#I have misspelled Helene's name

[nemurenaivoron]

Totally (not) canon Klein when he needs to assassinate a pirate admiral

I forgot that there are people who haven't seen the COLORs meme yet, so here's the original short film the meme was based on.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

seven degrees east - final chapter

Fandom: Masters of the Air Pairings: multiple Rating: E Chapter: 8 / 8 Word Count: 5219 Total Word Count: 35,724

read on tumblr: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven

Robert Rosenthal married Phillis Heller on a scorching Tuesday. It was late afternoon, and nothing broke up the pulsing blue of the sky but a few white streaks that were more like a feathery suggestion of clouds than the real thing. Rosie wore shorts and a polo shirt—the collar of which had been fixed by Nash before the City Hall ceremony. Liss’s white halter top (borrowed from Sandra’s closet) was a last-minute bridal touch.

Standing before the Justice of the Peace, Rosie could feel himself grinning like a maniac and worried they’d be tossed out, assumed to be doing this as a joke. They were too happy, he was sure. Nobody was ever this happy. They wouldn’t be believed. Liss was grinning back at him, squeezing his hands. While the bride- and groom-to-be had waited to go in, the boys had scoured the nearby shops and come up with a pair of rings from an antique store. Now, Rosie was sliding one onto Liss’s finger. Curt whooped and Gale sent an elbow into his ribs to silence him.

The boys had also come back with a discoloured drinking glass. They’d forgotten something to wrap it in, but John had fished a forgotten beach towel from the back of the Wrangler, and it was in this that they swaddled the glass for Rosie to stomp outside City Hall. Now they all cheered, and people passing by turned and stared.

Crosby took photos throughout. He’d become, somehow, the group’s documentarian, even if it didn’t feel very official to be using a Polaroid camera to capture the wedding of one of his best friends. John claimed to have won the camera from Kidd in a darts match at the Barracks. As John’s dart game had never seemed to improve no matter how many times he played, Crosby doubted this and assumed he’d stolen it from Kidd instead. In all likelihood, Kidd was aware and couldn’t find it in himself to give enough of a shit to take it back. If the mood struck him, he would probably get revenge for the theft in a different way, maybe misspelling John’s name the next time he got a piece in the journal.

Snapping and flapping the printed photos, Crosby thought of his own potential contribution to the journal’s summer edition. Bubbles had mentioned ages ago that there were a few spaces left. There almost certainly still were, since most of the student body was gone and there was no one left to ask who hadn’t been asked already.

As it happened, Crosby had begun writing something. It was a way of coping with the looming deadline of their final essay. The process of writing something else helped him both put off and grapple with the class assignment, tricking his brain into believing itself productive by writing rapidly, copiously, wildly… just about the wrong thing.

While Crosby took the photos, Helen organized them. Quite a few of Rosie and Liss alone on the steps of City Hall. The couple with Helen and Nash, who’d stood up as their friends’ maid of honour and best man. Rosie with the boys (Helen took that one). Liss with her friends. Unfortunately, this did not include Sandra, who Crosby had learned was currently in France. “Bummer,” he’d said after Liss had told him—after he’d inquired, trying hopelessly not to be weird about it.

They decamped to a restaurant with a patio after. Liss had called and left messages on the answering machines of other friends she hadn’t been able to reach on such short notice, and some of these had since picked up the message, joining them for a boisterous dinner, their rowdy laughter filling the perfect evening. The Thorpe Abbotts boys began to tap one another on the shoulder when a few familiar faces appeared.

“Isn’t that…?”

“I think it’s…”

“Remember when we…?”

It was Curt who moseyed to the table at which the newcomers had seated themselves. He nudged one of their plates out of the way and perched on the table’s edge.

“Well, well, fuckin’ well,” he said, crossing his arms and staring down at the trio. “You fuckers always travel in a pack?”

The man to whom Curt had so thoughtfully addressed this question glanced from Curt to the rest of the boys (Gale flicked a hand up in an ironic wave), then back. His eyes had widened, but it only took him a moment to control his features and adopt a haughty expression.

“Look who’s bloody talking,” the Brit shot back.

Because it had been more than a month since the fight, and because a month on summer time actually counted for much longer, and especially because it was Rosie’s wedding day, Curt greeted this remark with a benevolent grin. As the last sight of Curt the Brit had enjoyed had been Curt’s fist coming fast at his head, his smile now understandably evoked a quick, alarmed intake of breath.

“Easy, guy,” Curt coached. “You keep your shirt on, I’ll let you keep those teeth in your head.”

“How generous,” was the stiff reply.

“You want generous? Fine.” Curt knocked the back of his hand playfully against the Brit’s shoulder. “I’ll buy ya a drink.”

A few tables over, Crosby leaned in to whisper to Gale and John.

“Uh, what the hell’s Curt doing?”

“Can’t make it out,” Gale said, though he was smiling loosely. “Lulling them into a false sense of security would be my guess, but I hope I’m wrong. I don’t want to have to embarrass these assholes by mopping the floor with them again.”

“Good news,” John announced. “You are wrong.” He turned to Crosby. “C’mon, Croz. You’re Casanova enough to know flirting when you see it.”

Crosby didn’t know which part to protest first.

“You think Curt’s flirting with the guy he beat the hell out of?”

Gale shrugged, hands spread.

“Stranger things,” he said, prepared to accept John’s theory.

“It’s no surprise Buck here called it wrong,” John said without provocation.

His best friend frowned at him.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you wouldn’t know a sexual advance if it stared you in the eyes while it shot its load.”

“Jesus, John.”

“Some of us are eating,” Bubbles mumbled around a slice of pizza.

Gale had flushed at John’s words, and his blush only deepened as John continued to hold his gaze. John lifted his own slice to his lips and took a large bite, smirking as he chewed. He wasn’t getting desperate, he wouldn’t say, just assertive. He needed Gale to be the one to make the move that would change it all. If he wasn’t, John was afraid Gale would convince himself that whatever happened after was never really what he’d wanted. It would be like Marge: an idea so good at the time that it might’ve been too good, and therefore doomed to brevity. Too perfect and it wouldn’t last with Gale. It never did. John had been around long enough to know that about his friend. He was suspicious of perfection, and of any choice he felt had been made for him.

But John was not above a little goading. He would splash Gale with the waters Gale was as yet too afraid to test.

At some point, they had ordered more beers than pizzas, and at some point, comfortably tipsy, somebody suggested speeches. The blue of the afternoon had deepened into the denim shades of evening, and the restaurant had turned on its patio lights. The future Dr. Rosenthal sat beneath the glow with his arm around the future Mrs. Rosenthal, Esq., her head on his shoulder. They looked like they’d been together longer. Everyone thought so—and they said so, moments of tenderness escaping between inside jokes and embarrassing stories as they gave their speeches. It was simple: these two people were beloved.

Later, the mood shifted, and man and missus betrayed signs of wanting to get away. But they couldn’t just leave; Rosie had a dormmate and Liss shared a house. There were logistics to consider. What they worked out in the end for the couple’s impromptu honeymoon was that they would stay at the house in Cringleford. With Sandra already in France, there was only Helen to relocate, and she was transparently eager to stay with Nash while Rosie vacated the dorm. Helen would get some clothes and things tonight to avoid intruding on the newlyweds. Rosie could not have appeared less interested in going anywhere Liss wasn’t. He would borrow a toothbrush. He would go without trimming his mustache. And why the hell would he need a change of clothes? He didn’t even plan on using the ones he was wearing after they got through the front door.

“Which is why I really need to get back to the house first,” Helen emphasized.

To which John cavalierly replied, “Ah, Helen, you don’t really know Rosie until you’ve seen him in his underwear.”

“We speak from experience,” Gale was quick to stress, before Helen could ask.

“And your boyfriend’s no better.” John leveled an accusatory finger at Nash who shrugged, shameless.

People began to discuss paying the bill, meeting again, sharing a ride to whatever place they called home at the moment. They were mostly students, so home was a rental of some sort, maybe with roommates, maybe with a pet whose head would lift sleepily from the floor when its owner walked in.

As purse straps were slung onto shoulders and back pockets patted to check for wallets and keys, Gale stood from his seat and felt months of his life rush to catch up with him. The sensation was so bittersweet that the breath caught in his throat. This was the best there was, and it was so fleeting. He saw how it would be preserved in his memory: friends hugging, the glint of light off earrings and eyeglass frames, Rosie and Liss in the background with their heads tilted together, speaking softly below the goodbyes.

And Gale saw John.

He saw John reach gracelessly above his head to crack his back. He saw him squeeze Crosby’s shoulder, catch Curt’s elbow to whisper something in his ear that made Curt smile slyly before slipping away with their erstwhile enemy, the Brit from the bar. He saw John turn around, looking for someone, and realized John was looking for him. His eyes glittered when they landed on Gale’s face, his smile full of the satisfaction of locating him, and Gale experienced perhaps his most purely happy thought since childhood: We’re going home.

He was ten years old again, following the train tracks by the light of the moon, turning into the driveway of the house with the warm light coming from the kitchen.

“I have some things to say to you,” he told John.

And John sighed like he was savouring the air, and said, “Finally.”

—

They didn’t turn on the light. The moon offered some through the blinds at the far end of the room though, enough that Gale could hit the kitchen counter when he tossed the keys. He could hear the soft sound of John’s breathing behind him. Slowly, Gale turned and placed a hand on John’s hip. John bowed his head in offering. Gale found his mouth.

John was just a weight in the kiss at first, a pressure to show he was there. It was up to Gale to nudge and suck, to gently bite, to run his lips down over John’s chin, then back up to kiss the underside of his nose. All the time, the heat came off John, and Gale felt the prickle of sweat between his own shoulder blades.

But John was too still; it was making Gale anxious. Impulsively, he sank to his knees and brought his hands to John’s belt. He’d probably waited too long, been too cautious. Who the hell let weeks go by after watching their… their John Egan (because there was no single word in the English language that could say all he meant) come? He would make John see that he did want him.

Gale didn’t so much as get his belt unbuckled before John’s hands were gripping his, pulling them away.

“You want it?” John asked. And his face was half in shadow, but Gale could hear that John didn’t mean the question to be crude, wasn’t demanding Gale beg for his cock. You want this, he meant. You want now, you want me?

“I want all of it,” Gale muttered, and John helped him to his feet.

“Then take me to bed like you mean it.”

Gale slipped his fingers through John’s, then savoured the feeling of how they fit together, stroking his fingers back and forth between John’s.

John said, “That tickles.”

Gale smiled in the darkness. “Sensitive, huh?”

“Did Hemingway love to fish?”

Gale made a noise of exasperation and said, “Come on.”

By the hand, he brought John to his room. John had been inside most days since they’d moved into the dorm together—that much wasn’t new. He had even lain on the bed, so when Gale backed him towards it, John instinctively picked his usual side and sat. Standing before him, Gale pulled the t-shirt over his head, but then John stopped him.

“Hang on,” he said, and went to raise the blinds. Again: the moon, heavy and cool. John resumed his seat. “I just…” He rubbed his cheek in what looked like sudden and unexpected shyness. “I wanna see everything.”

“I bet you do,” Gale replied, slightly saucy to cover his creeping nerves.

“You just look… I think you look…” Shy and at a loss for words.

Rather than stand there self-consciously or leave John to fumble forward alone, Gale sat next to him on the bed.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said.

This had the desired effect of making John laugh. Gale kept talking calmly.

“Friends fall in love all the time. We’re not special.” Gale nudged John with his elbow. “John Egan, we are so fucking unspecial. You know how many people in this country, on this planet are getting laid tonight? You and me, we’re just blendin’ in.”

He knew he was rambling, but slowly, the words like the hypnotic roll of surf against the shore of John’s consciousness, he hoped. The more he said, the less nonchalant Gale was sure he sounded. But why should he be? He kept forcing himself forward. He would sit there on that hard mattress and take it—take whatever he could put himself through, whatever was telling him to stop now and risk no more. He had stopped himself enough, held himself back enough. There was nothing more for him on that safe road, in clear skies. He would abandon the cerebral for the bloody and immediate. He would play with John. He would act—pretend and perform and take charge. All of it. And he would confess. And everything would be real.

“We’re under the radar, John,” Gale said. “It changed my life just to kiss you out there in that kitchen we never clean right. So what? A little perspective.”

“Have a little perspective?” John checked, the laugh still there in his voice.

“Yeah.”

“After you say you love me?” John leaned back on his hands.

“That’s not unusual,” Gale pointed out. His hands were shaking. “You love me too.”

“No big deal?”

“No big deal.”

John sighed loudly and reached for Gale’s hand, laying it on his chest. Gale could feel John’s heartbeat, not as rapid as he imagined it had been a minute ago.

“How long should we pretend?” John asked.

“I’m done if you are.”

When John’s hand tightened around his wrist, Gale pushed him down onto his back and crawled over him.

There was supposed to be dancing at weddings, Gale knew, and it felt like dancing, the way he and John navigated one another in that narrow dorm-room bed. Kissing, getting naked, getting lube from John’s room, getting John to quit moaning like that so Gale wouldn’t end the first time he’d ever done this far too soon as he eased inside him. Once he was buried though, he didn’t mind John’s moan. The snug fit around Gale’s cock was so good he had to fight to get his blurred vision to refocus on John’s face. And that was before they really started to move.

Partway through, slick with sweat from effort and humidity and the heat of each other’s body, Gale slowed his thrusts. John’s cock throbbed needily against his stomach. But Gale slowed further, stopped entirely. His face was so close to John’s. He felt the flex of John’s thighs around his hips and dug his blunt fingernails into firm muscle.

“How long ago did you start thinking this would happen?” Gale mumbled.

“I never thought it.”

“You knew it?” Gale searched his eyes.

“No. I wanted it, which meant it probably wouldn’t happen.” John’s laugh was pained.

“Tell me what you wanted,” Gale requested. He stared down at John, so comfortable on his pillow. The blue shades of moon-bright night folded around his features. He just looked… Gale thought he looked… He understood what John had meant, watching him undress. There was immense beauty in a man who was so vulnerable and brave. “Since I’m the moron who took this long.”

“I just wanted us,” John said simply. “I wanted you to see that, if anybody could make each other happy in this stupid world, in these stupid fucking novels we read… it’d be me...” He tapped his own chest with his finger. “…and it’d be you.” He tapped Gale’s.

John’s hand flattened over Gale’s heart and lingered there.

“How long did you want it then?” Gale asked, pushing his hips forward to distract from how choked up he was by John’s assertion. John gasped and grabbed hold of his ass.

“Every day before this one,” John professed. “All the way to the end.”

“The end of what?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out when we get there. Kiss me for now.”

“I can do that,” Gale said, and, cradling John’s cheek, he did.

—

Hey, Croz. You know

Crosby, buddy, I think

Harry, before you go

Bubbles had woken before dawn, when the sky had been bruised, when he’d blinked against the bathroom light and squinted at the dark circles under his eyeballs.

For all Crosby’s hard-boiled paperbacks, all his little pulp novels, he also owned a sturdy, hardback Arthur Conan Doyle collection—a sucker for one of the Brits after all. This book Bubbles had taken from the desk in their common area. He’d stuffed a bunch of blank sheets between its pages, tucked a pencil behind his ear, and left the dorms.

He had scuffed across the sidewalk, then swished through the grass, dampening the hem of his pajama pants with dew. The sky had started to lighten by then. Bubbles had held his head up as he’d walked and thought of the airfield. He’d looked at the twinkling stars giving way to the day. High up, black had been fading out to blue, but near the horizon, where the sun would appear, the sky had been a smoldering purplish-reddish-brown, like a hot plum. The day would be a scorcher, Bubbles had predicted. Sometimes, you could just tell.

But it had still been cool then, and when Bubbles had gone beneath the tree—the big tree, the one tree—he’d pulled off his sweater to sit on, so he wouldn’t soak his pants through. The sun had cracked the sky open like that big ol’ star was peering through a door into the dark room that was England. There had been just enough light to smooth a sheet of paper across the cover of the book, take the pencil from behind his ear, and begin.

Despite his false starts, Bubbles was a patient man. He let himself get all those wrong beginnings out of the way and waited for the right one to come.

It—whatever this letter would contain when he got it right—had been burning low inside him ever since Crosby had mentioned that he hadn’t slept with Sandra the night of the Cringleford party. He’d shared this offhandedly after Rosie and Liss’s wedding, when Bubbles had cautiously asked whether he was ok with not seeing Sandra that day—with not seeing her, actually, since the party. (Roommates, they knew each other’s movements well.) Crosby was ok, he’d assured Bubbles. It had only been a crush, if an intense one. At least nothing had happened. He could go back to Jean for the remainder of the summer with a clear conscience. Bubbles had felt slightly stunned. It wasn’t that he expected the worst of his best friend, but he’d felt, lately, that he was losing him somehow. Or that Crosby was flitting around and he, Bubbles, was standing still.

The news was good. It was good for Jean, and for Crosby. It was good for Bubbles, insofar as it meant he didn’t need to worry so much, he supposed. A passing physical attraction was actually very understandable.

Bubbles couldn’t help wondering though, had it been more than that, would Crosby have strayed? Would he have tried? Would he have tested the capacity of his heart and head to fall in love with somebody else? With every attempt he made to write the letter, Bubbles asked himself these questions. He wanted to know if there was space in that heart of Crosby’s, or if the most there would ever be was the idea of a single room, let for the night.

The sun rose red like a wailing throat and Bubbles carried his letter back to the dorm. He saw that Crosby wasn’t up yet, and heard no sounds of waking coming from his room. Bubbles got dressed, then reemerged from his bedroom and walked around their space as though for the first time.

Harding’s class was over. They were done until September. Bubbles wouldn’t fly out for another two days—he would be helping the eternally put-upon Kidd get a few things in order—but Crosby’s flight left that afternoon. They’d see each other. They would call. Before either of them knew it, they’d be back at Thorpe Abbotts and the trees would turn and Bucky would spread his arms to greet friends and buildings both and quote that line from The Great Gatsby about life starting over in the fall.

Bubbles thought about slipping the letter into the suitcase Crosby had hauled out the night before. It stood just inside their door, next to the single pair of shoes they’d each left themselves, packing the dress shoes they kept for presentation days and the boots they kept for the winter mornings when classes weren’t cancelled but the grounds were knee-deep in the white stuff. Bubbles unzipped the side and dropped the letter in.

He went out of the dorm, heart in his throat, and got as far as the door to the stairwell before going back. He retrieved the letter. The dorm was still silent. He went out again.

He was sitting in a coffee shop at the hour he knew Crosby was heading to the airport. The letter was folded in two in his pocket. Bubbles sighed over a cappuccino and made himself quit looking at his watch. He picked up the book he’d set down on the table and kept reading.

—

November

Although it wasn’t quite snow cover, the frost was crisp, and Crosby nearly slipped on the way to the student centre. He’d worn the wrong shoes. Jean had said as much. The transition from fall to winter was harsher over here; just one year away and he’d forgotten stuff like that.

He spotted a pair of familiar silhouettes walking up ahead. With a shout, Crosby hailed them, and Macon and Alex turned at the sound of his voice.

“Are you alright, Croz?” Alex asked.

Hands buried in his pockets, Crosby gave him a shivering shrug.

“It’s this bullshit Connecticut weather,” Macon noted in commiseration. “S’posed to be autumn.”

Alex chuckled.

“Alabama boy.”

“As if your Michigan ass could survive a ’Bama summer.”

Crosby listened to them go back and forth until they reached the centre. Inside the doors, they stamped and wiped their boots on the wide black mat. They were early; later, this mat would be sodden. They were expecting a big audience for today’s Veterans Day events—back-to-back presentations from morning into the afternoon.

He was grateful for Macon and Alex, for how quickly they had all become friends. Of course, the other two had had a head start, beginning their PhDs on this main Connecticut campus while Crosby’d opted to go abroad. But they had welcomed him back like a disoriented soldier returning to the home front after a cessation of hostilities. They had seemed to understand that he needed time to readjust, to take back up this new-old life, before he’d revealed much of anything besides the mid-semester transfer that was already obvious by his appearance in their seminar, “Special Topics in African American Literature: Toni Morrison”—as sudden and unexpected as Beloved’s from the river. That had been barely a month ago.

He had returned to school stateside in October, once Jean had been sure. Every day he’d been back, Crosby had worked not to feel like a coward for the way he’d clung to Norfolk, indirectly hoping the pregnancy scare would go a different way. He had finally felt at home there. Leaving, he’d known, meant missing an English autumn. Rain on grey stone. Brown leaves on that one solid oak. The smell of smoke coming from the Dean’s chimney—part of Thorpe Abbotts’ borrowing of English aesthetic and tradition. The thought of missing any of it had made Crosby want to grind his skin into those stones, so that some of him might stay.

But the baby had been conceived in August while Crosby’d been home for the summer, and it was a real baby, not some selfish fantasy of a faraway life. So he had packed, and though it had felt like breaking his own fingers to do it, he had let go.

He entertained, at first, some idea of going back. Gradually, he had come to accept this was impossible. He would keep his place at the university when the baby was born; he only had a few classes left to take, and he’d earned a scholarship that had been transferred back here when he had, and he made some money on TA pay, besides. There would be time, this way, to be home with Jean and the baby. By the time the three of them were able to make some kind of sense of their life, he would have propelled himself through his dissertation with blind determination and a good amount of fear, and it would be done. There would be no reason to walk those other halls again. There would be no old friends to rejoin in the place where they’d tried to learn something together—of books and, more than that, of each other, of themselves.

Crosby found a quiet place to pace and read over the pages he’d stuck in his presentation folder. Alex and Macon were presenting together, speaking about the Tuskegee Airmen in WWII. He wished he weren’t doing this alone, but at least they were all on the same panel, sitting in the same room. His focus was also WWII. He would be giving a personal account blended with history, offering the audience a portrait of an airfield, then and now.

He never had written that piece for the journal. In consequence, Kidd probably had his school photo pinned up somewhere, tossing darts at it. He’d written a lot before leaving England, but back in the States, Crosby had gotten wrapped up in family and Jean and all the little pursuits that swallowed the end of summer like a rapidly-melting popsicle. This paper, though it had grown into something else, finally felt like coming back around to what he’d meant to do months ago.

When it was almost time, one of the undergrad gophers for the event waved him into the room. Crosby had left his coat on an empty chair in the back row; he straightened his shirt collar, grateful for Jean’s steady hands, which had knotted his tie. He went up on the stage with the other student speakers. There were opening remarks. He was introduced and went to the podium on quivering legs, but he breathed deeply and smoothed his pages out in front of him, collecting himself before he glanced up at the modest assembly.

“I wanna say first,” Crosby began, off book, “that this paper was inspired by a very large, very important tree, and by my friend Bubbles, who used to sit under it with me. He was always thinking about how our school sat on the grounds of an old airfield. He thought about it a lot more than I did. I actually tried to call him today…”

Realizing how far he’d wandered, Crosby cleared his throat and held up a hand in apology. He began the speech he had prepared.

He had tried Bubbles before going out. He’d called the old landline number for their dorm. When Bubbles hadn’t picked up, he’d tried the other guys, finally getting Nash. Crosby had sniffed and touched the bottom of his nose when he heard in Nash’s voice that he was eager to be someplace. But Nash was kind, and he wouldn’t let Crosby off the line without saying whatever he’d called Bubbles to say.

“I’m giving my presentation today,” Crosby had said. In case Nash didn’t remember (and if he didn’t, Crosby didn’t blame him), Crosby had explained it as succinctly as he could: about the airfield, the pilots, and the crews, and later the school, and students. Peace. History. These places that had formed the lives of young men and women.

“You’re telling our story,” Nash had said.

And Crosby had quickly replied, “Yes,” not knowing whether “our” was meant to be Thorpe Abbotts or just seven students in particular.

“Like Little Women.”

Crosby had laughed.

“Come on, Croz,” Nash had said, from way down the line. “You know we’re just like that.”

“Like what?”

“A family.”

Crosby would make it clear later, when what he said in his presentation evolved again, into what he published. Bubbles would be first in his dedication—his best friend—encouraged in his pursuit of a certain ex-royal whose divorce had been finalized that August. The others’ names would be there too. Next might be Curt, who’d joined an exchange program that took him farther into Europe, ever the Kerouacian wanderer. Then Rosie who, enviably to Crosby, always seemed to know what he wanted. Nash would come right after, not quite as certain as Rosie, but just as determined once he’d decided on something. John and Gale… Crosby would have to keep them together, the way they kept themselves: Bucky and Buck.

And they would all stay together that way, there on his dedication page. To the Bloody Hundredth, Crosby would write. Then, for Bubbles, And to Princess Diana, wherever she may be tonight!

[secretly-a-catamount]

Malcabel WIP I guess

(They’re all horribly out of character in this, but I want them to be happy, god dam it! And I almost certainly misspelled Tavy’s name, but that’s just dyslexia for you. @lescahiersdesable)

  It was all Catarina Loss’s fault really.

  “Honestly, Malcolm,” the sky blue warlock had told Annabel’s husband when he’d called her positively panicking about being in charge of her (many times removed) nieces and nephews for a day, “why don’t you and Annabel just take the kids to the beach?”

  Trusting his friend’s judgment more than his own had been a rather terrible idea, Annabel thought amusingly as she watched the blond warlock race down the shoreline, waving his arms like a mad man, shouting that under no circumstances were the children to poke at that beached jellyfish with a stick, yes, Tiberius, even if it was already dead.

  After some whining (the children) and some poorly concealed begging (Malcom), the Blackthorn kids dispersed into the water and across the sand.

  Malcolm trudged back up the beach, and stood at the edge of the shade thrown by the umbrella stabbed into the ground.

  Annabel looked up from her drawing pad, her black brows furrowing in irritation at the shadow her husband had abruptly cast over her sketchbook. “You’re blocking my light.”

  His pale skin flushed a delicious raspberry red as he stammered out an “Oh, right, sorry” and moved to sit beside her on the blanket, smiling sheepishly. After a moment of comfortable silence, Malcolm absentmindedly ran his hand down her arm, stopping only to trace the black lines, curves, and whorls of her Runes. His touch was soft and light as a feather. “What are you drawing?”

  “You obviously.”

  “Obviously.” A pastel sketch of Malcolm in his striped bathing suit, looking tall and thin and almost frail, with softness to his frame and features that matched his disposition. A feint, salmon-pink sunburn on was his face and shoulders, and his lips were cracked (Annabel would solve that one way or another, either by the gifting him the tube of chapstick she’d squirreled away in her purse or by kissing him until he couldn’t breathe).

  “The kids.” Ty and Livvy and some golden-haired Mundane boy that Annabel didn’t know chasing a seagull. Mark and Helen teaching Tavy how to build a sandcastle. Dru, Julian, and a different golden-haired child that Annabel didn’t know, this one a Shadowhunter girl with a spill of bright curls and a practice training sword, diving into the ocean and swimming around in the shallows.

  “Church.” The fat, blue feline crouched down in the dunes, fluffy tail held erect, eyes focused on a mouse in front of him, mere seconds away from a pounce that Annabel knew would end in failure.

  “The L.A. Institute.” An imposing building that Annabel didn’t think could ever have the ability to look homely.

  “Home.” A snapshot of their living room, a Polaroid pinned with a paper-clip for reference, Malcolm’s latest draft of the Codex — her illustrations not yet accompanying his neat, meticulous writing — spilling off the end table onto the soft, red couch, one of Annabel’s favorite mugs (which would always be filled with tea, Annabel and Malcolm both hating the taste of coffee) filled with paint-streaked paint brushes and colored pencils.

  “And my first love, the sea.” Cerulean and cobalt-blue waves crashing to the shore.

  “Should I be jealous?” Malcolm had moved from her arm to her hand, gently interlacing their fingers together.

  “Oh, immensely. Definitely.”

[sarcasticsciencefictionwriter]

💉doctorhelenmagnus reblogged youcantseeme

💉doctorhelenmagnus Follow

Another sign the stress is getting to me. I'm late again.

#someone's been naughty #magnitt baby anyone? #i will wage money on this #<<<prev poster #nigel what the bloody hell? #that is not what i meant #but you are right #oh no

3 Notes

⚗️the-sixth-member-of-the-five Follow

Guess who burned down a lab today?

17 Notes

🔒scotland-yard-official Follow

We are taking this opportunity to remind the public of London that White Chapel is still considered unsafe at this time.

We are, however, making progress in the current case and have made several more arrests just today.

Edit: please note that a laboratory is burning uncontrollably and should be avoided until contained. Some idiot was mixing chemicals.

⚗️the-sixth-member-of-the-five Follow

IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!!!!

1,630 Notes

⚡genius-child-of-lightning Follow

Saw this pretty woman today:

#white dove #animals #art #drew her myself

0 Notes

🔍doctor-of-detection Follow

I need a gallon of black tea.

And sleep.

And more tea.

And laudanum for the bloody migraine.

271 Notes

🩺doctormagnussenior Follow

@doctorhelenmagnus

We're extending the expedition for another month, sweetheart!

Stay safe with the boys.

7 Notes

🧥youcantseeme Follow

Feeling sentimental for Oxford today.

Best days of my life.

⚗️the-sixth-member-of-the-five Follow

They could have been better, but I do miss all of you.

🧥youcantseeme

What the bloody hell are you doing on my post, midget???

Your username is pathetic. Change it.

⚗️the-sixth-member-of-the-five

Make me.

35 Notes

⚡genius-child-of-lightning Follow

Vote!!!

Thanks to @ youcantseeme for the names.

💉doctorhelenmagnus Follow

Nikola! Take that down!

⚡genius-child-of-lightning

But I'm winning.

🔪gone-in-a-flash Follow

Nikola...

⚡genius-child-of-lightning

When did you change your picture? Is that for me, Johnny?

#vote teslen #piss john off #not taking this down #polls

984 Notes

🔍doctor-of-detection Follow

If I receive one more call to view grammatically incorrect taunts, I will go insane.

🔪gone-in-a-flash Follow

Whoops, misspelled a lot of words.

🔍doctor-of-detection

What do you mean whoops?

🔪gone-in-a-flash

...

🔍doctor-of-detection

John, what does whoops mean.

🔪gone-in-a-flash

...

🔍doctor-of-detection

JOHN?!?

12k Notes

[conquerthenight]

Hi! I wanted to say that I love your work and your blog and I have a question I've been curious to know.

Why did you choose Ileana as Ich's name? I read recently that one of Daphne's idea before deciding on a nameless narrator was to have her be called Gabrielle, but I love Ileana and I find it really fitting.

Lots of love

OH MY GOD THANK YOU ANON!!!!

A few months ago I saw a post by @womeninroyalty on Instagram that was summarizing the life of Princess Ileana of Romania. I thought the name was pretty and when I looked up its meaning I thought it was really fitting to who Ich/I is as a person and immediately went “Yep, that’s my Mrs. de Winter right there” and it stuck. It helped that as far as I researched, Ileana isn’t a very common name in the UK (it’s basically a fancy foreign version of Helen, Eileen, or Elaine) and it could easily be misspelled by people who haven’t heard it or seen it written down (ex: Illiana, Iliana, Eliana, etc).

I did find the letter du Maurier wrote, but only after Lauren Jones talked about it during her Instagram takeover a few weeks ago. Considering what we do learn about her name in the book, Gabrielle doesn’t feel unusual enough to me, but du Maurier basically gave free reign to everyone’s headcanons in the letter so I think she’d approve of whatever name people want to call Ich 😉

[fancyfade]

yessssssssssssss tisiphone is not out of the picture

Young All Stars #24

(also the dialogue says "Helen" instead of helena i am going insane. did i misremember her name? Is it misspelled here? do i have to re-tag?)

edit: Ok her origin comic has her as helena, they must have messed up here

[clumsyclifford]

12 and 82 for the question thingie

12. What are your 5 favorite songs right now? ugh i guess i cant just list like my top songs ever of all time. fine. ok. right now?? if you don’t know by 5sos, punchdrunk by vaines, twenty something by nightly, i only just listened to turning out by ajr for the first time yesterday but i did cry so i think im gonna toss that one on here also, and uhh don’t look back in anger by oasis thank u hleen and lou <3

82. Favourite movie? good will hunting is what i always say, even though i really have like, Favorite Movies. but that one is probably top, right there with Ghostbusters (2016)

[finiffy]

I have (with varying success) managed to recover some of the sites names

Site 5: Lora??? Some other ghost names

Site 06: Their name is a combination of the past two site six names (the first being Michael?? I dont remember the second one)

Site 11: Helen (Ms. Distortion!!!)

Site 14:

Site 15: Brain (was actually Brian but I misspelled it)

Site 18: Amy?? Hailey?

Site 23: same vibe as a college (finished college/a dropout) student living in a studio apartment and does art. Think they had a gender neutral name/leaning towards female(??)

Site 34:

Site 36: Alexander???

Site 38: Ursa

Site 41: [redacted] (ksksjd its Grey)

Site 43:

Site 44: Vanessa

Site 45: Mike-kell (basement)

Site 45: mike-Kell (regilous)

Site 54: Jackson? Ripley?

Site 55:

Site 56: Also a Ripley???

-soap

Babynames speedrun. Also I forgot all the names that we threw out in that time span

[outoftowninac]

THE HONEY BEE

1913

The Honey Bee is a play in four acts by Hutcheson Boyd and Rudolph Bunner. It was originally produced by Harrison Grey Fiske. The cast included Allan Pollock, Fanny Hartz, Marie Chambers, Benjamin Kauser, Eugene A. Hohenwart, Marion Pullar, and Norris and Helen Millington as the Witherspoon children. 

[Note: All three of the creative staff’s names have been misspelled in the above ad from the Atlantic City Press.]

The play is set in an apartment loft in Hoboken NJ. 

It was to mark the return of actress Marie Shotwell, who had ostensibly retired after her marriage to former Savannah GA police chief William G. Austin. However, when the play got to Atlantic City, Shotwell’s name was not on the cast list. 

Allan Pollack was cast because his sketches for the scenery were tucked inside the manuscript of the play given to Harrison Fiske a year earlier. Instead, he wound up being cast to play Professor Witherspoon. 

“Mr. Allan Pollock heads the cast. He appeared somewhat bewildered last evening. Eventually he seemed to give up his struggle to understand the drift of the play.” ~ THE WASHINGTON POST

Producer Harrison Grey Fiske was husband to the inimitable Mrs. Fiske, and the pair often worked together, but not with The Honey Bee. 

“The play is presented by Mr. Harrison Grey Fiske, one of the most artistic and intelligent producers in America. We cannot understand why the manuscript attracted his attention.” ~ THE WASHINGTON POST

Rehearsal began on October 9, 1913 in Manhattan. 

The play premiered in Atlantic City at Nixon’s Apollo Theatre on the Boardwalk on November 6, 1913. As per usual, it was touted as ‘Prior to the New York Opening.’  They forgot to mention that they were referring to New York state, not New York City!  

“The plot baffles any auditor.” ~ THE WASHINGTON POST

After AC, the play moved to the Columbia Theatre in Washington DC, opening there on November 10th. While in Washington, the play was reviewed by their mistress of gossip, Julia Murdock. 

[ed: I usually don’t reprint reviews in toto, but this one is well worth a read. For those of short attention span, I have bolded the pithy highlights.]

There’s a little rhyme at the head of the Columbia program this week which announces that when the wife forsakes the house and goes out Into the world, said house must, perforce, stand upon its head. 

The little comedy, however, "The Honey Bee," which Harrison Grey Fiske is exploiting this week at the F street playhouse, will have to have something more satisfactory in the way of careful elocution and artistic action before it can stand on Its head or its heels or any other way very long. It has a number of clever lines, so clever, that even the actors themselves seem afraid of them and appear to give up and say "Dear me. this will never get across, so why try?" The man who goes to the theater with me occasionally says that some of these days, when the feminist movement Is as far back In history as the antiquated manners which make "She Stoops to Conquer" so delicious, "The Honey Bee" may be loved for Its witty lines, just as Goldsmith's comedy is loved for its wit. But this will never happen, as those who saw It last evening will be able to guess In three guesses. 

The story or the plot, what there Is of It, leaves one bewildered, though one finds out in the course of the evening that it is all about a lamp which refuses to burn until the last act. The plot could have been made Into a rather acceptable twenty-minute vaudeville sketch and been the stronger for it. But It Is the lines, reams and reams of satire, that came to the audience only as the fruit of painful listening, that will make the play live, if It survives long-enough for the public to arrive at the right perspective of the New Woman. 

Plot of Play. Told in Brief. 

Prof. Witherspoon Invented a lamp, but before he had It perfected his funds gave out, and he moved. Into the most remarkable building In Hoboken, N.J. In this wonderful building Is the meager flat to which the Witherspoons moved, on the top floor; the studio to which his wife moved when she deserted him, on the floor below; and a hall which served as the meeting place of the Hoboken Choral Society. To the Hoboken flat of the professor, who has Invented the lamp, comes Mrs. Billy Martin, who has more money than, anyone ever has outside of a play. She persuades beautiful Mrs. Witherspoon, cleverly played by Fanny Hartz, that the lamp Is her own Invention, not the professor's, and that It Is up to her to boost the cause of woman by deserting her husband and herself and perfecting the wonderful lamp with the funds which Mrs. Billy places at her disposal. 

It would be a fine piece of work but for a pair of Witherspoon children, portrayed by two wonderful child actors, Helen and Norris Millington, and a temporary lapse from sobriety with which the professor is impregnated at the hands of the German Socialist janitor of the Hoboken flat, who Is also the presiding genius of the Hoboken Choral Society. The wife cannot make the lamp go right, and the professor takes It up to his wifeless apartment and perfects it. The little Witherspoon boy has the whooping-cough, and the professor is no more adept with the child than his wife with the lamp. He puts the little fellow In the dumb waiter and lowers him to the wife In the flat below. Her success in caring for the little lad is equal to her failure with the lamp, and, of course, everybody is happy when It was disclosed that the lesson the play Is meant to convey Is that woman is more of a shining light In her own sphere of wifehood and motherhood than as a worker In the big, big, cruel world. 

Some of Play's Trifling Details 

There are such trifling divergent details as a titled suitor for the professor's wife's hand, after Mrs. Billy has convinced her that she must divorce her own husband, and much brave talk by this same Mrs. Billy about the cause of women; but, after all, the story Is told by the four quaint lines of verse that deck the program of the play. 

If nothing else, Messrs. Hutcheson Boyd and Rudolph Bunner have enriched the stage with the novelty of as grotesque a garret as ever Sol Smith Russell graced, and with a play In which each single character is a type so novel as to be almost fascinating. The Professor, played by Allan Pollock, is such a type as could only exist In a play, but still a delight when he announces that the worm has turned under the influence of the potent cheer of the Choral Society punch. Marie Chambers makes Mrs. Billy Martin the newest of the New Women, and delightful Fanny Hartz makes an inimitable picture of the wife who has more gumption than her husband and whose husband more than half realizes it. Those precious Millington children, as Jack and Jill Witherspoon, are a delight during every minute they are on the stage. Barbarossa Marks, the Teutonic Janitor with the language and convictions of an anarchist and the heart of a child, played by Eugene A. Hohenwart, and his gum-chewing daughter. Gertrude, with the coiffure of a shopgirl and keen discernment, acted by Marian Pullar, are just the rough foils needed for the more delicate characters of Cecil Witherspoon and his high-powered wife. 

There Is a count, played by Benjamin Kauser, who shrugs his shoulders, makes love, and kisses Mrs. Witherspoon on the back of her pleasing neck to perfection. And when I have mentioned the Mr. Smith of Bangor played by Roy Merrill, I have told you the names of every one of the nine people who make this play. I wish I could say that all the witty lines such as this: "Women are always angels when they leave us," are delivered with sufficient excellence of enunciation to be understood. They are not. The members of the cast all act well, but not one of them speaks as distinctly as they should, to do justice to this comedy of satire which Harrison Grey Fiske Is presenting to Washington this week. ~ JULIA MURDOCK

“The piece Is not a satire, neither does it point a moral.” ~ THE WASHINGTON TIMES

Despite ‘stinging’ reviews, The Honey Bee migrated to Rochester NY for a booking at the Lyceum starting November 20th, fulfilling its promise to play in New York!

After this booking, The Honey Bee, not unlike the insect it is named after, disappeared. They say that once a bee stings, it dies. Such was the fate of Boyd and Bunner’s play. 

[deepseavibez]

okAYY DEEEE

These last few updates have got me

As far as the mastermind goes, I know I’ve said Huru and I know several other readers have said Huru, has anyone considered a previous (and almost central) protagonist who is skilled in the suppposed mechanisms of idol law&order, *clears throat obnoxiously and whispers* jong-woo? (Apologies if I misspelled his name but does even deserve that decency after the nonsense he pulled?)

I’m so sure it could be Huru but that seems almost too…….

predictable

I also just realized I never sent to this to you, my bad bb 😚

Smooch smooch 🐝

*rubs hands together dramatically and cackles like a villain*

Ah, no but seriously, this is me as I read this ask,

So we have Helen, Neenah, Huru, Maiya and yes, how can we forget the slime that is Jong-Woo, 🤔

Gotta break this down cleanly, Helen by all means, hates yn with a passion and we all know why, Neenah is Maiya's lawyer somehow a present yet nonexistent person in this au, Maiya has been a thorn in Y/n's side since the beginning, likes Namjoon but is now a pawn? Huru likes y/n and can't stand Namjoon and cares little for the band, and Jong-Woo originally liked y/n, but would now have a personal vendetta against the band and namjoon,

so in conclusion, Namjoon and Yn always gonna have target on their backs...

Hmm it's so great that there's only a few more parts till the end where the villain is revealed right, 🤔

Also hi emmy how are you 🥺🥺💜

[scriptor-ludifico]

A Scaramucci

This is a short essay prompted by one of University of Chicago’s essay prompts this year. I am looking at colleges to apply to and heard about their infamous essay prompts and while I’m not applying this year I felt so strongly about some of their prompts I decided to write my own essays for them anyways. So here is one of those:

Prompt: “ In Homer’s Iliad, Helen had a “face that launched a thousand ships.” A millihelen, then, measures the beauty needed to launch one ship. The Sagan unit is used to denote any large quantity (in place of “billions and billions”). A New York Minute measures the period of time between a traffic light turning green and the cab behind you honking. Invent a new unit of measurement. How is it derived? How is it used? What are its equivalents? —Inspired by Carina Kane, Class of 2024, and Ishaan Goel, Class of 2025″

November 24 2021

A Scaramucci

By Yours Truly

Now I am not the first person to write about the Scaramucci online. I know this because my mother ruined my dreams by finding it on wikipedia; here’s a link for your viewing: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_humorous_units_of_measurement#:~:text=A%20Scaramucci%20is%2011%20. I respect their entry but I still wish to steal the glory from my father and brother (even though another has stolen it first) and elaborate on the use of this unit. The wikipedia entry defines a Scaramucci as “11 (sometimes 10) days and is named after the length of White House Communications Director Anthony Scaramucci's tenure under President Trump. A Scaramucci is shortened to a Mooch” which I mostly agree with but my family uses a Scaramucci or “Mooch” as ten days. Sidenote: I don’t agree with the shortened version of the unit due it’s misspelling of the word. It should be “Mucc” or “Mucci” not “Mooch” with two Os as Scaramucci is not spelled with two Os. It isn’t even spelled with one O. 

Now that our unit has been defined and correctly named let us explore it’s uses. Technically it could be used to measure any amount of time, however, my family prefers to use it regarding political based times or any amount of time not expected to be long or decaying to nothing. So mostly it should be used to express how long something lasted or how long you believe it will last. My brother jokingly suggested it be used to measure half-life, however, half-life is how long till half is left. A Scaramucci should only be used to say when nothing is left. 

Some equivalents could be the obvious 10 days, or the average 3 Scaramuccis in a month. Even 36.5 Scaramuccis in a year. I’d like to say that google docs really wants the plural of Scaramucci to be “Scaramuccia” instead of “Scaramuccis”. Which I find hilarious as upon a google search I have found that a “Scaramouche” or the Italian “Scaramuccia” is a 16th century stock clown character. I now see where Google stands regarding Anthony Scaramucci. Due to this hilarious fact I will, from this point forward, use Scaramuccia as the plural of a Scaramucci. Sorry for the tangent.

I could list more equivalents of a Scaramucci, however, theoretically you could convert any unit of time to Scaramuccia if you wished. Though, you may not be using it correctly (reference paragraph two). I would, however, like to note that while scrolling through the previously quoted wikipedia page that established a Scaramucci that it is nearly equivalent to a kilowarhol, which is 15,000 minutes or 10.42 days. This being derived from Andy Warhol’s dictum “everyone will be famous for 15 minutes.” 

I hope anyone who reads this will now use Scaramuccia to record many times in their life as my family does around the dinner table constantly. If you don't do so  well then you’re missing out. I mean who doesn’t love a base 10 system? Metric is far superior (even though I’m from the US) and using a Scaramucci you can even make your time base 10. Those around you may not understand your schedules and never seem to show up on time but it’s all worth it to know your unit is superior. Though you can’t actually use it like that unless you want to be wrong (reference paragraph two! How many times have I told you this?). Use it right folks, and stop allowing me to fool you so easily. 

[decayandfanfics]

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains. 

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut later. 

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken.  Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen. 

_________________________________________________________

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

It takes about ten seconds to screw up your whole life.

Well, in theory.

College is a monstruous violent thing that feeds on your happiness and lets you sharp and scrawny, both physically and mentally. Medical school was brutal, you knew it before even applying, though you didn’t think it would be this exhausting. But you are a responsible person above everything else, so you use your sharpness and the power machine that is your brain, forcing yourself to do it. So, here you are, four years into it, stress flowing through you like blood, embedded in your system like is normal. You are fine with it, at peace with your constant nail chewing and the tics in your brow. It is fine, you went completely insane in the meantime, but it was worth it.

You see, there are many ways of being a hero, and with a quirk like yours, it would be nothing but almost impossible to follow the traditional path, so you take a side path, another form of saving lives (the true form in your experience) and with a head like yours, becoming a doctor is the natural way. Thinking about finals, your succulents and rent, you walk the path that leads to your little apartment in a quiet part of the city when you hear the soft whimper behind the trash cans in an alleyway. It would be wise to keep walking, but you believe in helping others and curiosity it’s been a main trait since childhood, besides, the soft hum of your quirk sings inside your chest like a promise of safety, so you turn and get close to it, prudence before you take another step.

“is anybody here? I heard a cry” you keep walking, measuring the distance between you and the street in case you need to run back “do you need help?”

You see him. A young man, grabbing his head between his hands, his body clutched against the wall. “Sir, are you okay? Can I help you?”

“My head…I’m going to split! It’s me! It’s me! No! it’s not! I can’t!”

You look carefully around you, making sure no one else is watching, then your eyes flare with your quirk relaxing him softly, easing his tensed muscles as you get close.

“hey…what’s the matter? i want to help you.” You decide the best option is to put yourself to his level, before speaking sweetly, your activated quirk shining subtly red in the dark.

“My mask” he says with teared eyes “I lost my mask. I’m going to split without it.”

It some kind of psychotic episode, you know that much, but he seems to be harmless otherwise. Concluding that if dangerous he would already lash out, you decide to look for something in your backpack.

“Does this serve you?” you ask handing him a red beanie you keep with you in winter.

He takes it with trembling hands and covers his head completely with it.

“Oh…thanks. That’s better. I feel better now. Thank you, miss, thank you!”

“You have a name?”

“I’m Jin. My name is Jin.”

“You have a family, Jin? Someone to call? Maybe a home?”

“my…yes, i. I…my phone is dead. I need to call Toga-chan.”

The moment he stands you see it. A big bloody gash at his side in desperate need for some stitches.

“Omg…you are hurt. Careful. Let me help you. We need to take you to the hospital.”

“No. No! No! I cannot get caught; they’ll lock me up if…yes, they will, no they don’t, yes, they will!”

“okay, okay. No hospitals. But i need to see that injure. It looks awful.”

“It hurts, no it doesn’t. But, yes. It hurts.”

“Let me take care of it. I’m a doctor…I mean, I’m on it, but I can take care of your wound.”

You take him home, thinking that maybe he’s been hospitalized before. You know how psychiatric patients tend to be caged up when no one looks for them, often tied up to the beds, sedated so they don’t bother anyone. It is cruel and you don’t want that. Besides, he says something about his friend Toga, something about someone called Dabi and Compress, so you just assume he actually has someone to look over him.

That’s how Jin ends seated in your kitchen, eating some leftovers, freshly patched as his phone charges in a corner of your living room.

“thank you again…you’ve been so nice to me, yes you are.”

“is nothing. I’m glad I found you. That wound wasn’t deep, but it could get infected very easily.”

You let him stay the night, trusting in your gut and the power of your quirk to keep you safe. He seems thankful and kind. His ways are soft, a hint of naivety and simplicity when he speaks, so even when you stay careful, you really don’t think he’ll be a problem truly.

Next morning and after some phone calls, Jin says goodbye to you between tears and wholehearted thanks. Your beanie still in his head, two holes where the eyes should go.

You watch him go from your window, waving your hand and a smile plastered across your face, hoping he stays with someone who cares for him, because he’s clearly in a vulnerable state. A blond girl takes his hand rushing across the street, watching every direction before disappearing in a nearby alleyway, but you think nothing of it.

You thought nothing of it when you got a basket full of candy by your door.

You thought nothing of it when you heard your neighbor talking about a strange man waiting for someone in the main hall of the building.

You thought nothing of it when you receive a letter from Jin naming you a great good friend of his, saying he would be your friend forever.

That’s why you think it’s kinda your own fault when the entire group of homeless people makes its appearance at your door one night at two am in the middle of your well-deserved vacations. (a month after your little encounter with Jin.)

Fear shoots through you like a bullet so quickly you forget how to breathe the moment you see the hands and a bunch of costumes for clothing.  

You’ve seen the tv, you know who they are, yet you just cannot fathom why the fuck are they standing outside your apartment, covered in dirt, starving and distressed; at least, not until you hear his voice again.

“Hello! I know this is unexpected, but you are my friend! Look, Shigaraki! She is the one who helped me when I was about to split! The doctor one. She was so good to me! Is my friend! Could you help us, please? I know it’s late, but please.”

You are livid.

Jin Is no other than Twice.

This is no other than the League of fucking Villains.

Chapter 2

[fleckcmscott]

After

Summary: Arthur is heartened to have Y/N back by his side. But moving forward isn't as simple as he'd daydreamed.

Warnings: Adult situations, Swearing

Words: 3,391

A/N: This request comes from @jokerownsmysoul​! It's a continuation of Ch. 23 of Watch What Happens and takes off right after the last paragraph. Funnily enough, when Karen originally beta'd that chapter she said, "Where's their conversation? Oh, well, I guess it's implied." 😄 Special thanks to Domino, aka @thegirlwho​, (who also wanted their conversation 😂) for sharing her point of view and helping me see things from a different perspective.

A good portion of my life is the exploding head emoji right now, so it's been a while since I've posted. However, I'm still here. Still writing. Still trying. Work on the new multi-chapter continues. If you've got any requests, let me know. Your patience, support, and you mean a lot to me. Thank you.

Nimble fingers twined through his loose, brown curls, a gentle tug as lips met and parted, met and parted. Her body surrounding that soft, most intimate part of him was visceral. Warm and wet. "I love you" fell from her mouth. Once, twice, more than the walls of his apartment had ever heard. He swallowed but was unable to murmur an appropriate reply. She came back, his mind affirmed. She came back.

Shit, I haven't mopped for a week.

Arthur braced himself on his knees and elbows to look down at her. The notched collar of Y/N's blouse had somehow remained uncrumpled. Strands of her hair fanned out messily over the beige, aged hexagons of the kitchen linoleum. Her tears had reduced to stains on her flushed cheeks. He brushed them away with the back of his knuckles. She'd said he hadn't hurt her, that she was happy. Both good things. If he could figure out the next step...

His eyes flitted back and forth between hers, brows pinched. Moving to kneel, he tucked himself back into his briefs, pulled his light blue pajama bottoms over his rear, then ran his hands along his thighs. "Have you had dinner?"

Buoyant laughter left her as she propped herself on her forearms. "I'm famished. Especially after that." She extended her hand and he accepted it gladly. When she started to pull herself up, he grabbed the other. Her kitten-heels slid the weave rug along the floor; it took some effort for her to get her footing. Once she stood, she tied the drawstring of his pants and adjusted her skirt. "Be right back," she said and scurried to the bathroom.

The thud of the door closing cleared the awe from head. He'd rather have kept it. Changes in mood were typical as of late. The bliss of her return was already twisting into dread. No longer consumed by the need to be inside her, his mind conjured questions, too many to brush off. He turned the knob of the toaster over. Studied the orange glow of its heating element. Had charity - or worse, pity - caused her return? Had distress afflicted her as deeply as it had him? Had she thought of him half as much as he'd thought of her?

Was she going to abandon him again?

He suddenly felt very silly and quite small for allowing himself a modicum of relief. Nothing had been clarified. By having a quickie on the floor after they'd barely exchanged a word, he'd set himself up to be hurt. The way he had when he'd kissed Helen, or when he'd considered Randall his friend, or when he'd believed, for one foolish minute, that Murray might be kind. He flinched against the fury simmering in his stomach. That same panic and anger from when Y/N had walked out of his apartment and, he'd been convinced, his life. He clutched the counter's curved edge so hard his fingertips went numb.

But then she curled herself into his side and squeezed him tight about the waist. Her blithe bearing was almost enough to quiet his tumult. "Anything I can help with?"

"No." He moved to dig through the freezer. Beans and franks with a brownie. English style fish 'n' chips. His mother's favorite, meatloaf. Only the teal packaging made them appealing. He grimaced at the meager offerings. He snatched one from the door, held it out with some trepidation. It was possible the gel-like gravy, slices of turkey roll, and drowned stuffing wouldn't put Y/N off. "Um, this was on sale. I bought a few."

"It's perfect." She accepted the carton and tore it open. "I heard a song on the radio yesterday that made me think of you."

"Oh yeah?" He closed the door of the toaster and set the timer with a flick of the wrist.

"The man was singing that his name was Carnival. That's your clown name, right?" She chuckled, dragged the black, wooden stool from under the counter, and perched on it. "It reminded me of the subway." A flirty pinch to his abdomen. "And that I still have to see one of your performances."

Arthur scoffed and averted his gaze, struggled to push through his anxiety and enjoy her. But he wasn't the type of man to let questions lie. When he'd gotten the courage to ask Y/N on a date, he'd taken the risk. When he'd read Penny's letter, he'd hopped on the first train to Wayne Manor. After the confrontation in Wayne Hall, he'd gone to Arkham and stolen that wretched file.

His curiosity tended to pick wounds that hadn't yet healed over.

The warmth of her hand met his back. "Thank you for giving me time."

The tenderness of her tone loosened the clench of his jaw. But he still couldn't bring himself to look at her. He'd done what she'd requested, because he'd feared mistakes would drive her further away, not because he'd wanted to or understood. He wondered if someone without a mental illness would have behaved differently. She'd pleaded with him to listen, kissed him goodbye, then left like it was nothing.

Whatever the case, her appreciation felt wrong. He didn't need gratitude. He needed answers. He inhaled sharply. "Why did you go?"

She traced the knobs of his spine. "I had to figure out the best way to be with you."

"Am I that hard to be with?" he bit out.

"Of course not. That's not what I said."

He gulped and released a ragged breath. "It broke my fucking-" He faltered when his voice cracked.

"Arthur, I didn't want to hurt you. I'm sorry." Her embrace was tight, a welcome pressure on his ribs despite the ache. Her palm slid up his sternum. "I was afraid to do more harm than good." He should have contradicted her, told her she was crazy if she believed loving him would damage him. But he stopped himself when she nuzzled his bicep. It was a while before she cleared her throat. "I love you more than I imagined possible." She giggled, then, and sniffed. "Which isn't bad for six weeks, Mr. Fleck."

Tears threatened as his eyelids fluttered. He managed to keep them at bay, covering her hand with his to distract himself. He pressed it tighter to him, until he thought her fingers might break through his chest. Finally, he met her stare. Found it full of love and what might have been joy at being together. In that moment, he knew nothing would ever separate his heart from hers.

~~~~~

"Christmas is coming up. Let me know what you'd like to do."

Arthur's slight nod was typical of their conversation this evening. Well, that wasn't quite fair. More like half of it. He'd been vacillating between bouts of confidence and timidity, with the latter tending to win out. He'd put his arm around her, examined the latest issue of TV Guide, and asked what she'd preferred to watch. She'd let him choose; he'd picked a three-hour variety show. Minutes later, he'd been squished into the corner of the sofa, legs neatly crossed with his hands clasped in his lap. She'd risen to refresh their ice teas, and he'd halted her with a kiss to her knuckles and his handsome grin. Upon her return, he'd focused on the floor and kept quiet. The changes were difficult to predict.

At least the periods of stillness made it easy for her to reflect, even as those reflections weren't entirely pleasant. She'd had faith in his ability to take care of himself and his judgment to reach out to her if he was in crisis. And while she had no regrets about taking five days to ensure she could sustain their relationship, she lamented the pain it had caused him. She'd detected it in his stiff posture in the kitchen. Seen it in his glistening eyes. Sensed it in his inconsistent reluctance to be touched.

It had been hard for her, too. The absence of their nightly calls, of shared laughter, of his presence had been keen. She would have returned to him without receiving his letter. But the ink on the page, with its occasional misspellings and earnest admissions ("I don't kno if I'm doing this right but I want to try. Maybe you want to try with me, to?") had prompted her to run to the subway before she'd taken off her coat. Confirmed that despite their differences, them being opposite in many ways, their hearts were the same.

He perked up slightly when the next performer came on, an old man from Whitefish, Montana and his paper mache ventriloquist dummy. Y/N's attention drifted to Arthur as he leaned forward onto his knees. Though the act was nothing special - terrible jokes, drinking water while the puppet talked, strumming a ukulele as it sang - his face crinkled in amusement. "They just have regular people on there," he said. "I haven't seen anyone from Gotham. I should try out."

Thankful he was focused on the show and not her, she pursed her lips. Had he forgotten how Murray had gone? Or Pogo's? Then again, he'd believed both had gone great. And she wanted him to succeed. To strive. To dream. His determination impressed her, made her proud. She searched for a truthful but kind answer. "Once you've got a set you're comfortable delivering, sure. Would you send a tape? I have a recorder you can borrow."

"I wrote a lot this week. Not many jokes but I've done some brainstorming." He flicked ash from his cigarette into the pink ashtray on the coffee table. Splayed his fingers and rubbed his palms together. The bob of his Adam's apple was faint in the dim, blue light. "Do you- Do you want to sleep over?" He turned to her.

Elated, she smiled widely and shifted to sit side-saddle. "I'd love to, but I didn't bring any clothes."

"Hold on." He rose from the couch and disappeared into the bedroom. After a minute, she followed to find him digging through a couple of cardboard boxes. Boxes filled with his mother's things, she realized. She'd have to follow-up for details, find out what had happened to ensure the transition would go as smoothly as possible. Though the relationship between him and Penny was complicated, change wouldn't be easy.

He held out a threadbare, light-blue, nylon nightdress with ruffled cap sleeves and a ribbon at the neckline. "Here."

Y/N cocked her head. The gown was exceedingly narrow, its seams stretched. If she had been inclined to wear it, it wouldn't have fit. Arthur's hopeful expression made it plain he did not see the oddity in offering his romantic partner his mother's nightwear. It was logical, she supposed. His years had been spent living hand to mouth. He didn't have any siblings. Hand-me-downs - a spare sweater here, a pair of socks there - would have come from Penny. A tad strange, to be sure. But poverty had a way of making the abnormal normal.

"Thanks," Y/N said. "But I'll be fine in my panties." At his pout, she closed the inches between them. "If you have a t-shirt, I'll take it." His brows lifted and he gave a toothy smile, comprised of surprise and conceit. The shirt he retrieved from the living room was plain and white. The lightly stained armpits didn't bother her, nor did its loose fit. It was part of his work outfit, he explained. And he claimed she looked cute in it.

Her sleep was restful, deep, better than it had been the last two weeks. Arthur being nearby and her certainty when she'd lain her head on his pillow had calmed her. She didn't think about the Wayne Foundation. She didn't worry about how to pursue a future with him. She didn't waste her energy being afraid of powerlessness. Warmth filled her, aided by contentment and cozy blankets.

When the mattress sunk beneath his weight, she didn't check the clock. Judging by the speed with which her drowsiness dissipated and the blackness of the room, it was likely around 4:00 AM. She'd gotten a solid five hours. With a slight stretch and mewl, she blinked up at him. Her elbow accidentally bumped his chest. "Aren't you tired?"

"No." He palmed her shoulder, caution palpable in every movement. Then his caress dragged down her upper arm, hovered over her breast.

She stroked his stubbled cheek. "What are you up to?"

"Making sure you're really here."

It was unclear if he was kidding. The extent of his imaginations or hallucinations - if that's what he experienced - weren't yet known to her. She recalled how he'd clutched her jacket, the way he'd fiddled with her wall calendar and coffee table when he'd come to her for help. Tactility oriented him, as it had her father before the final stages of his diagnosis. And, outside of acute episodes, Loving Someone with... had advised her to carry-on as always.

Laughing gently, she entwined their legs. "Where else would I be?"

"I don't know," he scoffed. He tucked his chin. Silence permeated the room, interrupted only by their exhalations. Eventually, he spoke, his rasp bashful and desperate. "Are you going to leave me again?"

"No." She pressed his hand to her breast, tried to soothe his tremble away. "I like it here."

She could hear his smile in the dark. He dipped his head to capture her lips. He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her again. She kissed him back until she ached with emptiness. Until she felt him hard against her hip.

"Y/N?" he breathed into her mouth.

Her pulse throbbed in her ears. "What?"

His forehead met hers and she shivered all over. "I wanna make you come."

~~~~~

Drip, drip, drip. A calming, predictable sound. The pungent smell of generic brew wafted to his nostrils, slightly burnt but familiar. Coffee. He was making his girlfriend coffee before she went to work. After they'd made love and snoozed until sunrise. After she'd admonished him for smoking in bed, then caressed his flaccid sex and teased him about his "secret freckle." (He'd covered his face in horror and delight and promised himself that one day he'd find a "secret" on her.) He hummed along to the radio, though he disliked the song, and whistled while he filled their cups. Once he'd added three sugars to his and the last of his milk to hers, he padded to the bath. He leaned on the doorframe, an imitation of nonchalance.

In her apparent rush to get to him, Y/N hadn't simply neglected to pack a change of clothing. She was swiping his stick of deodorant under her arms with haste. When she grabbed his comb and tried to tame her hair, he didn't mind. She declined his offer of Penny's eyeliner and mascara but that was fine. She didn't need them, anyway.

As she buttoned her pleated blouse, he giggled. He'd heard jokes about women going to work in identical outfits two days in a row. The innuendo had escaped him until now. A thrill went through him at finally getting the joke. He blushed. "You're dressed the same."

"I left Patricia a message that I'd be late. It won't surprise anyone." She accepted the proffered mug and took a long drink. A mischievous look as she arched a brow. "She'll want details."

Arthur's eyes widened and he rubbed his forehead. This would take getting used to.

She squeezed a line of toothpaste onto her index finger. "What are you doing today? Any gigs?"

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, braced his arm on the wall. "I have to call the hospital. Figure out where to send my mother." He was glad to begin the process of moving on, moving forward. To start building a life of his own. Freed from the woman who hadn't protected him. Paired with the woman who understood him most. Still. He was daunted.

After a few seconds of attempting to brush her teeth, Y/N rinsed her mouth and washed her hands. "The social worker should be able to help. There must be homes specializing in lobotomy patients, given how common they were. Actually..." She stepped to him and wrapped her arms around his middle. "I bet there's an advocacy group for the elderly in Gotham. I'll call around on my break. We can have lunch and review their recommendations."

The tightness in his chest prevented him from holding her gaze. His longings for kindness didn't make it any less peculiar. He hoped he would be able to accept it without skepticism soon, like a normal person. That he wouldn't wait for the other shoe to drop. He tried to fight his negative thoughts rather than give into them.

But he couldn't. Not yet. "Why are you doing this?" he mumbled.

She gave a small shrug, as if what she was about to say wasn't a miracle. "I love you. Why wouldn't I?" Before he could react, she walked to the front door and slipped on her heels. "Besides, we should plan this weekend. Shall We Dance is showing at the Monarch. We could catch it and have dinner at my place. And there's a doctor I found for you - when you're feeling up to it. We'll go over the particulars."

The offer to see the film, one he knew every number of, was an obvious attempt to butter him up for that discussion. It would work. "That sounds nice." He went to her side and took her coat off the wall mounted rack, guided her arms into the sleeves

"Arthur," she started, zipping her jacket. Her pretty eyes met his. "I wasn't going to end our relationship. I don't want you to fear that."

He winced and clutched his hands together, annoyed she had raised the subject again after the wonderful morning they'd shared. "I believe you now."

"Back home, I made mistakes. That's why I needed time." She shook her head. "The thought of repeating them with you..."

Mistakes? What kind of mistakes was she referring to? She'd said her divorce had been mutual. A big fight with her sister or mother hadn't been mentioned. She almost never talked about what had happened with her father, other than to name his diagnosis and state she'd gone on medication. She was a good woman. Whatever she had done, it couldn't be that terrible. Not half as bad as the notions that wormed their way into his brain like a broken record.

Then she continued. "I didn't know what to do then. But I think I do now. " She nuzzled his sideburn and carded her fingers through his hair. "If I see you walking towards a cliff, I won't follow. I'll pull you back before you get there."

He stared at her, blinking rapidly as he tried to hold himself together. Her words felt like the kind of fantasy he'd created to ease his misery. To try to convince himself he should exist another day. That he should stick around. Multiple hospitalizations had proven that hadn't always worked. But this was new. Real. Maybe that reality would allow him, for a little while, to be all right.

He cupped her face, drifted his thumbs over her cheeks. She leaned into him, into the kisses he placed on her brow, her nose, her mouth. His lips parted but all he could manage was a shaky exhale. The press of his face to hers.

She must have noticed he was overwhelmed. It frustrated him - he wanted to find a way to articulate himself. But her peck to his jaw, her hand covering his, made him feel safe. "Meet you at my office at one?"

"Mm-hmm." He nodded into her hair, not quite ready to let go.

Gently, she pulled away from his grasp, took her purse, and opened the door. She smiled. "Call if you need anything."

At that, she strode down the hall in the direction of the elevator. He stepped out and watched until she disappeared around the corridor's corner. He rested against the door and closed his eyes, wishing harder than he ever had before that every morning would be like this for the rest of his life.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​, @ithinkimaperson​, @sweet-nothings04​, @stephieraptorr​, @rommies​, @fallenstarsabyss​, @gruffle1​, @octopus-plasma​, @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​, @another-day-in-chuckletown​, @hhandley80​, @jokerownsmysoul​, @mrscarnival​

[tabloidtoc]

People, April 19

Cover: Brad Paisley and Kimberly Williams-Paisley -- love, family and giving back

Page 3: Chatter -- Thandiwe Newton on using her birth name years after it was misspelled in her first acting credit, Barack Obama on daughter Malia and Sasha being embarrassed by him, Martha Stewart on the reaction to her viral pool selfie, Katherine Schwarzenegger Pratt on raising daughter Lyla with husband Chris Pratt, Jennifer Lopez teasing her favorite cookie recipe, Chris Hemsworth on bulking up for parts

Page 4: 5 Things We're Talking About -- Ariana Grande joins The Voice, Michael Strahan minds the gap, Brad Pitt is sharing the tea, Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively battle over beanies, Rege-Jean Page exits Bridgerton

Page 7: Contents

Page 8: StarTracks -- stars' best friends -- Prince Harry hit the beach to play fetch with his rescue dog Pula in Santa Barbara

Page 9: Rachel Brosnahan took a break from filming season 4 of The Marvelous Mrs. Masiel to pet a pup who passed by the set in NYC, Mariah Carey celebrated Easter with two of her dogs

Page 10: Famous Families -- Amy Schumer masked up to play with son Gene at the NY PopsUp festival at Astoria Park in NYC, Jessica Alba and her husband Cash Warren celebrated Easter with their three children Haven and Honor and Hayes, Beyonce posted a rare selfie with her and Jay-Z's oldest daughter Blue Ivy, Victoria and David Beckham got in the Easter spirit with children Brooklyn and Harper and Romeo and Cruz, Chiefs QB Patrick Mahomes and fiancee Brittany Matthews celebrated their first Easter with daughter Sterling Skye

Page 11: LeBron James deemed his youngest child daughter Zhuri his workout partner when she joined him in the gym for some flexing, Kate Hudson relaxed in the tub with her daughter Rani Rose

* First Look -- inside Angelina Jolie's scorching return to the big screen -- in the upcoming thriller Those Who Wish Me Dead, Angelina returns to action as a smoke jumper who encounters a traumatized 12-year-old boy played by Finn Little who needs her help

Page 12: Inside Robert Downey Jr.'s modern mansion -- for the spring issue of Purist magazine, Robert and his producer wife, Susan, opened their doors to give a tour of their futuristic Malibu home -- their Binishell, a type of of energy-efficient, dome-shaped house, sits on seven acres and runs on wind turbines and a solar-generated water system that reduce energy consumption

Page 13: StyleTracks -- bold and bright at the Screen Actors Guild Awards -- Viola Davis, Mindy Kaling, Jamie Chung, Helen Mirren, Kaley Cuoco, Kerry Washington

Page 15: Tiger Woods' car crash -- new questions, tough recovery

Page 16: Aaron Rodgers and Shailene Woodley take their love on vacation

Page 18: Heart Monitor -- Vanessa Hudgens and Cole Tucker heating up, Lily James and Queens of the Stone Age bassist Michael Shuman new couple, Michael Buble and Luisana Lopilato happy anniversary, Brian Austin Green and Sharna Burgess getting serious

Page 19: Idris Elba and Caleb McLaughlin horsing around

Page 20: Brandi Carlile shares her struggles

* Lori Loughlin and Mossimo Giannulli had an emotional homecoming on Easter weekend after he was released from federal prison

Page 21: Blake Shelton looks back on 20 years of fame

Page 22: Jeannie Mai and Jeezy's backyard fairy tale wedding in Atlanta

Page 29: Passages, Why I Care -- Robert Irwin is helping the planet by being an advocate for Prince William's Earthshot Prize

Page 31: Stories to Make You Smile - Aimee Takaha of Aimee's Farm Animal Sanctuary in Arizona is offering cow-cuddling sessions for those who miss hugs during the pandemic, to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary Carolyn and Kelly Gay re-created their original wedding photos

Page 33: People Picks -- Law & Order: Organized Crime

Page 34: Them, Spy City, Rhiannon Giddens -- They're Calling Me Home, Q&A with David Alan Grier

Page 36: The Serpent, One to Watch -- Mortal Kombat's Lewis Tan

Page 37: The Nevers, Iyanla: Fix My Life

Page 39: Books

Page 40: Cover Story -- Brad Paisley and Kimberly Williams-Paisely -- you have to focus on the love and laughter -- after a pandemic year that sidelined their careers, the singer and actress found joy in family time and purpose in giving back to their community

Page 46: Inside the sparkling, rainbow-filled world of JoJo Siwa -- she began as a kid who loved dance, then found fame on reality TV and YouTube and built her brand to mogul status. That was all before she came out as LGBTQ. She's just getting started

Page 52: Double Talk -- Melissa McCarthy and Octavia Spencer's 25-year friendship -- long before they were famous, the two stars forged a deep personal bond. After more than two decades, the finally got to work together

Page 56: The Lost Kitchen's Erin French turning a painful past into a delicious new life -- addiction and divorce nearly cost her everything, but now she's running one of the most loved and hardest-to-book restaurants in America

Page 60: Solving a 40-year-old murder mystery -- justice for Helene Pruszynski -- four decades after a young woman's brutal rape and murder, new DNA technology leads to her killer

Page 62: Emily VanCamp -- growing up on TV & finding love -- how the busy actress, now costarring on both The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and The Resident, still makes time for what matters most: her family

Page 64: My Mother, Eartha Kitt -- 12 years after the entertainer's death, her daughter Kitt Shapiro reveals a mother like no other: fierce, fabulous and a fighter at heart

Page 69: Why I'm Helping Others Get Vaccinated -- fighting for my patients -- Detroit nurse Monique Morris almost died from COVID-19, and now she's doing her part to help put an end to the pandemic

Page 70: Earth Day Special -- a room-by-room guide to saving the planet -- combating climate change is a daunting challenge, but these small fixes around the house can make a big difference. Plus, inspiring stories of four everyday environmental heroes

Page 73: Jerome Foster II, rallying youth against climate change

Page 74: Katharine Hayhoe, bringing moms together

Page 76: Laura Turner Seydel, carrying on a family tradition

Page 78: Carl Smith, fighting to save his home

Page 88: One Last Thing -- Catherine Zeta-Jones

[avicebro]

The House of Pelops

Hello everyone. Today we’re going to talk about another child of Leda: Clytemnestra. Besides having the name I constantly misspell, her story is very interesting so let’s go. 

This will go off on a lot of tangents I’m sorry.

Agamemnon’s Ancestors

 We’ve already discussed the birth of Clytemnestra (if you would like to read it you can do so here) so we’re going to talk about her husband, Agamemnon. With that we can talk about one of my favourite things in Greek Myth: family sagas. Often times in myth, if you look at the parents and grandparents of the character, it can tell you something about the character themselves. We’ve seen this with the descendants of Io continuing the cow theme with Minos and Europa, and now we see it here with the House of Pelops.

The House of Pelops is defined by their first son of Zeus: Tantalus. He’s famous for how he must spend the rest of his days: always thirsty and hungry, and always just in arm’s reach of water and food. Why did he end up in such torture though? Well, he wanted to prove that the gods didn’t know anything. So, he invited them to a dinner party where the main dish was his boiled son, Pelops. Zeus was quick to notice that he had served his grandson and punished Tantalus for his imprudence. They bring Pelops back to life but this was only the beginning of the bad.

(Side note: Demeter actually ends up accidentally eating a part of him because she was a little depressed over her daughter being abducted. They make him a new arm and she feels really bad.)

Pelops would have a fling with Poseidon, before going to find a bride. He fell for Hippodameia, but there was a problem. Her father was very protective of her. Only the one that would be able to beat him in a chariot race (the horses a gift from Ares) would be given her hand in marriage. If you lost, you would be killed. 

Not wanting to die and to get the girl, Pelops bribes the charioteer to tamper with the axels. When the father crashed and is on death’s door, he curses the charioteer. The charioteer then turned on Pelops by trying to steal Pelops’ new girl, but he gets yeeted into the ocean, but not before cursing Pelops and his descendants. This would continue haunting the family. 

Pelops and Hippodameia would have three sons. One of these three sons was not a piece of shit: Pittheus. Pittheus was a good king and grandfather to Theseus. Everyone loved him. But his two brothers, Atreus and Thyestes, were the complete opposite to him: vengeful, wicked and violent. 

When Heracles’ commissioner of labours accidentally gets himself boiled alive, an oracle says that a son of Pelops will now rule over Mycenae. But the question is: will it be Atreus and Thyestes? It is decided that whichever son brings the golden fleece will rule. Atreus tells Artemis that he will sacrifice the golden lamb to her if she gives it to him. Like a bro, she does, but then not like a bro, Atreus hides the lamb and sacrifices another lamb instead.  

This ends up backfiring when Atreus’ wife, who had been cheating on him with Thyestes, finds this out and brings the golden fleece to her bae. As the rules are whomever has the fleece rules Mycenae, Thyestes shows up with the fleece and becomes the king. 

Since Zeus was invested in this family and was annoyed that Atreus was not king, he told his great grandson to make a counter bargain. If the sun could be reversed, so it would set in the east, Atreus would be king. Thyestes agrees, Zeus makes it happen, and then Atreus is king again. 

But Atreus is still angry that he’s being cucked by his brother, so he pulls a page from his grand daddy’s book by inviting his brother to a meal. Like Tantalus, son is on the menu. This time it is up to three sons. 

Thyestes would end up gaining the throne again when his son, Aigisthos (who was born by his daughter by the way) kills Atreus, and then he banishes Atreus’ sons—Agamemnon and Menelaus. 

Now We Can Actually Talk About Agamemnon

With the help of their father-in-law, Agamemnon and Menelaus successfully take over Mycenae once more. Menelaus goes back to rule over Sparta with Helen. Some versions of the myth suggest that Agamemnon actually won Helen’s hand, but he gave her to his brother Menelaus as a gift (which is why some adaptations of the myth include Agamemnon ‘taking’ Helen during the fall of Troy, suggesting he wanted her for himself the whole time). Other versions have Menelaus winning her for himself. Agamemnon marries her sister, Clytemnestra, who is known as being hot, but like, not Helen hot. 

Agamemnon would have 4 kids with Clytemnestra, but only three matter to us: Elektra, Iphigeneia, and Orestes. 

Helen’s non-deity daddy made everyone who fought for her love to vow that if someone were to steal her away, everyone would fight to bring her back. So, when she is successfully seduced and or stolen depending on the variant of the myth, Menelaus comes crying to his brother Agamemnon to help him get her back. Agamemnon becomes the head of the Greek army.  

Right as they’re about to head off to fight Troy, Agamemnon does the great job of saying that he’s a better hunter than the goddess of hunt herself, Artemis. This does not make the goddess very happy.  

Artemis retaliates by making it impossible for them to leave for Troy. When asked how they could please her, the oracle tells them that they will have to sacrifice Agamemnon’s daughter, Iphigeneia. Depending on the telling, she is brought to the Greek camp under the pretense that she is being married to Achilles, and that a wedding will bless their travels. She is sacrificed like an animal. Depending on the version of the telling, Artemis can save her and turn her into one of her huntresses or not. 

This makes Clytemnestra mad. 

(side note – some modern retellings of the sacrifice of Iphigeneia include Agamemnon actually being sad and torn over killing his daughter? These retellings also refuse to explain why the Greeks are stranded in Greece in the first place, just leaving it to “Poseidon hates us”. This is to probably make Agamemnon a more complex and complicated character while not realizing what makes him either of those things in the original texts.) 

Return of Agamemnon 

Agamemnon is one of the first people to return from the Trojan War. He comes back, heralded by praises of his military prowess, wearing the royal purple and throwing the spoils of war around. One of these spoils of war is Cassandra. 

Very quickly but for those who are not aware of her myth: Cassandra is one princess of Troy. She catches the eye of Apollo (which makes sense because Troy did like Apollo, which ends up fucking things up for the Greeks during the war) and he tries to get her as his new bae. She says sure: just give me the sight of the oracle, thus to be able to see the future and I’ll date you. Apollo gives her this, and in return Cassandra ditches him. The god is very angry that a mortal played him. So, he makes it so that while she can see the future, no one believes her. 

When Agamemnon is told to come inside by his wife, Cassandra is begging him not to do it. With her curse, no one listens to her. 

Let’s talk about Clytemnestra. So, at this point she’s spent the entirety of her life as the hot-but-not-Helen-hot sister, watching her brothers go on adventures and such, and being married to Agamemnon, which just based on how he is in in the Iliad, isn’t the nicest thing to be married to. Then her husband is roped into a war because her sister gets abducted again. Then when you think your daughter is going to be married to the famed hero Achilles she’s sacrificed because your husband is an idiot. And even when he returns from war and things seem to be fixed, he comes back with a girl. 

All I’m saying is I understand Clytemnestra’s choice to a) cheat and b) convince her new bae to kill Agamemnon. 

Surely her new bae wouldn’t need much convincing: it’s none other than Aigisthos—the guy who exiled Agamemnon and Menelaus in the first place! 

His wife runs a bath for him, and it is there where he is killed by Aigisthos. At the same time, Cassandra is killed by Clytemnestra. 

(Side note: the death in the bath is symbolic for the end of the war.) 

She later has a recurring nightmare of giving birth to a snake. Then, her son Orestes comes home from exile. 

Orestes 

There is a list of things that you do not do in Ancient Greece—having sex with Zeus, trusting Theseus, not sacrificing the thing that you promised the gods you were going to sacrifice to them. In the criminal justice system of Greek Myth, killing family members is considered especially heinous. And at the top of the worst family member you can kill is your mother. Those who capture those who do these crimes are called The Furies. 

Orestes learns that his mother and her new bae have killed his dad. He, in return, pretends to be a bearer of his own death. When Clytemnestra calls for her new lover to share the news, he kills them both. 

(Side note: depending on the version, he doesn’t do it alone, but with Elektra. She isn’t chased by The Furies, however. The Elektra complex is supposed to act as the father-daughter version of the Oedipus complex because she avenges her father.) 

The Furies learn of this matricide and start chasing Orestes so he can be dragged to Tartarus and he can meet his ancestor Tantalus. They chase him from Mycenae all the way to Athens.  

(Side note: it should be mentioned that these myths are from a series of plays, called The Oresteia, written by Aeschylus. It should also be mentioned that the author is from Athens. As everyone loves the myths around the Trojan War, and with The Odyssey, we know that Agamemnon was killed, Aeschylus [and later on others would add on to what happens to Orestes] made it his job to tell the story.) 

Orestes begs Apollo, who feels partially responsible with the whole Cassandra thing and because he also persuaded him to kill Clytemnestra, to help him with dealing with The Furies. He sends him to Athena, because she’s the goddess you go to if you need a plan.  

Athena steps in and decides that he should be put on trial. Apollo acts as his defendant. The judges end in a tie. As the patron goddess of Athens, Athena is given the final ruling. 

She lets him go. Now: why. 

For those who don’t know about Athena’s backstory, a quick summation: Zeus is told that his wife will bear him a son that will usurp him. But she’s already pregnant. So, like any sane King of the Gods, he eats her whole. Then about 9 months later he has this splitting headache. He asks Hephaestus (or Prometheus, depending on the story) to just hit his forehead with an axe. As you do. From his forehead Athena springs out, fully grown up and in battle armour. And everything’s fine.  

Athena rules that since she was technically born from only her father, that for her, and thus in Athens, the father was all that mattered. So, if you want to commit matricide, do it in Athens. 

She renames The Furies into The Friendlies (which sounds more menacing in my opinion) and Orestes is allowed to go free! Yay! 

Notes 

I don’t think I have many notes for this one. Just um, I should write about The Iliad. 

Also the ruling by Athena always annoyed me as a kid.