~~~~~~

“- Oh my god, you have been roommates with Aaron Burr for over a year!”

Alex winced. He’d hoped everyone had forgotten that detail, but it seemed not as the entire room exploded once more. With a last “What the shit, Alex,” from Laurens the room fell quiet to look at him expectantly.

He shrugged and said: “I made my peace with Burr, he’s pretty cool.”

And with that the whole room was send into disarray again.

“How!” John shrieked, “He murdered you!”

“Yeah and he had his reasons. I hate to inform you, but I was the one that said yes to the duel and insulted him the whole way through.” Alex shot back, “Besides, I thought we had just established that this time things can be different. If I can believe in Aaron, I can believe in myself. So far he’s been nothing but civil to me, he’s just another student wanting to live his life.”

It was quiet for a moment and Alex offered: “And Betsy already punched him, so even-Steven?”

“Only you, Alexander.” Eliza face palmed.

“I try.” he grinned.

“Wait,” Angelica said and Alex was scared of what she remembered, “You already knew at the party. Why did you come if you knew you would get punched?”

“First of, I didn’t want to assume and I only put the pieces together when the fist was already flying at my face. Second, I kinda did deserve that.” he told her.

“That’s not exactly healthy.” John pointed out, but he shut up after a look from Alex, the other had too much dirt on him and John was honestly the last who could talk about fighting as a coping mechanism.

Alex stuck his tongue out, as he turned and grabbed his phone: “Speaking of the party and Aaron, I probably need to find him before he does something stupid with his self-esteem issues and blame complex, like no offense, but our last meeting was not the most important thing ever.”

“You died.” Lafayette pointed out.

“Happens to the best of us,” Alex shrugged, “Case and point.”

“Ego much.” John grumbled and Alex just smiled as he called Aaron anonymously, the man probably wouldn’t pick up otherwise.

“Ah, yes, with me, Alex, your favourite and only roommate.”

“No, I’m not here to yell at you. I would have done that already if I wanted to.”

“Yeah, naturally, I never come back on my words.”

“They’re here yeah, already yelled at me and stuff.”

“I cannot with a 100% certainty promise that you will not get punched, but I am willing to try and convince them otherwise.”

He hung up and turned to the others: “Aaron is coming over, be nice.”

“Why would I be nice.” John pouted, arms crossed.

“Because, my dear Laurens, I have forgiven him and he could use some friends.” Alex explained.

“I’m with John here, I don’t want to be his friend.” Eliza mirrored John.

Alex smiled and said: “I know, Betsy, I know, but he hasn’t had it easy either. Even more of a nay-sayer and all around stick in the mud this time around. He has no one, you know how much it sucks to have no one.”

“Theodosia?” she asked, but Alex could tell her bleeding heart was giving in.

“Hasn’t come back, yet.” he smiled sadly at her.

“Alright, I won’t punch him then.” she threw her hands in the air.

They turned to John, who moped: “Whatever, but I’m not going to be nice.”

“Oh come on, man.” Herc said, “Making fun of Burr was always fun, it’ll be like the good old days when we were right and he told us to shut up.”

“You have a warped idea of fun, mon ami.” Laf told him.

“Like you weren’t there every single time to join in.” Herc shot back as they dissolved into squabbling.

Alex smiled and finally felt like he could take a breath. He had his friends around him again and no matter what the world threw at him, he could take it. He was home.

A knock at the door shook him out of his musings and he threw a look over his shoulder as he walked over to the door. Before he opened it, he warned: “Be nice.”

Aaron was indeed standing there and Alex greeted him cheerily: “Aaron Burr, sir.”

“Alexander” Aaron greeted with a wince.

“Come on, don’t be like that. If I had known you would become more boring, I would have never written another public document to fuck with you.” Alex grinned.

“Don’t antagonize him, Alex.” Eliza called out.

“Yeah, we all know how that turned out last time.” John huffed.

The comments didn’t really help, because Aaron winced as he started to back away, clearly on the brink of running.

“Guys, please try to be civil.” it earned Alex some disbelieving snorts, “Look at him, he’s about to cry. Are you gonna make Aaron Bartow cry?”

“Oh, it’s Aaron Bartow now?” John huffed.

“Yes. Yes, it is.” Alex said, “Just like you’re John Lawson and I’m Alex Hambleton. We’re not the same people anymore and I forgave Aaron a long time ago. He deserves people who know and understand as much as the next person.”

“You forgive me?” Aaron voice sounded so small and fragile that all retorts that might have been, died before they were spoken.

“I do.” Alex told him, “I saw your face, you know? When you shot. You were bracing for a bullet and when it didn’t come you looked so heartbroken and surprised. Van Ness had to drag you away. I don’t forget easily. I know I’m abrasive and a loud mouth that has an opinion on everything, who makes rash decisions, so I don’t blame you for wanting to protect yourself.”

Aaron looked at him wordlessly, unsure of what to say.

Alex grinned: “I’m aware you have a stick up your ass, but are you going to stare at my handsome face the entire day or am I going to get a hug.”

“You’re an asshole.” Aaron told him as he clutched the other tightly.

“I’ve been told.” Alex replied, merely holding on just as strong.

It took a while before either let go, but Alex was planning to hide for today and standing in the hallway with his door open was not ideal, especially as time went on and more people got the news, so he pried Aaron off him and led him inside.

He turned back to properly close the door when it was slammed open by none other than Tom, or Thomas Jefferson, he wasn’t sure who he had in front of him.

“You.” he pointed at Alex, whose eyes grew wide as he held up his hands, probably Jefferson he thought, “You motherfucker.”

Jefferson slammed down his hand and seethed: “This, really? You and your fucking pamphlets have to- Ugh! It’s always fucking you with your big ego and thousands of words that don’t even make sense most of the time and-”

“Hey, dude, calm down.” Alex cut him off, “What got you so mad?”

“This triggered my memories.” Jefferson admitted with venom, “Not the history lessons, not my face in buildings, not my legacy fucking me over or even that stupid musical. But you and your constant need for attention.”

“Ah,” Alex is quite unsure about what to say and one look at the others confirmed that neither did they, so he weakly offered, “At least you remember?”

“Like you think that’s a good thing, I read your stupid pamphlet, Lord knows I did, and it sucks, asshole.” Jefferson snarled, “We both know that.”

“It gets better when you find people.” Alex said, gesturing to the others, who waved awkwardly.

“Maybe, but I don’t really have anybody, now do I?” Jefferson told him and Alex would’ve never thought he’d see the day where he sympathized with Jefferson, though in front of him was Tom as well, not just Jefferson anymore.

“I thought we were kind of friends?” he replied, “I like debating with you and we agree more this time and, look, I know people we knew.”

Jefferson looked at him as if he had three heads as he slowly said: “You, Alexander Hamilton, you- you want to be friends? With me? Did you hit your head? Like is there something wrong with you and are you missing your memories? You hate me.”

“No, I hate Thomas Jefferson and if I recall correctly, your name is Tom Jamesson.” Alex replied, “And if you look closely, you’ll see Aaron Bartow sitting there. Besides, I think I can handle more debating in my life.”

“Only you would keep someone in your life to fight with them.” Tom said with a faked annoyance, “Though my name is actually Thomas Jamesson, so get your fact straight.”

“Well, then, Thomas, welcome to my humble abode, now please shut the door behind you before nosy strangers come in.” Alex said when Thomas’ reply wasn’t a blunt no.

Thomas snorted: “You published your life story again and you’re worried about nosy strangers.”

“It’s about the principle of the thing, I wanna do it all official, maybe hold a press conference, get a dinner thrown in my honor, make a long speech that everyone is forced to listen to. It’ll be great.” he grinned.

“The fact that I believe you is disturbing.” Angelica piped up.

And so they roped Thomas into the fray that was their little Revolution crew as they talked about their life now and their life back then. They compared notes on what was different and what was the same.

Apparently the Schuyler sisters were now childhood best friends and Angelicas memories had triggered those of the others. Eliza remarked: “Peggy was so sad she couldn't come to slap you into next week, but she has her internship.”

“Not looking forward to that.” Alex winced, “And I thought she liked me?”

“She does, she just likes fighting more.” Angelica commented humorously, “Being able to have opinions and do stuff, has really gotten her out of her 18th century shell.”

“Good for her.” Alex nodded.

“That’s what I said!” John exclaimed excitedly.

They moved on to Lafayette, who told them it was same old French noble blood and being send off to America for better education and to explore the world. He pouted over not being as close to Washington anymore, but brightened when he told them about the tea they drank together every other Wednesday.

John didn’t say anything about his father, besides the fact that he was a Senator and still a dick, or other family for that matter, but he was ecstatic that he would be able to become a Doctor this time around and he loved his study dearly.

Thomas didn’t really say much either. He was still struggling with connecting his two identities and what that meant for him. When asked about James, he sadly said: “If I saw him, we didn’t recognize each other.”

“Hey, we’ll find him if he’s out there.” Alex comforted him, then joked, “He probably remembered and tried to stay as far away from here as possible to avoid seeing me again.”

It got a small huff of amusement out of Thomas.

Alex looked at Aaron to ask about him, when his phone rang. Nervously he picked up: “Hello, yes, this is Alex Hambleton speaking.”

“Ah, you’ve read it then.”

“I understand.”

“Within the month?” Alex asked surprised, “Then I get to keep my scholarship? Thank you so much, sir!”

He turned to the others who were waiting expectantly as he grinned: “Looks like I’m getting registered and my plan for world domination is still on track.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Herc yelled, getting cheers from the others.

Alex smiled in the midst of his friends with a future bright and obtainable. A story ready for him to write how he saw fit, unbound by mistakes of the past.

He might be an old story in a new place, but there was always room for a rewrite. They were already on the second draft anyway.

[fletchermarple]

Quick Review of the True Crime Books I Read in 2019 (Part 1)

Review of Books in 2018 Part 1 and Part 2

Review of books in 2017 Part 1 and Part 2

Review of books in 2016 Part 1 and Part 2

Review of books in 2015

Reasonable Doubt by Steve Vogel: One of the best titles I read this year was this very thorough account of the Hendricks murders, a mother and her three kids who were butchered with an ax and a knife in their home in Illinois in 1983. The husband and father, David Hendricks, was sent to prison but acquitted in a second trial seven years later, because there really wasn’t any concrete evidence against him other than a dubious motive. Vogel is one of the journalists that covered the case from the first day and he does a great job of going deep into the investigation and the trial, and also into who David Hendricks and the victims were. I’ve seen people comment that this book takes you to the jury box and I think that’s an accurate description, because you’re constantly weighing the evidence and trying to come up with a fair verdict. Vogel eventually reached the conclusion that Hendricks wasn’t guilty (at least in the legal sense) but he tried his best to portray all the evidence as fairly and balanced as possible, letting the readers come up with our own conclusions.

Wrecking Crew by John Ferak: This book is a slightly more in depth retelling of what you saw in the second season of Making a Murderer and a completely unnecessary read, in my opinion, unless you’re a die hard fan of defense lawyer Kathleen Zellner or are so convinced of Steven Avery’s innocence that you just want to read all over again why the police and the state of Wisconsin have screwed him over endlessly. My problem with this book is that I don’t feel it even tries to be a nuanced portrayal and investigation. The author is clearly set on showing what a corrupt system surrounds the whole Avery case, but at times it really seems like it’s just Zellner talking through him instead of it being an independent analysis, so I really struggled with its credibility. And I’m one of those that think the Avery case is very messed up, can’t imagine anyone who is convinced of his guilt enjoying this.

Obsession by John Douglas and Mark Olshaker: As always, former FBI profiling pioneer John Douglas offers a great selection of chilling cases with poignant and intriguing analysis, in this case focusing on crimes against women that involve stalking and rape. It’s not his best book and it feels a little dated at moments, since it was published in 1998 and for example the whole first section of the book talks about some unidentified serial killer in Wichita that we now know it’s Dennis Rader. Douglas also does something I haven’t seen in other books of his, and includes quotes and opinions from other people: one of them is Linda Fairstein, who maybe at the time of this writing was some champion of women’s rights but now we are aware of her unethical actions in the Central Park Five case and her connections to rapist Harvey Weinstein, so eww. There’s also a large section about a victim advocacy group and some of their recommendations and while it’s important information it kind of drags and, again, feels very dated in this day and age.

Murder in the Stacks by David DeDok: The case in itself is certainly interesting: this book covers the murder of  Betsy Aardsma, who was stabbed in the middle of Penn State’s library in 1969, and to this day no one has been convicted for it. Investigative journalist David DeKok goes pretty deep into Betsy’s life and in his own theory of who killed her, exploring the alleged culprit’s life as well (and boy is he a piece of work). It’s always both thrilling and complex to read a non fiction book claiming a version as an absolute truth, but I’ll say that DeDok certainly makes a good case to support his claims. That being said, Murder in the Stacks wasn’t the most compelling read in terms of narrative and I’ve already forgotten big chunks of it so I’m not sure if that’s very promising.

Cold Kill by Jack Olsen: Jack Olsen is one of the better respected true crime authors, even though reading his books you’ll often think you’re actually reading fiction. His writing style, which I can only assume comes from thorough and rigorous investigation, is getting in the minds of the people involved in the crimes, in this case, one of the killers, so by the time the crime actually happens you’re deeply invested in these people and everything is more impactful. Cold Kill tells the story of David West, a guy with some serious issues and conceptions about women and life, and how his toxic relationship with a woman named Cindy Ray Campbell (who at times makes Karla Homolka seem saintly) led to the murder of two people for no good reason other tan greed and stupidity. It’s a very well written book and the case in itself is both sad and fascinating. Recommended.

Targeted by M. William Phelps: I was thoroughly confused by this book and the author’s intentions. It is presented as an “excellent piece of journalistic investigation” into Tracy Forlson, a sheriff’s deputy who was convicted for murdering her boyfriend but she claims she was framed because she was accusing her department of sexual harassment. The summary of the book will tell you that it will “lead to questions about her guilt”, but to me at least that wasn’t true. This book more seemed like a personal vendetta of Phelps against Forlson because, as he says through the story, he felt she was trying to manipulate him and his ego couldn’t handle it. It’s a weird, ranting book with large sections of his interactions with Tracy and constantly repeating that she’s a CONVICTED MURDERER and how dare she tell him this or that, all after another ranting prologue of Phelps whining about the reputation of true crime authors. I finished the novel not coming even close to doubting Tracy’s guilt and pretty annoyed with Phelp’s defensiveness and arrogance.

A Clockwork Murder by Steve Jackson: Steve Jackson is very good at bringing to life lesser known crimes, which is kind of surprising because the crimes he writes about are often horrific. In this case, the book covers the abduction and murder of Jacine Galinski in 1997, although it mostly tells the story of the two killers, George Woldt and Lucas Salmon, a pair of despicable, sick human beings who you get to know more than you’d like to through Jackson’s compelling narrative. Can’t say it will be a book you’ll never forget but it’s certainly worth the read if you’re interested in the workings of criminal minds.

Precious Victims by Charles Bosworth Jr. and Don Weber: I quite enjoyed Silent Witness, another collaboration between Bosworth and prosecutor Don Weber. This book is not as twisty or compelling as that one but it is about a more well known crime, and the one that really jump started Weber’s career. In 1986, Paula Sims reported that her newborn daughter Lorelai had been kidnapped by an armed man. Her body was found some time after in the woods behind her home. Then in 1989 lightning struck twice and Paula again called police to say that her newborn daughter, Heather, had been kidnapped as well (by now she was living in a different place and had another son). Heather’s body was found in the garbage can of a park. With no real evidence of kidnapping and such a ludicrous story, Paula was eventually convicted of murder and is currently still in prison, where she eventually confessed to both killings. In November 2019 she asked for a new trial, claiming that she suffered from postpartum psychosis, but if you read this book you’ll doubt that’s true. Remember this was written by the prosecutor, and the theory presented here is that neither Paula nor her husband Robert (who was pretty shady but never got formally accused of anything) wanted girls and that’s why she got rid of them. You can expect a fairly awful portrayal of Paula here, as a woman who rarely showed (or felt) any emotion. Still, the book is quite interesting, especially during the trial process.

[soyforramen]

They all wanted her to be something she wasn’t.

It wasn’t hard to see, not when the entire institute was in the national spotlight, and her thrust into the middle of it.  After the bad publicity surrounding The Brotherhood and Apocalypse, Ororo needed some way to show the world that mutants weren’t a threat on their own.  She needed to prove that not all mutants wanted to take over the world.

But with Scott and Jean gone, she was left standing in the spotlight alone.  She needed someone to show how normal mutants could be.  And who was more wholesome than a couple who stayed together, who loved each other without being able to communicate it through touch?

Rogue and Bobby were the natural successors to Scott and Jean’s public image.  From all outward appearances they were deeply in love, partners in public and private.  They’d found love in a hopeless world.  And it wasn’t long before they were being groomed for leadership, him in the field, her in a public-facing role. 

After all, his mutation was useful in a fight and in recon.  Hers was defensive, plain and simple.  And who had a need for a mutation such as hers with all the side effects that came with it?

Ororo had done the math and discovered that Rogue was better suited to stand strong against the public onslaught.  They’d gain more sympathy for the cause if Rogue was at the front.  A girl with a mutation no one want for themselves or their children.  She was a girl who couldn’t touch.  A girl who could kill just by touching someone.  A tragedy that would break Shakespeare’s heart.

That was why after she’d graduated high school along with her peers, she’d been the one ushered into an administrative role.  Enrollment, contact with donors, invitations to private fundraisers.  She was no longer allowed into the field, her training sessions ending with Logan’s disappearance. It was expected that she juggle this full time job along with her class load at NYU, her major chosen for her in furtherance of the school’s mission.

Meanwhile, Bobby was traveling the world to put out fires in the name of mutant equality.  The only expectation put upon him was to be Ororo’s second in command in the field.

It was enough to make a girl scream.  She’d dreamed of more than this.  More than being a secretary, more than being someone else’s mouthpiece, more than being someone’s girlfriend, more than having to force a smile when all she wanted to do was scream.

She still hadn’t seen the Grand Canyon, or the Eiffel Tower, or the Rocky Mountains.  

Everyday she played her part.  She stood in front of cameras, microphones, and plead for peace and equality.  She kept up her grades, joined extracurriculars, and stood by Bobby’s side.  Because despite their mutations, they were still able to live a semi-normal life.  They’d stood together against homicidal maniacs, narcissists, and politicians.  He was willing to stay together despite her mutation and she… well that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Why was she even still here?  Together, with him?  

There’d always been rumors.  She’d ignored them at first, ignored John’s warnings, ignored Jubilee’s pointed looks.  He’d been discreet enough the rumors dissolved on their own.  Hangouts, and hugging, and talking, and long glances had been dismissed as paranoia, jealousy.  And besides, they’d said under their breath when they thought they were alone, could you blame him if he had?

It was all swept under the rug as easily as her own feelings about it.  Even when he and Kitty stopped speaking one day.  Even when he’d go out late at night and come home two days later.  Even when…

Before he at least loved her enough to hide it.  Now he didn’t seem to care.  And the longer they were together, neither did she.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.  To be thrown over so easy hurt her pride.  Her ego.  Her sense of self.  He’d done what she’d always feared, sought solace and comfort in someone else because she couldn’t give him what he wanted.  Because he was too afraid to try.

Behind closed doors he didn’t try to act like her boyfriend anymore.  They were still friends, but only that.

The flame between them had long ago died out between his cold lips and her cold heart.

It would have been easy enough to have kept on like this forever.  Bobby chasing other girls while she lied to herself.  It was a contented life, even if it wasn’t a happy one.

Then he had to destroy it all by proposing to her in front of the whole institute.

He knew she hated this type of public confrontation.  They’d never talked about marriage.  They’d never broached the subject of the future.  

And yet.  Perhaps she should have seen this coming.  They’d been together six, almost seven years now.

It was silent in the foyer as they watched for her response.  No one blinked an eye when Kitty stormed out of the room.

It wasn’t the first time Rogue wished they could switch places.

She’d said the only thing she could with that many people watching.  And now Bobby was pushing for a spring wedding.  He wanted the symbolic renewal of hope, a tribute to those who’d died.  The wedding was supposed to stand for everything but their relationship.  He and Ororo had already begun the planning long before he’d asked.  

The only input she was asked for was what type of flowers should be on the alter.  When her response didn’t come quick enough, they’d chosen peace lilies and irises.  Peace and hope for the future.

Rogue had always wanted oleander and magnolias.

That day wasn’t the first time she’d wanted to up and run from this ‘perfect’ life.  And it wasn’t the first time she’d run away.  Because that was what she did when she was unsettled.  Anxious.  Lonely.  It was what she was good at.

Running.

Just like she had when Bobby wanted to take a ‘break’ from their relationship.  He’d found Betsy, she’d found Montana.  Just like when Logan disappeared and nobody could speak his name, she disappeared to Mexico and spoke the name of everyone she’d met.  Just like when Bobby had asked for her hand in marriage, she’d run to the boot of Italy,

And when it became public knowledge that Bobby was stepping out on her with a teacher from a sister institute, Rogue ran to Escape.

For the first time she ran towards the problem.  To find Bobby.  She knew he was here.  He’d left his phone on the bed while he went to work out, unlocked and open to her message.  All it took was a glance for Rogue to see who, when and where he was supposed to be that night.

Maybe Bobby wanted to escape too.

It didn’t take long to pack what little she owned.  Her mother’s ring, Logan’s dog tags, and the clothes she’d brought to the institute where barely enough to fill her purse.  Everything else she’d left behind.  The rest of it wasn’t hers anyway.  Not really.  It was either a gift from someone now dead or gone, or purchased with the institute’s money.  

She’d left a note and Bobby’s ring behind.  He wouldn’t need a reason, but Ororo would.  She owed her that much at least.

No one noticed as she left through the front door.  Everyone knew her by name, but no one cared to know her.  Those who did were long gone, graduated and out living their own lives away from this place.  

On the way to the club, she keyed in John’s number, desperate to hear from him.  An apology was on the tip of her tongue, a need to tell him how badly she’d missed him.  He’d never pick up, though.  Not with her number attached to the call.  She wondered for the thousandth time whether she’d made the right choice with Bobby.

When she arrived, she found Escape to be a club like any other.  Loud music, bright strobe light, dark corners, and free-flowing liquor.  It’s only distinguishing feature was a sign on the door that said ‘Mutants Welcome.’  Money was still money in places like this, no matter who spent it.

A couple jostled her on their way to the dance floor, and she moved around the edges of the room.  Her eyes scanned the floor, sweat beaded between her shoulders.  

She used to love clubbing.  The driving bass, the churn of strangers, the limbo where life outside meant nothing.  It was so easy to lose herself to the music.  

Bobby never wanted to go.  He claimed to hate the crowds and the loud music.

Turned out he just hated going to clubs with her.

There, on the dance floor.  Strong, sweet, tender, cheating Bobby.  His arms were wrapped around a lithe blonde woman who barely wore much besides snow white stilettos.  Hands on bare skin, arms pulled her tights, lips traced the curve of her collarbone. 

His movements held all the unspoken promises he’d never given Rogue.  

Her heart broke and mended all over again.

A man suddenly at her side broke her reverie.  She ignored his proffered drink.

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m Benny.  What’s you name?”

“Not interested,” she snapped, her eyes never leaving Bobby and the woman he was wound around.

The man cursed at her and wandered off to his next target.  

The sound must have caught Bobby’s attention because he turned and caught her eye.  It took a moment for his confusion to turn to panic.  He whispered something to the blonde and fought against the crowd to reach her.  

Rogue shook her head, a signal that he shouldn’t bother, and left through a side door.

She should be feeling pain, betrayal, heartbreak.  Something to show she cared.  Instead, she felt light enough to fly.  The future, her future, without Bobby, without the institute, without the X-Men lay ahead of her. 

Nerves drove her to run towards the street, exuberance kept her from standing still.

“Lookin’ for somethin’, cher?”

She turned to find a man smoking at the entrance of the club, leaned up against the brick wall.  He looked like something out of a bad 80’s film.  Long tousled hair that draped his face, held back by a knitted cap.  Dark shades and a leather jacket.

‘Freedom,’ she thought.

“I’m a mutant,” she said.  It was the first thing she’d learned would fend off any unwanted attention.  And if that didn’t, an explanation of her mutation would.

The man only tipped his head forward to look at her over his glass.  Coals of ember against infinity.  

“S’funny.  So am I.”

“Rogue,” Bobby’s voice echoed through the alley behind her.  “Rogue!”

“Do you want to get out of her?” she asked, breathless and wound up and ready to run.  

She’d taken a cab here, and there was none to be found.  By the time she ran to the end of the street, Bobby would find her.  She chewed on her lip and silently begged him to answer.

The man raised an eyebrow as Bobby’s voice grew closer.  

Just when she was ready to turn tail and run, the man reached towards her, a snake quick enough to bite, and tucker her under his arm.  The world went black around her and she reached up to find he’d tugged his cap over her hair.

She ducked her head into his jacket when Bobby came around the corner.  He passed them, still calling her name.  Whether the ruse worked or whether Bobby ignored her didn’t matter.  What mattered now was that she was free for the first time in her life.

Gravity couldn’t hold her down, not with this bubble rising in her chest ready to burst her into a million pieces.  Giddiness brought with it it’s own high, one that even that reality of her situation couldn’t touch.  All that could be sorted out later, for now she was her own woman for the first time in years.

Wrapped up in her own joy, she’d forgotten the man next to her.  

“Guessin’ you changed your mind,” the man asked.

She turned, expecting to find disappointment that she’d asked as a cover, anger she didn’t really want him.  Instead she only found a smile.  Laughter danced at the edge of his lips.

It was contagious, his smile, so she returned it ten-fold.  She shook her head.  Tonight, she didn’t want to go anywhere with anyone.  Tonight was hers and hers alone.  

Rogue handed him his cap back and slipped back into the club.  The music threaded through her blood, thrummed through her veins. She’d didn’t know where she’d go from here, but tonight she’d keep dancing on her own.

[dvrkhclme-blog]

✕ — wasn’t that raven darkholme wandering the streets of new york, 1973? civilians know them as mystique and see them as a villain. as far as i know, the one hundred and fifty+ year old stands with the x-men (sometimes), and are rumoured to be pretty deceptive & misanthropic. ( julianne moore / gender-fluid / typically she/her ) 

{ trigger warnings : mental illness, suicide, sexual abuse, drugs, terrorism, murder  }

hey everyone, i’m sophia!! i’m trash and neglected the intros for all my babies soooo i’m finally getting to them now!! anyways, i’m super excited to be here at 1973hq & i hope we can all be good friends!! <3 sooo. more about my first baby aka my murder!baby under the cut  

LEVEL 1: INTRODUCTORY INFORMATION ABOUT MY MYSTIQUE //

im not even gonna touch the mceu version of mystique ok thx therefore shes gonna be combination of comics mystique and a bunch of my own headcanons — soooo

LEVEL 2: SURFACE LEVEL MYSTIQUE — THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE UGLY // 

( skip this part if youre familiar with the mcu its basically a shortened version of her bio )

the binch is oLD ok??/ old af. probably several centuries old. i’d say 200 years old at minimum but its never really been disclosed

don’t even get me started on wtf i think happened to her to fight just to survive at age 12 when her mutation kicked in bcus,,, yike

her entire life has been characterized by betrayals. whether it be mystique betraying someone else (most likely) or her being betrayed by someone else (in the case of destiny)

her n destiny met in the early 20th century. destiny asked her to help decode her prophecies and to stop the terrifying ones from being fulfilled. they fell in Luv. they are partners. gay ass partners. (the original idea for mystique n destiny was for nightcrawler to be their canon kid. via mystique in a males body. but this was retconned bcus of homophobia thx but i’d personally love this hc if we get a kurt & it’s ok w/ them anyway )

anyway after ww2 she met sabertooth n had her first (canonically recorded) kid, graydon. who. lo n behold, she abandoned.

that’ll be a trend, fyi, better watch out for that

but graydon turned out to be a mutant hating human so thats fun

then mystique from our time went back in time in attempt to assassinate graydon (which doesnt, in the end, work),,,, also fun

then she gets married to a wealthy german count,,, uses her power to start seducing other people, when she meets azael who  manipulates and seduces her. has nightcrawler via azael ,, its cool

raven murdered her husband and was then regarded by her townsfolk n as a demon. she escaped but abandoned kurt,,, also cool

she adopts raven then. and actually genuinely loves her. (more on this in the next section)

she founds the 3rd version of the brotherhood n they do more terrorist shit good job mystique #magnetowasright

sike mystique betrayed  magneto and turned him into the government, turned the brotherhood into the freedom force, n started working for the gov. working for freedom force is when destiny died and that triggered one of mystiques many breakdowns (also more on this below)

she was v depressed at this time and taken advantage of by the shadow king. raven let herself be brainwashed by the government into thinking she was her own government handler to take down the shadow king. didnt work. he torments her the rest of her life. yike.  

she had nanotech put into her head so the government could force her to work for x-factor, while with them she finds out destiny during their partnership had other partners and kids she didnt know about and one was a mutant

graydon has this mutant savagely beaten. before mystique can kill graydon for this, hs followers kill him n turn him into a martyr. super fun. cue operation zero tolerance.

mystique went undercover as the senators wife for a while n used her connections to the fbi to do shadier shit

she then ran away and took some random chicks form and became a model and made a ton of cash — u go girl

except this kinda sucked for her because she moved into a penthouse suite which in the neighbouring building had skulls plotting to take down mankind. they framed her for a murder, her powers stopped working, n she was arrested

the government eased all her alternate identities and froze all her assets and access to the money she and destiny saved up for decades. cue another mental breakdown

then she finds out destiny was responsible for founding the anti-mutant conspiracy mystique spent her whole life trying to stop, and that destiny also didnt give medical attention to mutant kids who were deformed from their mutations

long story short she has an even worse breakdown n goes completely nihilistic, realizing she cant change the world for the better, she remakes the brotherhood and impersonates moira mctaggert to get her research on the legacy virus  

a bunch more shit happens with raven ending up in the care of homeland security. xavier makes a deal with her and breaks her out. everyont thought she tried to kill xavier,,, when she didnt actually,,, because xaviers a shady fuck,,, but oh well. rogue disowns her for it. leads to another mental breakdown.

because of this she decides fuq u xavier and creates a mutant kid identity for herself known as foxx and joins the xmen to stop rogue and remy’s relationship

she helped the x-men during this time n also helped save rogue’s life via the messiah baby. but once again her intentions are misconstrued

she snaps again and impersonates bobby drake’s girlfriend & gets the poor boy hospitalized

norman osborn then recruited her to the dark x-men, injected her with nanites, then helped logans soul to hell, but then changed her mind and helped get him back. when he got back tho he uh. well. killed her. her and sabretooth were both resurrected by the hand (more on this later)

mystique then rejoined the brotherhood, impersonated alison, and took her place as mutant liaison for shield, harvesting her DNA to make MGH (mutant growth hormone)

LEVEL 2.5: MYSTIQUE’S PLACE IN THIS VERSE

i imagine she went back in time to 1973 under the guise of helping people & being “reformed” but in reality she was also doing shady mystique shit on the side and probably trying to tie up some loose ends, whether it be with graydon, the shadow king, destiny, or someone else. or probably a combination

anyways now shes staying w/ the x-men part time and playing Good Girl for now. she wants to show everyone that shes reformed n better n just wants to do things for the betterment of mutant kind. wants 2 get their trust too

shes pretty. level headed right now i’d say. betsy braddock helped her during one of her mental breakdowns by telepathically realigning her fragmented psyche — she’s still mystique n still awful but not as chaotic anymore. and less prone to attack rogue or other people aimlessly. it’s much more goal oriented now.

LEVEL 3: MYSTIQUES PSYCHE //

ok so she identifies as gender fluid bcus she shape shifts forms but also because i imagine shes so sick of having sexualized herself all these decades to get what she wants that shes just fed up with gender norms and thinks theyre bullshit. she’s fine to go by she/her pronouns but she doesnt really identify as a specific gender in my head

she drinks but mostly absinthe and only w/ people she trusts. along those lines it’s similar for drugs but she loves a good high and a good hallucination

she has bouts of psychosis that her wiki defines as schizophrenia. it manifests in much more anger and aggression. hallucinations. delusions — especially presecutory and grandiose delusions — lack of pleasure (hence the nihilism), social withdrawal, and poverty of speech. her sense of identity becomes so fractured that she cant keep herself consistently in one body without it taking all of her concentration — and sometimes that isn’t even enough. she gets lots of mood and cognitive changes during these episodes — and completely loses her sense of self

despite her grandiose ego she’s actually very self conscious and refuses to look in a mirror. actually she’s scared of her appearance. she cant look at herself normally in fear of seeing a monster look back

this is also the reason she was so easily deceived by azael. he looked like a monster, too, and embraced her for how she is. he didnt make her change to fit another appearance that couldve been “more beautiful”

lastly, her motives for doing things??? are always for the betterment of mutantkind. over time this got very skewed and her belief became that the only way for mutants to actually live is for all humans to die. shes a terrorist through and through, but she loves mutants. she just has a personal vendetta against the x-men that’s grown over the years — her constantly being betrayed by people during her episodes of psychosis and the x-men never actually believing the real story (but also like. why would they??? shes often so awful too)

shes attempted suicide canonically in the past. she loses control of herself. it’s also heavily implied she’s been assaulted in the past. anyways shes a sad baby too

— so thats about it for my murder baby! yike this got a lot longer than i expected it to but anyways i cant wait to write her with all of you!! <3

[enbouton]

Better Call Saul Rewatch, Part 2/30: I’m A Lawyer, Not A Criminal

Mijo (Season 1, Episode 2)

Written by Vince Gilligan & Peter Gould / Directed by Michelle MacLaren

Breaking Bad liked to juxtapose food preparation with menace (particularly where Gus was concerned), but after some extreme close-ups on blood-red peppers and some vivid sound design, we pull out and see that Tuco’s just, well, cooking. In an apron, in his grandma’s kitchen. (Raymond Cruz gives more nuance to Tuco here than he had the chance to in Breaking Bad. He’s not quite as quick to anger, which actually makes him scarier, since you don’t know when he’s going to strike.)

Aside, this is such a Breaking Bad frame:

Mrs. Salamanca arrives with Cal and Lars in tow, fretting about the accident; Tuco reassures her and sends her upstairs, ominously adding “turn up the volume real loud so you can hear it”. I love the twins’ complete obliviousness to the danger they’re in. Even when Tuco pointedly asks them if the cops are coming, they don’t get it; they’re still yammering about “dollar amounts” when he picks up his abuelita’s cane.

The first half of this episode is harrowing. A situation Jimmy thought he could micromanage has spiralled out of control, and he looks sick with fear throughout, face contorting, hands trembling. He does a good job of talking Tuco down at first, only for it all to collapse like a house of cards when Lars yells that the scam was his idea. This brings us to a classic set-piece:

The desert! I missed you.

It’s a good choice not to show Nacho taking in the information about Craig and Betsy and the money they stole; it keeps our attention locked to Jimmy’s perspective. All we need to learn about Nacho at this point is that he’s smarter and more level-headed than his boss.

This scene is where we see that Jimmy really is a good advocate at a fundamental level. He reads Tuco well enough to know how to appeal to him; he deploys truths and untruths selectively for the greatest effect. When Tuco won’t budge on the issue of the twins’ punishment, he starts bargaining: what’s proportionate? What’s fair?

Giving Jimmy credit for arguing on behalf of Cal and Lars after he himself is set free would be setting the bar low, but it does demonstrate qualities that Saul Goodman must have buried pretty deep. He saves the twins’ lives, and he looks utterly disgusted with himself when he and Tuco shake hands on their “sentence”.

The whole leg-breaking/breadsticks sequence is... a lot. You get momentarily distracted by the sight of Jimmy’s maybe-date (it made me wonder about his and Kim’s past relationship; there’s obviously something between them, but he’s flirting with someone else; did they just fool around a few times, or did they actually date and then break up?) and then the snapping starts and ugh it’s just awful. Kudos to the sound design department. Please never repeat this.

It’s poignant that Jimmy, traumatised and blind drunk, ends up seeking shelter at his prickly brother’s house. Chuck seems to experience pain in his right arm just after Jimmy passes out on the couch, right before he thinks to look for Jimmy’s phone. This is an early hint at the true source of his symptoms: if it were really the electromagnetic fields, he’d have reacted as soon as Jimmy crossed the threshold, but he seems fine until he appreciates what a sorry state Jimmy is in.

The next morning, we get to see Chuck’s house in daylight for the first time. In general, the interplay of light and shadow in Chuck’s house is managed beautifully. Draped in a space blanket, Chuck passive-aggressively informs Jimmy that he’s out of milk, and then beautifully pretends not to have read the urgent care bill that fell out of Jimmy’s pocket. The whole “take off the space blanket” back-and-forth that ensues is just so well written and acted, in such an unflashy way. Underneath Jimmy’s hungover frustration is the fear that he is the reason Chuck is under the space blanket:

Jimmy: Hey, Chuck, listen. I— I know how this looks. I’m down to my last dime, and suddenly I’m paying for broken legs. But it’s not that, I swear. This represents a good thing, ultimately.

Chuck: Okay.

Jimmy: I’m not backsliding. This isn’t Slippin’ Jimmy.

Chuck: Fine.

Jimmy: Take off the space blanket, will you, please, Chuck?

Chuck: It helps.

Jimmy: Take off the space blanket. I didn’t do anything wrong.

Chuck: It has nothing to do with that. It was your phone.

Jimmy: Take off the space blanket.

Chuck: Why?

Jimmy: Take off the space blanket, Chuck. Come on. Take off the blanket.

Begrudgingly, Chuck takes it off. Jimmy goes out to find his phone, and Chuck wraps himself back up again.

Another montage! I love this one, it’s so snappy. The Baroque music is something we wouldn’t have heard on Breaking Bad. We get to see Jimmy wheeling and dealing with DDA Bill “Petty With A Prior” Oakley, subsisting on vending-machine coffee, and exchanging glances with Kim. The shot where Jimmy meets a client, walks into one courtroom, and emerges from another door with a different client is almost balletic, and the sequence of cuts between arguments in different cases (improvised by Bob Odenkirk) is especially good. Just as he did at HHM and the nail salon, he engages with the people around him, giving coffee to a deputy outside the courtroom. His suits, shirts and ties are notably subdued; James M. McGill isn’t flashy, after all.

The show takes its time integrating Mike within the plot, which is good. They could have gone full fanservice from the start, but they don’t. (The audio description track on Netflix just calls him “the parking attendant” for the first few episodes until someone finally uses his name.) You do wonder why, after the third or fourth time Mike makes Jimmy go back for more stickers, he doesn’t start double-checking his validation with the clerk. Maybe he did offscreen and she wouldn’t budge.

The sequence where Jimmy gets into his office, checks for messages, unfolds his bed, pours himself a drink and settles back before being disturbed is one of the quiet, carefully observed scenes that BCS does so well. Nothing dramatic is happening, it’s just a guy coming home from work and making himself comfortable.

The exchange in which Nacho asks Jimmy to help him rip off the Kettlemans would do little but move the plot forward were it not for Nacho’s uncomfortably accurate reading of Jimmy. Much as he protests, much as he insists that he’s sticking to the straight and narrow, much as he pretends to be only temporarily based in Mrs. Nguyen’s back room, he is seen through.

One of the tragedies of Jimmy McGill’s life is that no matter what he does, people keep telling him who and what he is and always will be: Slippin’ Jimmy, a conman, a criminal. Another one is that he keeps on proving them right.

Misc.

“Judge’s gotta see your mother. … Well, do you know anybody who looks like her? … No, an uncle won’t do it.”

Hello and goodbye to Jimmy’s shortest-lived alter ego, Special Agent Jeffrey A. Steele, FBI. I wonder if we’ll ever see him again?

This is so far the only episode of BCS directed by Michelle MacLaren, who directed some of my favourite Breaking Bad eps (Salud, Madrigal, Buried) including such #iconic scenes as the poolside cartel massacre. 

Timeframe: May 25 to maybe June 5, 2002; the urgent care receipt is dated May 25th, and Jimmy wears at least nine different ties in the courthouse montage, suggesting at least two weeks of work.

The parking lot is the one at the end of 1st Street, behind the Albuquerque Convention Center; it’s not actually attached to any of the courthouses, but it is very close to them. (NB: whenever I cite a location, credit should go to Marc Valdez, who has catalogued pretty much every site used in filming BrBa and BCS on his blog.)

Music

“Boulevard of Broken Dreams” by Juan García Esquivel (1958), during the bar scene

Vivaldi’s Concerto for Strings in G Major, RV 151 (Concerto alla rustica), first movement, during the court montage

References

The Code of Hammurabi: a Babylonian legal code dating back to 1754 BCE that codified the principle of retaliatory justice. Law #196 states “if a man put out the eye of another man, his eye shall be put out” (source).

“Title 21, Schedule II through V, including Part B” refers to the United States Code Controlled Substances Act.

“It’s showtime, folks” is from All That Jazz (1979). Context, from Shmoop:

Joe Gideon is a chain-smoking, pill-popping workaholic by day and playboy by night. As a famous choreographer-director, he is physically burning out. Every morning he greets his hungover, bloodshot image in the bathroom mirror with, "It's showtime, folks!"

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[ndrmag]

Contributor Interview with Kristine Langley Mahler

Kristine Langley Mahler lives and writes on the suburban prairie of Nebraska, where she is completing an erasure book on Seventeen‘s advice to teenage girls, a grant-funded project about immigration/inhabitation on native land through the lens of her French-Canadian ancestors, and a graduate degree in creative nonfiction. Her work has appeared/is forthcoming in The Rumpus, Quarter After Eight, Sweet, Split Lip, Storm Cellar, the Bitter Southerner, and received the 2016 Rafael Torch Award for Literary Nonfiction from Crab Orchard Review. Visit her at kristinelangleymahler.com.

How did the initial idea for “Club Pines” come together for you? How does the finished work differ from that original conception?

It started as a very ambitious multimedia EXPERIENCE: I had hand-drawn the neighborhood and I was going to have the houses hyperlinked so the reader could click on them to read the segments, but I realized that wow, I might have some coding skills but not enough to pull that project into place. So I scaled it back. Earlier versions of “Club Pines” had the neighborhood map reproduced before each “house,” with the house in question colored in and any previously encountered houses as empty boxes to indicate how they had become "vacant" for me, but again—it was too much. I loved the visualness of that neighborhood because it was such a maze, so winding and so metaphoric, but (and this is where I had to tone back my writer ego), that doesn't matter to the reader. In the essay, the map just looked like a visual distraction, an unnecessary bit of detail—the reader could ascertain from the narrative that Club Pines was a maze to me. They didn't need to see it shoveled in front of their face like LOOK SEE I WAS REALLY CONFUSED SEE HOW CONFUSED?

There were a lot of houses/girls who were in the original essay, but I tried to pare it down to only those girls who tied me to certain aspects of my adolescence. I thought about including boys’ houses, but that’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax. Nearly every house in that neighborhood had meant something to me at one point: I had babysitters who lived there, or I had babysat there myself, or I went trick-or-treating there once and a woman handed out personalized toothbrushes she’d bought at the dollar store so I got RICKY or whatever. Stuff like that. But those are the sort of completionist tendencies that could have snowballed into a whole neighborhood ethnography, and the emphasis, here, was really on those girls. That’s where I felt out of place and in place, even temporarily.

What craft struggles did you encounter while writing this essay? How did you overcome them? What did you learn from the process?

Oh, you know, as a memoirist, it’s always a challenge to be comfortable with my portrayals of other people. I’ve always been very watchful, obsessive about retaining memories and situations so I can analyze them later, but I know it’s presumptuous to ascribe motives to others. These girls were so much more than the summations I present to y’all as paragraphs. So I tried to remain true to the way I knew the girls, at that time, and to make it clear through the way I sketch them that I’m laying my own biases out for judgment. There’s a moral code I don’t think I’ve broken, but I’m also protected from any real-world retribution since I’m only “officially” social-media-connected to one of the girls in “Club Pines.” I’m one of those tracking dogs who finds digital loopholes and can pick up a cold trail: they’re married, they’re mothers, they’re single and childless, they’re living their best Southern life and they’ve left for other regions, other countries. They’re unprotected and they’re on social media lockdown; they’re oversharing and they’re silent as the grave. Just like me, we’re all telling the narrative of our girlhoods the way we need to believe they happened; we’re all revising when we see a perspective we didn’t realize. If they ever came across this piece, I hope they’d know that.

"Club Pines" presents a neighborhood that simultaneously feels ubiquitous and incredibly specific in its details, particularly those concerning toys and media of the time, as well as the denizens and their spaces. In capturing a place that is both unique and typical at once, how were you able to decide what to keep and what to let go?

The essay progresses from age ten through age fourteen, crucial years when we’re all figuring out who we are, trying on friendships, trying out cruelties, jostling for place. I doubled-down on my feelings of displacement as I wasn’t a native North Carolinian, but honestly, the anomie and aloneness in adolescence are pretty universal.

I think I included so many details because they set the reader in the era of the early-to-mid 90s—an important era because it predated the Internet, predated the ability to form an escapism that might have allowed me to retain virtual connections with my old friends from my old town. Instead, I had to grind through adolescence in that neighborhood, which I name, in that city, which I don't (though it's not hard to figure out), where I was a regional newcomer bombarded with all this “knowledge” everyone else seemed to have and I’d never encountered: sweet tea, cotillion, tobacco, smoked and grown everywhere. When writing “Club Pines,” I fixated on the details in the girls’ houses that were NOT regional because those were the details that made me feel like I had an entry way into these Othered spaces: troll dolls, The Beatles, fortune tellers.

Part of what makes "Club Pines" such a phenomenally textured essay is the broad range of feelings it depicts. For instance, there's the bitter levity of  "I sneer at her because I may be a pleb but she is a snob" and, later on, more somber notes such as "when we still called it “playing,” when I still anticipated her calls, when she was still my best friend, when she was still." What advice would you give a writer attempting to establish such a tonal dynamism without things feeling unfocused?

I suppose it's important to remember, particularly in a segmented essay, that each section needs to be treated as its own narrative and needs to be able to stand on its own. To hover above a single moment as if it had to represent all the moments you’ve ever had with that person or space can force you to recognize the range of your emotions. The trick is forcing that range to harden into the meringued truth for one scene: fragile, beaten, but momentarily solid.

The houses are distinct spaces, yet are especially vivid because of the specific atmospheres you conjure. How did you go about capturing these atmospheres so lucidly and in such short spaces?

I had layered, multi-year friendships with some of those girls in “Club Pines,” and with others, complex and painful situations I didn’t even address here. I word-spattered all over early drafts, writing the first things I thought about when I thought about those girls, and as I cleaned up the mess, I kept the scenes that emblematized those girls singularly, for one blurt. More often than not, they were the first things I’d written.

There are a number of details I muted throughout the piece, little signals to myself which hint at outgrowths of moments I don’t describe here, and I think their hinted presence must have allowed me to restrain over-telling and over-showing. For instance, I used the word “nook” in describing the location of my house and Betsy’s final bedroom in her house because they were both places where I was hidden and ignored, and yet they were places of comfort. You don’t get descriptions of the girls’ appearances. They don’t matter, because these girls are Everygirls. These houses are Everyhouses. No matter where you live, adolescence is packing season, leaving season, replacing season, curing season. 

[revolutionary-pirate]

Historical Figure Tag Game

Tagged by: @little-lion-rampant  and @sonofhistory Thanks for the tags!!  1. Who’s your historical person?

I honestly... don’t have one? I like too many people? But the first that come to mind are Richard Kidder Meade (because that’s who I’m known for and am writing a biography for) and John Paul Jones (because that’s who I last read about and am basing my graduation project on). I mostly think in groups, though. The Aides-de-camp and the Continental Navy are my historical faves in general. My bio on Meade is just a part of my grand project to one day complete a full and fleshed out account of all of Washington’s aides-de-camp (especially the lesser known ones). I suppose I’ll simultaneously talk about Richard Kidder Meade and John Paul Jones cuz I can’t decide between the two. [I’m probably one of the only people on earth that knows Meade well enough to do something like this for him now that I think about it xD]

2. What is it about them that draws you to them like a magnet?

For Meade, it’s his obscurity. He’s a mystery. There isn’t a whole lot about him out there, but a lot more than I was lead to believe there might be. But even despite everything I know about him, It’s hard to know him. I can tell you what he was involved in, but I can’t tell you what he specifically did while involved with it or why he became involved at all. I can’t tell you what he thought about things and what was going on 98% of the time. I can speculate about his beliefs and reasons all day by looking at the people he surrounded himself with, but, in the end, I still know nothing because They’re not Him. I might know his story but it’s impossible to actually know him and that is frustrating as all hell. He’s A puzzle that’s missing 90% of its pieces. John Paul Jones is one of the most mythologized figures of the American Revolution, second only to George Washington himself. He is also a magnet for misfortune. I’m a sucker for tragedies and rags to riches underdog stories and Jones is both of those things at once. He was able to rise above his circumstances to fame and riches but plummeted back down into obscurity - never achieving his life goals. He’s also a walking contradiction, a man always at war with himself, who he was vs his ideal image of himself and who he wants to be and I find that to be fascinating. The misfortunes of his life also draw my attention. So many things went wrong in his life and looking at the whys is simultaneously fascinating and frustrating. To tangibly see how he changed over time because of these failures, wrongs, and slights is an intriguing study. His life, in general, is just interesting and dynamic to me. There are constant highs and lows and you never know just what to expect when first reading about him.

3. Favorite thing about them?

My favorite thing about Meade has to be his kindness, patience, consideration, and genuineness that’s balanced perfectly by a dry/condescending sense of humor that I wish there were more examples of. My favorite thing about John Paul Jones has to be his persistence. In the face of repeated slights and backstabs, he kept pressing forward. He believed so much in his vision and in the cause of the Revolution that he refused to hesitate or back down in the face of his misfortunes. His endless pursuit of a better version of himself and his attempts to correct his flaws sits in the same vein as that. Every time he stumbled and reverted back to his incredibly flawed self, he picked up and tried again. Granted, a part of his persistence lies in the fact that he wanted to be remembered for something. “My desire for fame is infinite” he once wrote. He wanted fame because without it? He was no one. He was a Scottish servant boy living a false life under a false name and trying to be someone the world told him he couldn’t be. So he had to be persistent in order to stay ahead of the looming fear that he would die a forgotten man.

4. Least favorite thing about them?

My least favorite thing about Meade would be the fact that he owned slaves, but that feels like a cop-out answer to me. So another one of my least favorite things about him is that he hardly ever wrote things down. He seems like he never wrote about his opinions on paper if he could avoid it. Too many times have I read what was, in essence, “I’ll talk about it when I see you next.” He was incredibly prudent when it came to the written word, knowing that there was always a chance that a letter could be intercepted or read without his consent. He also, admittedly, wasn’t a fan of writing letters. So, he either kept his opinions to himself or only voiced them in private conversation. This, of course, means that I know next to nothing about his opinions, beliefs, and experiences. Then again, not many of his letters have survived in general. Some of the ones that I have found were lengthy and honest, like his letter to Hamilton in January of 1781. Or his letters to Theodorick Bland and his brother, Everard after the battle of Great Bridge. The latter two, however, were written before he was acquainted with the intrigues and politics of war and the former was written after he’d already left the army and wasn’t sure he’d ever see Hamilton again. So it can be argued that his prudence extended only to his time as an aide-de-camp. Regardless. He rarely wrote things down and I hate it. But the slave thing again. If Meade could fucking afford to give away so much of his money to charity and to help all the poor and needy in his community and lived like he himself was poor and made everything on-site instead of purchasing it, he probably could have fuckin afforded to manumit his slaves and then hire them to work for him if he was so concerned about them finding work in Virginia or getting forced back into slavery by some asshole who decided to claim they were a runaway. I don’t care that he never made them do anything that he himself wasn’t prepared to do alongside them and that he continued to work with them every day until his body started to fail him - he still fuckin owned them. That’s not cool. The least he could have done was tell his wife to manumit them when she died (she wrote in her will that the slaves were to be allowed to choose which of the children they wanted to go to. I have no idea which they chose. Hopefully, it was one of the kids that went on to free slaves and be an abolitionist). He treated his slaves so well that his daughter, Anne, didn’t realize slavery was a disgusting institution until she married a man who owned 400 which is, like, bravo on Meade’s part for being so great to his 19 but also somehow shittier because his kids didn’t think that there was much of anything wrong with the institution and he never taught them otherwise. Meade was an abolitionist(TM) and needed to be an Abolitionist.

My least favorite thing about John Paul Jones is his Brittle Ego and the fact that he got to a point where he stopped making friends and only took lovers because he could no longer trust anyone. He had felt betrayed so many times that he gave up on people ever being genuine with him and that’s just... it’s sad. He got so paranoid and convinced that everyone was out to get him that he pushed everyone away because of it. The only person he ever trusted, the person he considered to be his best and only friend... betrayed him and turned his back on him (and it wasn’t even his only betrayal. Jones never learned that his ‘friend’ was a British Spy feeding the enemy all of Jones’s plans and schemes from the beginning and was probably never his friend at all) and that was one of the last straws for Jones. Even the people who were genuine with him ended up hurting him in some way and he was unable to forgive them for it. Even if what they did was an effort to look out for him, was something outside of their control, or was just them trying to do what was best for him, he saw it as a complete and utter betrayal. Like it was them turning their backs on him just like everyone else. It was that tendency of his that I hate. His fragile ego, large but haphazardly built. He was insecure, constantly in need of validation, and always spinning the story in his favor in an effort to save face. He was constantly complaining about this thing or that thing (he also offered solutions to those things he was complaining about that everyone ignored because they didn’t care) and he was honestly an exhausting human being to be around at times. The thing about him, though, is that he was aware of that. He was aware of his faults and he was sickened by them but, try as he might, he could not overcome them. Benjamin Franklin once wrote him a scathing letter telling him to shape up and get over himself. Jones was hurt by it at first, but he ultimately took it to heart and tried. Tried so fucking hard because Franklin was like a father to him and he trusted his judgment... but he'd always end up back at square one: hurt, tired, miserable, brooding, and alone with all of his inner demons. Jones needed to stop blaming everyone for things that were outside of their control, blaming other people for things that were his fault, give credit where credit was due, and calm the fuck down and learn to let some things go. (And he tried. tried all of those things. made efforts to do all of those things... but people made that pretty difficult when they didn’t return the favor).

5. If you could fix one thing for them?

The one thing that I would fix for Meade would be him getting to see Alexander Hamilton at least one more time before both of them died. Ideally, they’d get to see each other frequently... if not all the time. The Meades and the Hamiltons would get to go on double dates together like they joked about. Anne and Philip would get together and maybe even get married someday like they hoped they would. Betsy and Molly would get to be best friends. I, just, UGH. I think about those letters all the time and I just want a happy Hamilton and Meade post-war friendship just like the one that they dreamed they could have. Gaaaaah. For Jones, I just want him to be happy. John Paul Jones x Happiness is one of my OTPs. So I'd give him a ship - a fast ship, not a crank ship like all the ones Congress gave him, but a fast ship to sail into harm’s way with and that ship would come with his best first lieutenant, John Rathbun. His perfect balance. The man was a skilled First Lieutenant who knew what he was on about, smoothed out all of Jones’ harsh edges, calmed Jones’ temper when it began to rise, and also served as the perfect mediator/buffer between a captain like Jones and his crew without ever putting Jones’ authority into question. I’d make sure that, no matter what, Jones never lost Rathbun again because while Rathbun was there... Jones was happy. So if I can’t give him a ship... I would still give him Rathbun and, through Rathbun, Jones would have a mostly cooperative, loyal, and content crew and that’s all I ask for. Jones reflected that the happiest time of his life was when he was sailing aboard the Providence with Rathbun and their crew, which was the best he’d ever had, and I just want him to have that back. 

6. If you could change their history, would you? If so, what?

This question is pretty in-line with the previous one. Are we talking about childhoods? I’m going to assume childhoods as being like their ‘history’. With Meade, nothing comes immediately to mind. I don’t really know enough about his childhood, really. But with Jones, I would change the fact that his father locked him inside of a glorified shed with no explanation or real reason to do so aside from wanting to make a sarcastic jab at their master about symmetry? Like, what the fuck? Little J.P. Jr. did nothing wrong??? He had no idea why his dad did that to him??? He was so confused????

If we’re talking about life in general. I would tell Jones that he needed to be nice to John Adams and that John Adams was not, in fact, out to get him like he was convinced he was. And then I would tell John Adams that he needed to be nice to Jones and that Jones was not, in fact, plotting against him like he was convinced he was. And then I would make them be friends so that they could build a navy together because they were pretty much the only two people in the entire god damn country that gave a shit about building a Navy in America and if they would have just, you know, worked together maybe Jones would have achieved his dream of playing a part in America becoming the naval power of the world in the near future and of becoming an admiral. WhICH IS ANOTHER THING? The fucking Jackass!!!! The guy who was #1 on the Navy commission list!! James Nicholson! That Asshat who did nothing to deserve or maintain that position!! I would prevent him from learning that Jones was lobbying to be made Admiral of the Continental Navy (which was a rank still unassigned) so that he wouldn’t be able to walk into congress one day, tell them not to do it because Jones was x.y.z. and causing Congress to nope the fuck out of there because they didn’t want to be caught in the middle of a feud between captains. And then maybe give Jones a commission as Admiral. But, in the end, the way it worked out was probably for the best? Because Jones probably would have made for a shitty Fleet Admiral. He did not have the temperament for it. But it’s what he wanted? So now I’m torn. John Barry was a better option than him, really (which is why Barry became the first Admiral of the U.S. Navy) Regardless, changing history is a no no in any situation because the ripple of those changes may cause some unforeseen changes down the line. So. yeah.

7. First thing you would say to them?

I’d probably say a greeting of some sort. Break the ice. Work my way to becoming a level 4-6 friend so that I can unlock their tragic backstories and gain access to the inner working of their minds. Learn about all of their hopes, dreams, fears, anxieties, desires, etc. from their own mouths and learn why they did the things they did and all of the fun stories. 

8. Bring them to 2017 with you... what does that look like?

With Meade? I honestly have no idea what that would look like. With Jones? He’d be thrilled that the US has the navy of his dreams, the naval academy of his dreams, the everything about the navy of his dreams because someone finally believed in him. Also, I’d tell Jones it’s okay to be Bi in 2017.

9. What WOULDN’T you tell them about the future?

I wouldn’t tell Meade that I’m writing a biography about him, that would be uncomfortable and awkward. I wouldn’t tell Jones that it took almost 200 years for America to appreciate him and that his fear of being forgotten and dying in obscurity came true. All he needs to know is that he’s a naval hero now.

10. Favorite story about them.

Meade was worried that his trusty black mare wouldn’t be able to hold up to the more rigorous riding duties his new station as aide-de-camp required of him. He decided that he would need another horse to rely on for sudden riding missions that required speed just in case because he didn’t want to push her too far. So in September of 1777, he asked his brother to send him one of his younger horses and requested a specific one that he believed should be good for the job, but then it takes almost a year for him to get this horse and he wrote his brother a couple times being like “...horse??????” When he finally got news that a man would be arriving with his requested horse in July of 1778, he got super excited and was anticipating the man and the horse’s arrival every hour. The horse finally arrived but it was injured/lame and sickly. He then spent time nursing this horse back to full health and taking care of it and it’s injuries himself until they were healed. Meade was not impressed with this new horses’ attitude, though. He ended up sticking with his trusty black mare, who had been able to get him out of many dangerous pinches with ease despite his former fears that she wouldn’t be able to handle it while he’d been waiting for the younger one to arrive. After years of war together, his old mare was handling the rigors of his position as aide-de-camp just fine so he continued to stick with her until the end of the war.

One of my favorite stories about Jones is the fact that he was the most wanted man in all of England and he just... walked into London? The guy he was traveling with was like “...I don't think this is a good idea. You know that everyone in England wants to see you hang, right?” And Jones was like “Well I have some secret letters to deliver to John Adams and I think I'll be quite alright.” So the guy reluctantly agreed and dropped Jones off in England.... and no one recognized him. The newspapers had distorted the image of “The Pirate” John Paul Jones so much that when the real man walked into London undisguised not a single person recognized who he was. They didn’t even realize he’d been there until he’d already left and arrived safely in France.

11. Reblog with a picture or painting or depiction of them.

There is nothing depicting Meade that has survived to this day (and potentially nothing ever made depicting him at all. Which is weird because both his older and younger brother had portraits done when they were 8-9 years old), but here’s a portrait of Jones painted in 1904 by Cecilia Beaux. His waist coat was actually White, not red. But I still really like it.

And here’s a copy of the bust of John Paul Jones made in 1780 that was the closest to capturing his likeness of anything else ever made of him during his lifetime and is the only thing that he was 100% satisfied with and wanted to flaunt to everyone. In the early 1900s, we were able to use the copy of the bust that he’d gifted to Jefferson to compare with his mummified corpse in order to confirm that the body they’d dug up from underneath a laundry mat in Paris was, in fact, John Paul Jones.

I’d tag others but I’m pretty sure that everyone I’d like to tag has either already done it or has already been tagged to do it. If you want to do it and haven’t been tagged, then feel free to claim that I tagged you and have at it! 

[cooperjones2020]

Second City, chp. 3

Summary: Sometimes she worries she’s settling — for a smaller job, a smaller city, a smaller life than she’d promised herself — but that was before she found out Jughead Jones lives in Chicago. That was before she found out the final secret of Jason Blossom’s murder.

A/N: As Juggie says, this chapter is a little bit meta. And pretty nerdy. I just have a lot of feelings about books, okay. Also I fudged with canon a little re: Jug’s writing style. So sue me.

ao3-->http://archiveofourown.org/works/11409360/chapters/25755798

Second City one / two

Nobodies Nobody Knows one / two (ao3)

In which Betty Cooper and Jughead Jones drink tequila

When the uber drops her off outside the bar Jughead selected, she buys herself some time by checking her email. She’s already spotted him inside but doesn’t know if he’s seen her, so the email-checking is a precautionary measure.

Though she wouldn’t be surprised if she had any last minutes notes from her boss.

The week thus far has not been kind to her. Cynthia found out she’d twisted the truth about her and Jug’s shared history. Turns out she once dated his agent. Cynthia also loves the idea that she’s the inspiration for Jughead’s heroine and is all over the plaster-Betty’s-picture-on-the-side-of-a-bus idea train.

Betty’s feeling that particularly potent mixture of nauseous because she’s disappointed someone, nervous about seeing Jughead, and migraine-y because she’s been staring at a computer screen all day. The farther the cab had gotten from the Loop, though, the more the nerves had emerged as the heavy favorite for emotion of the night.

She forces herself not to pace as she stares at her phone screen. Public spaces. She feels more comfortable about being around him in public spaces. They’d emailed about maybe doing the interview in either of their apartments, for sake of ease. She’s not ready to see his apartment. Being on the back of his motorcycle had been overwhelming enough. She isn’t ready to saturate herself with even more of him.

The prospect of her apartment is even more terrifying. She is afraid of what he would make of her life, what details and detritus he would weave into a narrative she couldn’t control.

A public space means no home field advantage. And it means an escape hatch, if she needs it.

She can see him inside, sitting in the far corner where the bar top meets the wall. He has his laptop out and a cup of coffee at his elbow, beanie covering his hair but for the one stray curl. If not for the wall of liquor she can see to the right of him, he could be in his booth at Pop’s.

Who drinks coffee at a bar at 8 pm?

Get a hold of yourself, Cooper. If you can’t feel brave, you can at least act like you do.

She goes in.

“Hey — sorry I’m late.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You’re not. And you know it.” Well she’s not early, which is the same thing. She busies herself setting her bag down and getting arranged on the bar stool while she keeps talking.

“How was Riverdale?”

“Great. Weird. They put my book in a special display in the library at Riverdale High. No matter that I didn’t graduate from there.”

“Well, I guess the story does take place there.”

“Yeah. Anyway, JB graduated and no one cried, so gold star for the weekend. I read your piece yesterday.”

His sudden change of topic gives her whiplash, but a sudden puff of warmth smokes in her stomach at his words.

“Oh thanks, you didn’t have to.”

“You know, I actually read it before I saw the byline and I wondered why the voice was so familiar. So which one was your favorite?”

She’s a little bit dazed by the compliment and doesn’t immediately put two and two together for the question.

“Favorite what?”

“Favorite bookstore.”

“Oh, right, duh. Um, Myopic, I think. Though Bookman’s Corner was a close second.”

His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Good choices. Myopic is one of my favorites too. Did you go into the occult section? They have an armchair in the window in that room on the second floor that overlooks Milwaukee Ave. I wrote a good forty percent of the new book from that spot.”

“No I didn’t see it, I’ll have to go back.”

“You will.” She breaks eye contact when he doesn’t, and turns to the glass of water in front of her.

“Hey, Betts.” He reaches out and touches her hand briefly before retreating. “How about a drink?”

It is by far the least professional thing she’s ever done, but she truly, completely, 100% cross-her-heart-and-hope-to-die does not believe she will make it through this evening without alcohol. As if by magic, or the power of positive thinking, the bartender sets before her something bedecked with cherries and way too colorful to taste like anything other than cough syrup.

She looks at Jughead, wondering if he’d ordered something for her before she came in. But he’s frowning at the glass. The bartender nods to a table past the bar.

“Courtesy a that guy.” They both turn to look, and a man on the far side of room is raising his glass to her. She returns the gesture and, as usual, blushes, before turning her body more fully towards Jughead and crossing her legs. He puts a hand on the back of her chair.

“What a dick. Like he can’t see we’re together. Want me to go talk to him?”

“No, I’m a big girl. I can do it myself.”

“But—”

“No, Jug. I’m not going to let the two of you grunt over me like neanderthals arguing over a piece of meat. If you go over there, he’ll think you’re my boyfriend and that’s why he’ll back off. I don’t want it to be like that. I want him to back off because I say I’m not interested, not because you say so.”

She notices him exhale forcefully.

“Besides, what if he’s my one true love. If I don’t talk to him, I’ll never find out and then I’ll die alone surrounded by cats.”

“Why, Betty Cooper, are you being sarcastic?” An impish sort of mirth springs to his eyes and it makes something ache inside her.

“It’s not like you have the market cornered. I’ll be right back.” She takes her purse to the bathroom, with a pit stop to thank the man, and manages to get away without giving him her number. She’s not sure why—he is cute—but it feels like a betrayal somehow.

When she gets back, the bartender has replaced the frou frou drink with a shot of something clear. Tequila, she thinks, because it’s accompanied by a salt shaker and a wedge of lime resting on a napkin.

“You want to do tequila shots?”

“Liquid courage, Betts,” he says, in an echo of her thoughts from earlier. For a moment she feels guilty, but she’s glad he’s nervous too.

She squints at him and takes the shot, before delicately setting the lime rind back on the napkin. When she turns back, his grin could split his face.

“You’re a bad influence, Jones.”

“Always.”

When the bartender has cleared away the shot glasses in favor of a Goose Island for him and a glass of wine for her, he says, “So we should probably get started?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” She sets up the recorder, thankful it’s a Wednesday and the bar is quiet. He hits the ground running. More verbose that she remembers. Charmingly articulate. She almost wishes they were doing a podcast instead of an article.

“The sequel came as a bit of a surprise. At the end of The Final Fissure, you revealed the murderer. What story is left to tell?”

“I don’t really think of Sweetwater Subtext—that’s the title by the way, nailed down for sure today—Anyway, I don’t think of Sweetwater Subtext as a sequel, though technically it is because some of it takes place later than Final Fissure. I think of them more as companions, separated by genre but connected by story. The Final Fissure is more plot-driven—definitely commercial fiction. Sweetwater Subtext explores more of the motivations of the characters, I’d say it’s more literary.”

“Does that mean it will alienate some of your original readership?”

“I hope not. I don’t think the genre should have anything to do with whether a story is compelling, enjoyable. I think writers—well, more likely critics—tend to underestimate readers. Preferring genre fiction like crime or romance or sci-fi doesn’t say anything about a reader’s abilities, only their interests. Readers have already developed a relationship with these characters, hopefully they care enough about them to want to know more.”

“I was surprised when I first picked up Final Fissure and saw the genre. You gave up on your Philip Marlowe fantasies.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how much hard boiled crime fiction you’ve read, but it usually doesn’t turn out well for the women. You get to college and take one theory course, and all of a sudden all you can see is the male gaze and the forced dichotomy between the ingenue and the femme fatale.

“Besides, you took over the story pretty early on and your voice—sorry, Betsy’s voice—was pretty insistent.”

Her mouth screws up at the mention of her fictional alter ego. “You just had to pick Betsy, didn’t you? Do you remember our third grade teacher called me that all year, no matter how many times me, or you, or Archie corrected her?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I tried to call her every variation of Elizabeth there is. Eliza stuck for a while but I kept writing ‘Betts’ in spite of myself so calling her Betsy saved me a ton of rewriting and annoyed calls from my editor. Though she found other things to latch onto. She thought ‘Betsy’ was ‘too mid-century, not enough millennial.’”

Betty laughs at his air quotes. “I’ve thought that myself more than once. But you withstood the pressure?”

“Never let it be said that I don’t suffer for my art.”

He pops the toothpick that previously held her frou frou drink cherries into his mouth, and she tries hard not to fixate on the tip of his tongue as it rolls the piece of wood from tooth to tooth. Focus, Cooper. What’s next in her notes?

“One of the big changes this time around must be your relationship to your readers. Have you felt the pressure of people waiting for this story, of what they might want to happen next? Has it affected you, either in your work or in your life?”

“Obviously the story starts in your head. But as soon as it’s printed, readers make it their own. It’s a dialogue in which they define the story—and me as the author, by default—as much as by who they are as by who I am. In the case of The Final Fissure, I was just trying to tell the story. Writing it was as much an act of therapy for me as it was a work of literature for everyone else. I wrote it as a teenager and then sat on it for many years, before I had the emotional distance I needed to edit it into a shape that would hold some broader appeal. This time around, it’s a little bit meta. Sweetwater Subtext is the same narrator coming back to a defining event of his life, trying to understand how it’s shaped him. Final Fissure was for me, but Sweetwater Subtext I did write with a specific audience in mind.”

“Not the audience who’s bought and loved it?”

“No, something a bit narrower than that.”

She doesn’t quite know how to follow-up without asking him who the audience is, but that feels too intimate. So she switches gears.

“If you wrote The Final Fissure in high school, and Sweetwater Subtext in the last couple of years, what did you do in the meantime?”

“I wrote a lot of short fiction. Creative writing at a university pretty much runs on the short story workshop.”

“So should we be looking for a short story collection next?”

“Haha, no. I think I subjected my workshop-mates to enough of the torture that was my short fiction. And it definitely overlapped with the world of The Final Fissure and Sweetwater Subtext.  Some of it got recycled into the two books. Maybe the story of Jason Blossom’s murder is the only story I have in me. Maybe I’ll be writing about it, who I was—who we were—then, for the rest of my life, in one way or another.”

Betty’s afraid to touch the subtext of that statement with a ten-foot pole. She presses the tip of her tongue against the back of her front teeth and wills herself not to flush. Or, if she does, hopes Jug will attribute it to the alcohol.

“Okay…so if the story is basically the same, how else was the writing experience different this time around?”

“In some ways, I think Sweetwater Subtext might have been harder to write — I’ve read The Final Fissure so many times but I also lived it. I’m not sure how to separate fact from fiction, I’m not sure if I know the difference. Sweetwater Subtext is much more internal, there’s much more room for error, interpretation.”

“Did your routine change? Anything in the physical process of how you wrote?”

“Definitely. Being an established author has conveyed a huge privilege on me. The Final Fissure was written in spare time at school or late nights at the diner. I’m still a nighttime writer. I still can’t write at home, I need people around me to observe. But writing gets to be the focus of my day now. I’ve also gotten better at letting other people see my writing. As a teenager, I was obsessive about making it perfect first.”

“Oh I remember.” They’re both facing ahead, so the recorder has a better angle, but she can see him smiling at her out of the corners of her eyes.

“But now, sometimes it’s just get it on the page and send it off, especially if I’m under a deadline. Still, though, I like some feedback if only to reaffirm my own conviction that I’m headed in the right direction. Actually, Archie looked at a few chapters of Sweetwater Subtext pretty early on.”

“Really? I can’t see him as a particularly dedicated editor.”

Jughead’s laugh is big, his head is thrown back and his shoulders shake. “No, definitely not. But it was more feedback on the content I was looking for, than the style. Whether I was crossing a line with anything.”

“Well, color me intrigued.”

“Good.”

She takes a risk. “I’m surprised Archie didn’t tell you I was moving here.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t exactly talk about you.”

It hurts. She knows it shouldn’t. She knows it makes sense. But it does. Because it sounds like ‘I don’t think about you.’

“Right, obviously. That was stupid of me.” Way to ruin it, Betty. “On a related note, what do you owe to the real people upon whom you base your characters?”

“That’s a question I’ve been wrestling with. The best answer I’ve been able to come up with, insufficient as it is, is honesty.”

[princessgracekelly1956]

The Indianapolis Star - Tuesday April 15, 1980

SMILE AND SAY ‘CHEESE’

He Keeps Famous In Focus

By BETSY HARRIS

Considering his lifetime with a lens, general photographer Howell Conant is wanting in the wedding category. He’s shot only two: the wedding of Princess Grace and Prince Rainier of Monaco and, 20 years later, that of their daughter, Princess Caroline, and Philipe Junot.

Conant, son and grandson of photographers, has credits galore, however, in other film categories, including 300 magazine covers. He took the official portraits of President Richard M. Nixon and has a collection of unpublished photographs of President John F. Kennedy, about whom he recalls, “I had to teach that guy to model.”

A “photographer’s photographer,” he addressed the convention and trade show of the Professional Photographers of Indiana meeting which ends today in the Sheraton West Hotel.

THE NEW YORK-BASED Wisconsin native recalls his first meeting with Princess Grace. ‘Collier’s (magazine) called me up and wanted a repertage of Grace Kelly.” Conant replied, “Grace who?”

“Collier’s sent me a couple of tickets to see her in ‘Rear Window’.” He liked what he saw and consented to photograph her, but the actress proved elusive. Appointments were broken for shooting sessions.

“Two months later, Photoplay called and wanted me to do another cover for them. I had done Debbie Reynolds earlier and this time they wanted Grace Kelly. I told them that if Collier’s couldn’t get her, how could they expect to, but on the day of the appointment, who walks into my studio at 11 a.m. but Grace Kelly!”

“SHE MAKES YOU nervous,” Conant declares, explaining, “Grace doesn’t talk much.” At the session’s end, the Collier’s assignment was broached and it was the actress, herself, who suggested that he meet her in Jamaica where she would be vacationing with her sister. It was there that Conant took the famed head shot of Grace Kelly emerging from the water, a picture that is his all-time favorite.

The relationship between Conant and Princess Grace has lasted nearly 25 years now. The reason? “I learned early to protect her privacy. I never talk,” he asserts, adding that personalities of his subjects are reflected in his photographs.

Conant is the official photographer of the royal family of Monaco because “I’m the world’s greatest photographer,” he shrugs. He had a dark red cloth made for Princess Grace’s wedding with the appelation embroidered on it so that he could emerge from beneath the cloth with a flourish “To loosen them up.

“SOMEONE SWIPED IT and Prince Rainier had a really fine one made to replace it. It was most flattering.” says Conant, adding that the prince “knows more about cameras than I do.”

Princess Grace is his favorite subject. Second is Pat Nixon. “She is one of the finest women I’ve met,” declares Conant. “Once you get past that Pepsodent smile - her defense - she is funny, witty, humourous, relaxed.”

Among his “cover girls” are Barbra Streisand, Elizabeth Taylor and Audrey Hepburn. Each assignment is a challenge for even the established photographer “to beat every kid who comes along with a Nikon.”

Conant explains that when assigned to take the Life cover relating Audrey Hepburn and Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he pondered over “how to build this better mouse trap.” So, he took Ms. Hepburn to Tiffany’s “and gave her a doughnut.’

CONANT SAYS that the demise of such periodicals as Look and Life marked the end of an era for photographers of his ilk. “Magazines used to sell news and aesthetic photographs,” he reflects, believing that periodicals have turned to “gossip. People has mediocre pictures. The photographs on the cover are what will sell, not beauty.”

There are two books that Conant is toying with writing. One would be centered around the Grace Kelly pictures; the other, President Kennedy, of which he has numerous unpublished photographs. “I really didn’t know what to do with them.”

WHILE AT Seville with the royal family of Monaco, he discussed his dilemma with Mrs. Kennedy, who suggested that Conant give the Kennedy memorabilia to the Library of Congress “but I didn’t want to do that.”

People have badgered him for prints and he’s only sold one - “for $8,400. I thought it a horrible price for anyone to pay, but then it was an informal picture of Jack and Jackie together and there weren’t too many of those.”

He really doubts that he’ll write a book, however, saying there are three reasons a photographer such as he would undertake such a project: ego, to perpetuate oneself in business and money. “I don’t care about the first two,” says Conant, “and there’s not enough money to make me do it.”

[schrijverr]

I Wrote My Own Deliverance

Chapter 9 out of 10

Alexander Hamilton is reborn as Alex Hambleton. He is desperate not to make the same mistakes twice, but it seems he is stuck in the narrative, unable to get out. Familiar faces pop up all around him as he attempts to keep his previous life a secret and write himself out of the story.

On AO3.

Ships: Alex/John/Eliza preslash implied

Warnings: none, but tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!!!

~~~~~~~~~~

Alex had attempted to sleep his misery away. He had hoped to wake up when it was all over and he could pretend he had not just done that again.

Overwhelm them with honesty always felt like a great option, until you had spread the word and were waiting for the reactions.

However, no such luck was in store for Alex when he awoke to the sound of someone banging loudly on his door. It took a moment for the yelling to register, but he quickly identified it as Angelica when she yelled: “Alexander open this door right now, because I will not hesitate to kick it in.”

He jumped out of bed and called something out to her as he stumbled over, blanket hanging over his shoulders, his hair still a mess from running his hands through it all night, bags under his eyes and a weight on the slump of his shoulders.

When he opened the door, he was met with more people than just Angelica. Behind her stood Eliza, Herc, Lafayette and John, all with crossed arms and stern expressions on their faces.

If they expected him to react the same as before, they were sorely mistaken. He was tired and emotionally drained and he did not have the energy to create an aloof mask. So when he saw them all standing there, he did what any sane person would have done and broke down into tears as he sank to the floor.

Immediately the lecture they had in store for him was forgotten as they sank down to wrap him up in a hug as he sobbed a thousand apologies into their clothes.

After a while Angelica took control of the situation and managed to usher them into the dorm, before they attracted too much attention. She also situated Alex onto his bed, pressed tightly between his friends, with Eliza and John on both sides and Herc and Lafayette next to them, while Angie set to make some tea.

“I’m so sorry for not telling you all.” Alex said, wiping away his tears after he had finally gotten his breathing under control.

“Hey, it’s okay, Alexander, it’s all okay.” Eliza petted his hair, but it just made more tears fall out of his eyes.

“No, no, it’s not,” he protested, voice still broken, “I fucked up again, I made you all sad by ignoring you and it was all for nothing anyway, I still messed up and I’m probably going to stay a fuck up for the rest of my life even when I try so so hard, it’s just never enough.”

“Alex, stop that.” John told him, he realized that kindness was perhaps good, but not if they couldn't snap him out of it.

“Stop what?”

“Stop beating yourself up over trying to be a better person and succeeding.” he answered, taking pride in the fact that he had reduced Alexander ‘A-Hundred-Words-Per-Minute’ Hamilton to silent gaping imitation of a fish on dry land.

When he finally managed to gather his words, he softly whispered: “Succeeded?”

At that point Angelica came back and pushed a warm mug in his hand as she counted on her fingers: “Didn’t cheat, didn’t ruin someone else’s life in an attempt to save your reputation and tried to do what was best for your friends even if the conclusion on how to do that was wrong. You already ‘changed the story’, as you put it.”

“But what if it wasn’t enough?” he asked, “What if no one believes me and Washington gets fired and he hates me and then I never get to see him or Mama M again and you all still have to yell at me for being a shit friend, which is true, and I am left alone and-”

“Alex, I love you, but please shut up before you talk yourself into a panic attack.” Eliza cut off his ramblings.

It seemed that it was enough for Alex to completely shut down and he just stared into another dimension, face riddled with shock and disbelief.

“If zat is truly the worst thing you can come up with then rest assured, mon petit lion, I can - how you say - ah, repel these thoughts.” Laf offered, “If no one believes you, you can actually prove you are Alexander Hamilton by registering.”

“Yeah, and Washington fucking loves you dude, so be chill on that front.” Laurens added, “Same goes for Martha, if she’s still the same.”

“And we will yell at you, but we’re not going to ditch you.” Angelica finished.

“Are you sure?” Alex asked.

Both John and Eliza pull him in for a hug as they whispered: “Of course we’re sure.” “We missed you.”

“Sorry I never said I remembered.” Alex apologized again.

“Well, one pro of being a chronic over-sharer with the world at large is that you don’t really have to explain.” Herc was teasing him, that was Hercs teasing voice and Alex had never been more happy that he was being made fun of.

The sound from his throat was a mix between a sob and a laugh as he confessed: “I missed all of you so much, it literally hurt to not say anything.”

“We believe you.” Eliza told him and both she and Laurens hugged him tightly.

They formed a cuddle pile and started up the The Fellowship of the Ring while Alex was busy being overwhelmed by what his life was right now.

When the fellowship had just arrived in Moria, Alex cleared his throat and said: “I think I’m ready for the yelling now.”

“Alright, if you say so.” Angelica warned him before getting up and taking a deep breath: “How dare you give in to your big ego and throw away your life in a duel when you wife and living children needed you. How dare you leave us all behind for honor when we needed you, you dumb fuck.”

“It was a dick move to not tell me who you were when I found you again, Alex.” John did not give him a moment to react, “I missed you so fucking much and then you pull that shit, break my heart all over again.”

“While I understand and forgive you, it was, as John eloquently phrased it, a dick move to not come to my aid in France.” Lafayette told him and Alex shrunk under his gaze.

Eliza took over: “It was difficult when you left me with the children and it took a long time to forgive you and it hurt even more to see you without you knowing me. And knowing in hindsight that you did, does not make it any better.”

Alex was ready for the ground to swallow him and he wanted to nothing more then for this to be over as he turned to Herc, who shrugged: “It sucked that you didn’t come around more? I don’t know, dude, I don’t have that much beef with you. Except that I had to deal with these two dramatic assholes without you.”

The two assholes in question both let out an indignant ‘Hey!’ as Alex snorted, already calming down a bit.

It was quiet for a few more seconds then Alex said: “Can I talk now? I know I’ve already written everything down for the world to see and all that, but I have been thinking for years about what to say if I had the chance, so…”

John grinned and said: “I never thought I’d say this, but I’d love a Hamilton speech right now. Do your worst.”

“I resent that.” he fired back, before turning to Herc, he wasn’t ready to face Eliza yet, “Sorry, I allowed myself to get swept up in the world of politics so much that I did not make time to see you. It was both snobby and shitty and you deserved better than that.”

Herc gave him some finger guns, which settled his nerves slightly.

Then he moved to Lafayette: “I want to say sorry for never coming for you. I know that politically it was the right decision, but I should have come for you anyway. I promised and then I left you. Even if I argued for neutrality against France, I could have taken a break to save you for personal reasons and the fact that I didn’t speaks of my asshole-ness.”

Lafayette gave him a tight smile and forgiving eyes, but he didn’t say a word. Alex couldn’t tell if it was because the other had realized that if Alex were interrupted he might be unable to start again or because Laf did not have the words to reply.

He turned to Angelica: “I have attempted many times to figure out what to say to you, but I never really know. You were the sister I never had, the support system I shouldn’t have taken for granted, yet I did. I can never repay you for being there for Betsy. So, thank you.”

She patted his shoulder and smiled encouragingly. As much as she could let her temper run wild, she could always be the rock he needed and he was so very grateful for her.

Then he found himself face to face with John. For all the speeches he had written for Laurens, when actually faced with the man, he grasped at straws.

“My dear Laurens,” what other way to start was there? “I cannot begin to express how all my words left me when I saw you alive once more. It pained me that I could not be there when you died and that our promise to see the war through together could not be fulfilled.”

He was reverting back to his older form of speech, but he was hardly noticing it: “We have left so much unsaid between us that breaking the silence seems terrifying, yet I hope that one day you can forgive me for not immediately sharing the delight of finding you in this life.”

“I cannot say how this life we’re making for ourselves will pan out.” he added, “The world is different and I cannot yet say if our stories will be, but I hope we can build upon a relation passed and see where the road takes us.”

Laurens took his hand a squeezed it. There were tears in both their eyes and neither said a word as they stayed liked that for a second, before Alex cleared his throat and turned to the last person in the room.

He had written so much for Eliza, but the only thing he could bring himself to say was an apology: “I know I can never apologize enough for all that I did to you, but I want you to know how incredibly sorry I am and how aware I am that I can never truly apologize for everything I have done.”

“It’s okay.” she said, sweet smile on her face, “It wasn’t for a long time, but you are not him anymore and you are still a good man. Finding out you’re poly did explain a lot.”

“Just because I’m poly doesn’t mean cheating is okay, not to mention telling the whole world about it.” Alex interjected, stereotypes were shit, “Being poly is also about communicating, which is every relationship to be honest.”

“I know, dear.” she cut off his verbal essay before it could begin, “What I meant is that it explained how you still looked at me like I was the world, even after everything. And how your eyes would sparkle when you talked about John, while still having the same look for me.”

“Oh.” sometimes he wondered why he was known as eloquent.

She smiled and repeated: “Yeah, oh.”

Herc piped up: “She and John started the POHC after the party. It was kinda sad, but also kinda sweet. We mostly avoided them.”

“Shut up, Herc.” John hissed, blush on his features, while Alex asked: “POHC?”

“Pine Over Hamilton Club.” Herc grinned, it seemed his spying tendencies had turned into a need for gossip.

“Not the point.” Eliza interrupted, also blushing, “We’ll talk about it later, for now, lets focus on the situation at hand. Did Washington know you were going to do this?”

“Yeah,” Alex snorted, “I’m not doing that without consent two times. I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid, you know. Mama M wanted to push for a lawsuit, but telling someone you will sue them if they breathe a word is about the same as telling them they’re right.”

“That sucks, mon ami.” Lafayette said.

“Tell me about it.” Alex smiled back, “Though we’re still considering pushing a lawsuit when we have the board on our side. I don’t want to dive into it without being registered.”

“You’re going to register?” Angelica asked.

“I have to, Angie.” Alex said, “If I get called for the board then I have proof, and I know they will call on me to explain, so better get it over with. The only reason I haven’t yet is because I didn’t want to do it without asking you guys.”

“Why?”

“Because if I am verified, then Washington will have to be verified and then everyone will look at the two ‘Great Founding Fathers of the United Sates of America’ and by extension everyone near them with a name resembling someone they knew.” Alex explained, “Of course you can avoid it by not being friends with me again, which I totally get and I don’t blame you if you don’t want to be associated with me.”

“Oh non, Alex, I will never let mon petit frére go.” Lafayette hugged him tightly and it was good to be in the mans arms again. He had missed his brother in all but blood.

“Yeah, not cool that you think we’ll drop you again.” Herc scolded him playfully, “We’re cooler than that.”

“I can handle them if they come after me.” Angelica said fiercely.

“And I do not doubt that.” Alex told her, “You are terrifying and I want to be on your good side for the rest of my life, but maybe take some time to think about it.”

She glanced at him and smirked: “I never thought I’d see the day when Alexander Hamilton tells me to pause and think like he was Aa- Oh my god, you have been roommates with Aaron Burr for over a year!”

[sflisa]

Our House...

...was a very, very fine house.  Only one cat, the amazing Tippy - but two brothers growing up, my mom must have been beyond busy when I think about having an almost 8 year old, a 3 year old, and an infant.

As I mentioned yesterday, I forgot to include ‘66-68 in the first decade - this time period is so rich for me, it feels like another decade all on its own.  

Dad got a job in NYC, and we had to move to be closer for a better commute.  He took the train in everyday, and I remember not seeing him too much.  We moved to a beautiful neighborhood in Scotch Plains, NJ.  I just went back a few years ago, and it is indeed beautiful still - not just the product of an idyllic childhood memory.  It’s been built up for sure - the path I used to walk through the woods and over a stream to school has been filled over with more beautiful houses, but the tree lined streets are still wide and quiet, and would still invite nine year old me to bike everywhere.  I had friends, a girl scout troop which mom led for awhile - we were the troop bosses for cookie sales - I remember our family room walls were lined with cases of thin mints and savannahs which sold for 50 cents a box.

School was glorious, eventually, but not at first.  My third grade teacher was sour and stern, and unforgiving of the habits I had from Catholic School, like calling her ‘sister’ and standing every time I answered a question. Kids made fun of me, and I felt pretty awful most of the time.  I failed a math test and hid the paper from my parents.  I think there was an intervention at that point, and I fully engaged in the SRA reading program which really helped things get straightened out.  

I went to Y day camp in the summer, which was wonderful, learned that I hate swimming in lakes, loved riding horses, and enjoyed handcrafts.  The next summer I graduated to overnight camp which was truly amazing.  I still hated swimming in the lake though.

I met Suzanne and Nancy and we were inseparable school friends.  Also there was the Richardson crew with 6 kids in the house which was fascinating for me - they were mostly church friends - I remember arguing with Robbie over the merits of sticking with classical music in church over such schlock as “Sons of God” that were plaguing every Mass in order to get people to come to church.  She liked the schlock - she had a point, and I had mine. 

I read Nancy Drew, sang along to Mitch Miller and the Gang, had a pen pal, and finally got a cat.  I clearly remember going with Mom and Dad to choose him - he was the most playful of the bunch and was my first tuxedo cat.  Mom sent Dad and me to NYC to see Sound of Music the day she decided it was time to let the cat outside - she didn’t tell me, and I was so amazed when he came running when called.  He loved it out there in all the trees - he’d climb up and jump in and out of Mom and Dad’s bedroom window on the second floor.  He liked popsicles and brought us many bird gifts to the porch.  He mostly never killed them - he just ran around with them between his teeth and let them go.  

I loved it there - endless bike riding, swimming in the backyard wading pool with Bob and Tom, adventures with friends, hours spent trick or treating in the frozen crunchy fall leaves, building snowmen with Dad, making Christmas cookies with Mom, and waiting for Santa. 

Summer of 68 (help mom??) we took a road trip to Colorado.  I loved it there, too - the mountains and the air were so different from anything I’d experienced.  The whole notion of elevation was amazing - that there could be flat ground that was a mile high was magical.  Timberline; the twisted trees and the tiny little hardy fairy-flowers that tough it out in such harsh conditions caught my attention.  We went to gold mines, waterfalls, got our first taste of the Garden of the Gods.  The Wild West.  I don’t know how I missed reading Little House on the Prairie; that came much, much later with my own daughter.

Instead of Laura, that fall, a special aired on TV - the story of “Heidi”.  She became my role model, alter ego, fascination...a girl without parents, who lives in the mountains, who tames mean people, and loves to sing.  Later that same month, I got caught sight-reading the descant to “Sweet Betsy from Pike” in music class and got sent to the choir.  And then, Dad disappeared for six weeks for a trip to Colorado, to start his new job that he had interviewed for while we were on our vacation.  While excited for the move, I was desperately sad to leave my friends and our beautiful neighborhood.  I knew there were mountains close to my new house, and great potential for horse back riding, hiking, and biking, and probably a choir.  My bike went into the moving van and two days before my 10th birthday, we boarded a plane to Colorado Springs.

I’ll do decade two this afternoon.  If you’re still reading, thanks for hanging in there.  I need to do this.

[trumpetnista]

#Richonne Party Day 7: Sunday- Favorite Gift They Gave to One Another.

Before I begin, I’d like to give a shoutout to everyone who came up with and supported this idea. This Richonne Party was awesome and I’m glad to have been a part of it. I’m happy to be a part of this part of the fandom and all of y’all are lovely, Richonne fam. You really are.

Now, as for this day’s answer? I know that a lot of folks are gonna say the electric Razor from 4x01 or the Anniversary Cat from 7x10 or even the multiple, bone deep orgasms they’ve given to each other and shared since that blessed night between them in 6x10 but me? I gotta be an Emo bitch. I gotta go there.

The greatest gift that they’ve have given to each other is HOPE.

HOPE and LOVE.

Think about where our heroes were before they met each other. 

Both of them were heart and spirit broken. 

Rick had lost Lori and his mind. He was grieving and feeling a lot of guilt (guilt that honestly didn’t belong to him) for how his marriage ended up turning out. He was still reeling from everything that happened before that, at the Quarry Lake, the CDC, and especially The Farm. The Prison was safe but for how long? What fresh hell would be unleashed next, he was likely wondering. He was all alone in his madness and grief, unable to really confide in anyone because he had to be a single father of two and the LEADER of The Group, which he really was in no shape to do at the time.

Michonne had lost her Andre Anthony and the man that she had loved and trusted to take of her baby to The Dead. She was all alone in the world again since Andrea decided to stick with The Governor’s twisted ass instead of using common sense and running away fast. She had escaped Woodbury, having seen through the facade, only to be chased and shot by a Death Squad. She then had to witness two innocent people (Glenn and Maggie) on a baby formula run get betrayed and kidnapped by a former Group member (Merle) for the sake of soothing the demented fuck’s ego.

The Fucked New World had been very cruel and mean to Richonne.

Both of them were in a very dark place due to that, teetering on the brink of no return but thankfully Fate (or in this case Gimple and Co.) stepped in and was like: “You know what? You both have been through more than your fair share of terrible shit and honestly, you’re gonna go through some more terrible shit so here’s what’s gonna happen...you are gonna get a bit of break. You’re still gonna go through the terrible shit but you’re not gonna be alone in the dark anymore because you’re gonna have each other and it’ll be great. Okay? Okay....you’re welcome, by the way.”

You guys remember David and Betsy’s story from the SuperHerd? Do you remember what he said to Michonne? That’s Rick and Michonne’s story but with a much happier ending. They were on the verge of giving up on being human, on being people because it hurt too much. The Fucked New World had kicked and punched them both so many times that it was about to be The End for them but then? They found each other. They brought each other back from the brink and back to humanity. Granted, Rick and Michonne had a rough start but eventually, they became each other’s light. They became partners. They became best friends. They became each other’s anchor to sanity, to humanity and now, look where they are. Look at them. Look at them and their family:

I’m crying as I’m typing this. Lord knows that I’m gonna be a mess tonight and for the rest of the week but I’ll be a mess of the best kind. I’m gonna be a Richonne mess.

Anyway, HOPE is my favorite gift they’ve given each other.

HOPE and LOVE.

Now, if you need me, I’ll be curled up in the corner with my electric blankie, a mug of Theraflu laced with honey (and maybe a splash of 1800 for good measure) because I’m sick as hell right now and all of my wonderful FEELS, waiting impatiently for 9PM EST and 7x12′s debut.

It’s Richonne Day, y’all! It’s LIT!