#That midwestern talkative charm does. not. turn. off.

[exuberantocean]

One Ted Lasso fact that I know we're all mostly avoiding in our fics is that there is a high probability Ted is just Like That™ during sex. Look into your heart. You know it's true.

[meyerlansky]

Fic ask meme : 🤡🤩🧐 (I know the answer to the last one; I remember the closets)

🤡 What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?

somehow kallipygos has the funniest and stupidest banter i've ever written. deeply unserious fic, considering the level of filth it contains. specifically, artemy being a complete cornball makes me lose it:

“I’m not a piece of meat, you know,” he says archly, and turns in the circle of Artemy’s arms to pin him with a glare. Not that it does anything. Artemy just shrugs and puts his hands right back where they were. Daniil carefully does not react. But it’s perhaps closer than he’d admit out loud. Another shrug at that. “We’re all meat, if you want to get into that,” Artemy says, placid. Distaste has Daniil wrinkling his nose before he can quite suppress it. “Charming,” he mutters, arms crossed over his chest. Artemy just smirks, not at all bothered. “Prime cut right here,” he says, kneading the flesh under his palms, rhythmic and steady. It would be maddening if they weren’t talking about meat while he does it. “Maybe I want a bite.”

🤩 Who is your favorite character to write?

OH GOD. OUT OF ALL OF THEM? man. i don't write a character if i don't love them. hm. i think in the last year i've had the most fun with eddie. his inner narrative is so all over the place and off the wall in a way basically NONE of my other faves are. so he's an interesting change of pace from my schemier, higher-stakes blorbos. (i have some WIPs from his POV; junkyard dogs is the only eddie POV i've posted so far and it's. a good example.)

🧐 Do you spend much time researching for your stories?

😞 yes. 😞 dragging me, i see. 😞 the closets reference here is that when i was writing boardwalk empire fic i got hung up [HA] on where meyer and charlie would put their clothes changing into pajamas or whatever—do tenement buildings built in the late 19th century have CLOSETS? would it be a trunk by the bed? a dresser? what??? so i... went looking for floor plans of some buildings in nyc from 1918 or so to see what the standard layout was. [mostly they do not have closets, for the record. it would most likely have been the aforementioned trunk, for working class families like the lanskys/lucanias/siegels.]

i have the census records for most of the historical figures in bwe so i get their family situations and background details right. i have an entire database of mongolian and buryat dictionary database downloaded to reference whenever i write patho fic. i know that hawkins high students would have taken the SAT for college instead of the ACT like most other midwestern states in the mid-80s. i do more research than writing, if we're being honest.

send me an emoji (or three) from this list!

[luxaofhesperides]

[got inspired by this prompt, changed a few things so he just works at a local coffee shop, and started thinking about how he would first interact with the bats. this was meant to be short. it's almost 6k lmao. lol. whoops.]

"Can you really talk to ghosts?" his latest customer asks in a hushed whisper, leaning over the counter.

Danny sighs, taking care not to make eye contact with the ghost frowning at him from behind his customer. He's been getting this question a lot more lately, and he's sure it's because the old ladies who come in every Thursday morning are huge gossips. In his defense, he didn't know that one of them was dead and just hanging around because they had promised to all move on together after they died. She was the first to go, just a year before, and the empty chair the group always pulled up to their table was for her.

So naturally, she sat in it, and when Danny set out their order, he looked directly at her and asked if she was going to order anything.

The women were clearly caught off guard, confused, glancing at the empty chair and Danny. He realized it too late before the old woman asked, "You can see me, my dear? Now, that's a surprise."

He had closed his eyes, wondering if this was his last day working in this particular coffee shop, and valiantly stopped himself from groaning loudly and unprofessionally.

"Sorry," he had said, turning his attention back to the group. "I thought I saw a moth on the chair, is all. So? Will this be all for now or is there something else I can get you?"

One of them, a woman with dark purple curls, easily one of the coolest senior citizens Danny's ever seen, waves him off with a smile. "Oh, we're all right for now. Thank you, dear."

Danny beat a quick retreat and hoped it would end there.

It didn't.

They stayed for hours, chatting and laughing. Danny had to refill their drinks three times and serve them some pastries while trying to ignore their surprisingly sharp gazes and the very chatty ghost trying to get him to respond.

They waved him over before they left, pushing their empty cups and plates together.

"We want to give you a tip," Purple Haired Grandma had said, "But only if you answer this question honestly: was there someone else sitting with us? Someone with long hair and perhaps a chain of daisies on her glasses?"

Danny blinked, looked down at the wad of tens in her hand, and decided that he is, indeed, a sell out because he would give up his secrets for a hefty tip.

He looked at the ghost, who matches the description, and nodded. "I can see her," he said.

The ghost brightened "Tell them my name! It's Lucinda!"

"Lucinda, right?" he confirmed with the group, who gasped and clutched each other, tears welling up in their eyes.

"My," Purple Haired Grandma had said, a hand over her heart. "So she kept her promise after all. Thank you, dear. Here, take all of it." She shoved the wad of cash into his hands, wiped a tear from her eye, and ushered her two other friends out the door, all of them calling out promises to be back in a week.

And they were. For the past month, this group of old women have been regularly visiting and always speak only to Danny. His coworkers have started teasing him about being grandma-bait, saying his Midwestern charm is like catnip to old people. He just laughs awkwardly and goes out to do his job, because no matter how weird it is, talking to a ghost in front of a trio of delighted senior citizens, they tip so well and Danny does like having some spending money left over after paying rent.

What he didn't account for was other people picking up on this and coming in with their own ghosts.

However, until the Grandma Group, they don't offer good tips, so Danny looks them straight in the eye and lies to them without remorse.

"Why would I be able to see ghosts?" he asks his latest customer. They sigh, then lean back and give him his personal space back.

"Really?"

"Really," he says. "Is this all for your order?"

"I guess." They walk off to get out of line and find a seat, shoulders slumped. He'd feel a little bad about bringing down their mood, but they didn't tip at all so he doesn't care, actually.

Listen, he's a 20-something year old trying to make a living for himself. He doesn't have time to care about other people's feelings when he's still trying to figure out how to be an independent adult (and isn't that crazy? He kind of thought he'd be a teenager forever).

He passes on the order to Riko, the coworker he's been sharing a shift with all month, who gets to work at the espresso machine. She sets a clean mug down, ready to fill to the top, and gets started on frothing the milk to make some latte art. She's their resident expert at it and always finds some way to make some insanely detailed foam art that delights the customers. She allowed the owner of the coffee shop to use it for promotion on the condition that she doesn't have to take foam art requests and can make whatever she wants.

The owner is chill, so she allowed it, and Riko gets free reign to show off her skills as she pleases.

"How many is that now?" she asks, pitching her voice over the hum of the frother, "Four today?"

"Six," Danny responds flatly.

She cackles a little, then grabs the mug now full of coffee and gets to work making his disappointed customer their drink. "At this rate, you'll be turning into our latest attraction."

"Not like we need anything else to draw people in," he mutters. For a local coffee shop, it does really well even with competition from the chain stores just a street over. The place is always busy, filled with people quietly reading or working on their laptops. They certainly don't need to know about his ability to speak to Gotham's ghosts in order to be enticed into stopping by.

"What are we doing to draw people in?" asks the owner, Sheridan, popping out of the back, trying her apron around herself.

"Offering Danny's alleged ghost speaking abilities as a treat for buying from us," Riko answers before Danny can try to move the conversation into a new direction.

Sheridan's eyes glimmer, always excited at the prospect of a new way to get the coffee shop some publicity. "October is coming up," she says thoughtfully, and Danny considers how unprofessional it would be if he slammed his head into the counter right then and there so he could get sent home for his concussion. Would it get him fired? Possibly. Sheridan is a cool boss, but customer service is brutal and he doesn't want to risk it when pay day is coming up.

Better not then.

Danny sighs instead of enacting violence on himself and wishes that a customer would come up to put an end to this conversation.

"Maybe we could do something spooky," Riko says, "Like 'Scones and Séances' or 'Espresso and Exorcism'."

Sheridan claps her hands together in delight. "Oh, I love it! Scones and Séances. That's just perfect."

Riko steps away for a moment to call out the customer's name, setting the cup down on the pick up counter. When Danny glances at it, she's made a foam ghost.

Maybe he should get a new job.

"Of course, only if you're okay with it," Sheridan continues, turning to face Danny. "Even if you can't talk to ghosts, it would be fun to pretend, you know? We could just talk about spirits and I could finally use that good tea set that's been collecting dust in the back. We can even do a once a week after hours event to make it extra spooky!"

"I don't know..."

"You'd be paid for overtime, of course."

"Should we do Friday nights throughout the month?"

Riko coughs, pressing a hand against her mouth. She's clearly trying not to laugh but Danny doesn't have more than a moment to glare at her before Sheridan is grabbing his hands in delight. "That sounds great! We'll make it RSVP only so we can limit the number of people each week, make it real exclusive. Riko, would you mind making the flyer for this? I can take over back here for you."

"Sure thing, boss." Riko salutes Sheridan and wastes no time in disappearing into the back, no doubt heading straight for their surprisingly large and well kept break room to pull out her laptop and get to work. Danny looks longingly at the door through which she disappeared, wishing he had an excuse to hide back there as well.

He doesn't get his break for another two hours. Life is cruel.

The bell above the door jingles cheerfully as a new customer enters. Danny pastes on his customer service smile. "Hi! What can I get for you?"

"Caramel mocha and two chocolate chip cookies, please," they say. "Also, not to like, sound weird or anything, but I heard rumors about someone hear who can talk to ghosts."

I need the paycheck, Danny tells himself sternly. Do not pretend to drop dead and traumatize the customer.

"I'm afraid I can't say much about that," he replies cheerfully. "Will that be all for today?"

Kill me now, he doesn't say, but he really, really wants to.

. . .

Danny thought he left the mess of Amity Park behind when he moved to Gotham after graduating from college. Admittedly, he graduated from the local community college and is saving up to finish his bachelor's degree at the moment, but he still finished some higher education!

This was supposed to be a new start to his life, his chance to reinvent himself, to become something more than a Fenton, a freak, a halfa.

Gotham was like a breath of fresh air (despite all the pollution) and Danny loves it. Honestly. He does.

Sure there's crime and rogues and constant danger, but there are heroes around to take care of that so he doesn't need to worry about it. He can just focus on getting his life together.

"Found you, Fenton," Agent K snarls, kicking the door to the coffee shop open.

Apparently, the GIW also want to continue focusing on his life.

"Hi," he sighs, "What can I get for you today?"

Agent K marches up to the counter and slams something down. Danny blinks at the man, seething with rage, and looks down at the flyer for their upcoming Scones & Séances event.

"I always knew you were trouble," Agent K spits, "I should have expected that you would try to make a profit from your nonsense. A séance? Promising to speak to dead relatives when the only dead boy around is you? I never thought ghosts would go so low as to make money from people's grief. I'll enjoy taking you in for this."

Danny is tired. He's so tired, okay?

He can't do anything but sigh.

Riko shoulders him aside roughly, and suddenly he doesn't have to do anything.

"Hi!" she greets so cheerfully is borders aggression. Her smile is knife-sharp, bloodthirsty, her eyes dark and dangerous. "Are you a paying customer? No? Then why don't you get our special today of Get The Fuck Out paired with a nice Go Fuck Yourself? I'll make it for you myself."

"Do not interfere, girl," Agent K says, turning his attention back onto Danny. "This is official business."

"And this is officially your last warning to move your sorry ass out of the premises."

Agent K draws himself up, no doubt trying to intimidate her. Riko stares him down, unimpressed, and Danny has never loved her more than he does in that moment.

"I have orders to apprehend Fenton, passed down from the head of the GIW himself. Step aside and do not interfere any further."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

Riko grins. "You're excused."

Agent K stares at her, eyebrows raised high enough that they're fully visible above his sunglasses. He goes to open his mouth and someone else from a nearby table yells, "Get the clue and get outta here already!"

A few other people call out agreements, using their Gotham charm to insult the agent into leaving faster.

Danny watches, awed and more than a little touched, as Agent K turns an unattractive red. He points a finger at Danny and says, "Don't think this is over, Fenton. I'll get you one of these days." And then he turn son his heel and stomps out the coffee shop.

"You're my hero," he tells Riko.

She grins, bashful, and pats his shoulder. "It was nothing. If that asshole comes by again, let me know and I'll drag him outside for a fist fight, alright?"

"I don't think you'll ever need to, but thanks."

A few customers come up to check in on them, make sure they're alright, and offer their own threats. He's especially fond of the offer to run the agent over with a car.

It does, unfortunately, bring more interest into the Scones & Séances event and before he knows it, the limited seats are filled up for the first three weeks of the month.

Sheridan is ecstatic when she comes in to let Riko take her lunch, crowing about how the event is sure to be such a success. She's decidedly less happy about their confrontation with Agent K, but that's mostly because she wanted to be there as well to defend Danny. 

Customer service may suck, but Danny's scored the lottery for best boss and coworkers. They definitely make all the pains of this job worth it.

And when Agent K comes in the next day to try again, Sheridan is quick to shove Danny beneath the counter so she can square up with the GIW agent and let the world remember that before she started up this coffee shop, she was one of the best street fighters on this side of Gotham.

. . .

When Danny steps out for his full hour of a lunch break on the day of the first Scones & Séances event, the Signal is waiting for him.

"Hi," he greets, surprised into autopilot, "How can I help you?"

The Signal smiles. "No need for the customer service voice. I'm here to help you, not the other way around."

"Uh..." Danny wracks his brain for anything he might need a vigilantes help with. Rude customers? The crushing weight of existence? The inherent loneliness of adulthood in a post-capitalist landscape? Really, it could be anything.

"Heard you've been being harassed by some guy in white," the Signal prompts.

"Oh, the Guys In White," Danny nods. "They're not a problem."

"Are you sure? It sounds like a big enough problem that I've been flagged down by multiple people this week who are concerned that you're a target for harassment by some gang member. One of your coworkers even made me agree to be your bodyguard today before you do some spirit talking."

Riko went out of her way to get the Signal to look out for Danny? That's so kind. Also a little annoying.

Is there something about Danny that screams 'defenseless innocent, please protect'? He's never had this problem before. Usually he gets people squaring up to kick his ass just because they felt like it.

"That's really not necessary."

"Are you turning me away after I put in all the work to close up my active cases so I could be here today?"

Ah, damn. The guilt trip is so effective on Danny. He folds so fast it's embarrassing. "You really don't have to," he mumbles, averting his gaze. "I'm just going to get lunch, then come back to finish my usual shift. And I doubt you'd wanna stick around until midnight when we end the event."

"I've already called in a few favors to make sure someone's around during your séance, so no need to worry about that."

How many people have to be involved in this? It's just a work event. If he knew it would have gotten this troublesome, he would have shut it down when it was first brought up.  Overtime pay isn't enough to make him think it's a good idea to have literal heroes waste their time sitting outside while he pretends to be a proper medium. 

"Great," Danny says weakly. "You hungry? I can buy you lunch if you're going to be hanging around."

"You don't need to."

"Please let me, I'll feel bad otherwise."

The Signal laughs. "Sure! I'm not going to turn down free food if you're offering. Where to?"

Danny leads them to his current favorite lunch spot: a small restaurant two blocks over serving the best Indian food he's had on the East Coast. They get their orders to-go and the Signal grapples them up to a rooftop to eat. It's both surreal and familiar: he's eating lunch with one of Gotham's vigilante, but it feels just like when he shared snacks with his friends back in Amity Park on top of the Ops Center. They spend the time chatting about nothing in particular, carefully steering away from topics that have to do with powers, ghosts, and the Signal's day to day life.

The lunch hour flies by and Danny hates to see that he has to go back soon. They've finished eating ages ago, but neither made any move to leave the roof, content to keep talking as the day carried on.

He lets the Signal grapple him back down because he figures he owes the guy more courtesy than giving him a heart attack by just jumping down to the street. Instead of parting ways there, the Signal insists on walking Danny back to the coffee shop, which he accepts with more ease after their hour together.

They turn the corner and run directly into Agent K because the universe hates him.

"You!" Agent K shouts. "I'll be taking you in today no matter what!"

He pulls out a gun, and suddenly it's not a situation where Danny can safely roll his eyes. His first instinct is to move in front of the Signal, blocking him with his body. The armor he has on will probably keep him safe from the blaster, but Danny knows any weapon modeled after what his parents made can pack a hell of a punch on both humans and ghosts.

Danny raises his hands, palms out, ready to shoot out some ice to disarm him. "I really think this is unnecessary."

"I will not let you go through with this séance to allow ghosts to possess people!"

"Woah, when was that ever a concern?"

"I can see through your lies, Phantom!" Agent K jabs the gun closer and Danny holds himself carefully still, all too aware of the Signal behind him. "Your reign of terror ends here!"

"I think you need a nap," the Signal interrupts. "Good night."

And a giant shadow swells up behind him and slams down on Agent K's head like a cartoon anvil. The agent drops like a brick, white suit gaining some dirt scruffs from the dirty sidewalk.

Danny blinks down at the unconscious body of Agent K. "Wow."

"I'm starting to think that you downplayed these guys a bit," the Signal says lightly. "Like, just a little bit."

"Yeah, this was a surprise. He's usually more put together than this. Less unhinged."

"Riko was right about you needing a bodyguard, though. That could have ended badly. You alright?"

Danny puts on a reflexive smile. "Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Dude, he just waves a gun around in your face."

"He didn't do anything else though, so it's fine."

The Signal gives him a long look, then sighs. "Sure. If you say so. I'll take care of this guy. Try not to get jumped going back to the coffee shop."

"You got it!" Danny gives him a two-fingered salute, then continues on his way. At least Agent K is dealt with, so there shouldn't be any more problems popping up today. All he has to do is get through the rest of his shift, take a nap, do some shopping, then head right back to do his little séance scene with Sheridan.

That sounds easy enough.

He says as much to Riko, who is apparently buddies with the Signal and had been making him text her updates while he was off for lunch.

"Are you sure you don't want me there?" she asks again as she gets ready to clock out. "I could totally get Sheri to approve some overtime for me so I can be here and kick out anyone who causes problems for you."

"It'll be fine," Danny says, shoving her towards the back, "Quit worrying so much. I thought you were a native Gothamite? Aren't y'all supposed to be used to these things?"

"Yeah, we're used to this. You're a Midwest transplant who still smiles at people on the streets. You can't blame me for being worried about you."

Danny rolls his eyes. "I promise you I'll survive the night. Now get out of here, I know you got a thing going on later."

"Alright, alright, I'm going! But seriously, if you need me here, just text me. Okay, take care, bye!" Riko throws the last few words out from over her shoulder, rushing away so she can get to her monthly book club meeting on time. Apparently they've been going through translated webnovels and she has a whole lot of opinions she can't wait to share, hence the rush. She tried to talk to Danny about it a while back, but none of it made much sense to him and she patted his back for being a good sport and went back to their game of making up opera-worthy dramatic stories about the customers in the shop.

Despite her worries, the rest of his shift is calm and normal, if not al little lonely. Sheridan popped in from time to time to make sure there wasn't a rush she needed to help with, but was otherwise busy preparing for the séance.

This is fine, he tells himself every hour as the day marched on into evening.

This is fine, he tells himself, lying on his couch staring up at the ceiling in despair. He can see ghosts, yes, but beyond that, what is he supposed to do for a séance? Sam would probably know, but there's also a 50/50 chance that she would mix it up with a summoning ritual for dead souls, which would cause a whole lot of new problems.

This is fine, he tells himself as Sheridan gleefully presents him with a rented tux for him to wear, to really 'bring the vibe together', as she said.

Everything is so totally fine, Danny lies to himself, sitting at the round table rolled into the middle of the coffee shop. Sheridan had come in a few hours earlier to rearrange the space and set things up, leaving a large area surrounded by plants for the séance to take place at.

She really went all out: velvet tablecloth, crystal ball just for display, her fancy tea set finally in use complete with a tower of small cakes and the promised scones, purple and black beaded strings draped artfully across the windows. She even ran the fog machine to make the shop a bit misty for ambience.

"It's almost time to open our doors!" she says, fluttering around to straighten things up. She's a walking bundle of nerves, both excited and apprehensive. "We're not forgetting anything, right?"

"Even if we are, I think we can manage without it," Danny says, pulling at the dark red bowtie fit snug around his throat. 

The suit isn't the most comfortable and the pants are a little short, but it wouldn't be all that bad if he didn't have the bowtie on. It does pull the look together, but it's uncomfortable and he's not sure he can pretend to be the mysterious, all-known medium leading the séance before he rips the wretched thing off of himself and tosses it away without thinking. Danny knows himself. He knows he'll do it. It's a matter of when not if.

The clock in the back chimes as it hits the hour. Sheridan shuts off the lights by the counter to make the coffee shop look spookier, then hurries to the door.

Most of tonight's group is already gathered, waiting to be let in.

Danny tunes out Sheridan's bright, bubbly voice welcoming everyone in. He takes a deep breath from his seat at the table, preparing himself for the next hour of talking to ghosts and being weird and spooky for other people's entertainment. And then he'll have to do it again for the second group coming in at eleven.

Sheridan leads the customers through a little ceremony to light tea candles, each one held in the cupped hands of the customers. She lowers her voice into a low whisper, drawing them all into this ghostly atmosphere she's done her best to create. Danny keeps his eyes closed, trying to get into character. Plus, if it looks like he's meditating, that'll make him look extra mysterious. He stays statue-still, breathing slowly and deeply, listening to the group approach the table.

Only once he hears everyone is seated does he open his eyes, ready to begin, and--

Is that the Grandma Group?

It is. It is indeed the Grandma Group smiling at him, excited, as Lucinda circles around the table be next to him as there are no extra chairs.

"Hello again dear," Purple Grandma greets, "I can't even begin to tell you how excited I was to see that you would be doing this! It's certainly much better than pulling you away from your work for a few words."

"It's nice to see you too," he replies, slipping back into customer service voice. "Hey, Boss, can we pull up another chair?"

"Sure. What for?"

"For Lucinda. She should get to sit." Danny gestures at the space next to him, where, to him, Lucinda is standing and waving to the rest of the group, but is empty air to everyone else.

"How sweet," Lucinda coos, reaching out to ruffle his hair. Two of the grandmas gasp, watching his hair fluff up and move on its own. "If only my own granddaughter had been as thoughtful. Then I might have sent her more than a few hundred dollars for Christmas."

Danny starts wondering if he could ethically be adopted by this dead grandmother to get her money. Like a platonic sugar baby situation. It's not like she needs the money anymore, assuming it hasn't gone to the rest of her family.

Sheridan drags a chair over and plops it down by Danny. Lucinda sits with a relieved sigh and adjusts her glasses.

"I suppose we'll be talking to Lucinda tonight," he says to the rest of the group. Between the dim lights and the tea lights on the table in front of everyone, throwing flickering light dancing across the planes of their face, they all look strange, almost like beings from a dream. There are two people here who aren't part of the grandma group, a blond girl just a few years older than him, if he had to guess, and a guy with black hair and blue eyes, a strangely familiar face--

That's fucking Tim Drake.

Danny hates his life.

And his job. But mostly his life.

Whatever, he decides, Tim Drake is none of his business. If the guy wants to come to a silly séance in a coffee shop, that's on him. Who is Danny to judge him? He's the one leading the séance. Stones and glass houses, he's keeping his mouth shut.

Looking away from Tim Drake and taking in the rest of the table, he opens the séance. "This is not going to be a traditional, old style séance. Mostly because I don't know how to do those. This is just a time to eat some snacks and talk to a willing ghost, and you're all in luck tonight because one of our regular ghosts is here with us now. Lucinda, if I could have your hand?"

The thing about ghosts is that Danny's spent most of his high school and early college career dealing with ectoplasmic ghosts. Dead people fueled by ectoplasm, a physical substance that can be studied and interacted with. Ectoplasm is what gave them form, let them retain their hearts and minds and personalities after death. Ectoplasm molds itself into the shape of its host, sinking into every piece of them, making them different from the usual ghosts found in horror stories who can only wail and slam doors shut.

Danny is used to ectoplasmic ghosts. He's half of one himself.

But Amity Park is really the only place to have ectoplasmic ghosts.

Gotham's ghosts are fueled by magic. He doesn't know why, or how this difference came to be, but it's a very clear difference. No longer can Danny tell someone is a ghost by their glowing eyes or blue skin, but solely based on a carefully developed gut feeling and the weak ping of his ghost sense. Gotham's ghosts look like anyone else so long as they're not left in the shape they were when they died in a terrible man-made catastrophe. It's easy to tell someone's a ghost when they walk around with half their intestines spilling out of their gut. It's harder when they look like anyone else. 

Amity Park and Gotham ghosts may be made from different things, but that doesn't mean they're incompatible.

With just a quick boost from his ecto, Lucina becomes visible to the rest of the table.

 The blond girl startles, knees jerking up to hit the bottom of the table, making the cake stand wobble. Tim Drake goes very, very still, staring hard at Lucinda.

The Grandma Group, on the other hand, are overjoyed, clapping their hands together in delight, speaking over each other to get their old friend's attention. Lucinda laughs, leaning over the table to take hold of their hands. She glows in the dim coffee shop, ethereal and otherwordly. Danny discretely shakes some leftover ecto off his hand and leans back in his chair, resisting the urge to yank his bowtie off.

Lucinda seems content to just chat with her friends, which leaves Danny, Tim Drake, and blonde girl to sit off to the side by themselves awkwardly.

Sheridan, thankfully, saves the night by popping in by their half of the table with plates of snacks Danny's never seen served here before.

"Here," she says, "We're not just here for the séance, right? I was also hoping to use tonight as a test run for some new seasonal treats I've been working on. Give them a try and let me know what you think!"

Tim Drake thanks her politely while blonde girl yanks her plate closer to her, inspecting it.

"Ooh, look!" she says, smacking Tim Drake's arm. Are they friends? They must be. "It's got strawberry jam blood!"

On her plate is a cinnamon roll with cream cheese frosting and strawberry jam on it, dripping down in a way that's reminiscent of blood. A small knife, likely made from a cookie, is stabbed into the top. Tim Drake got the zombie cookie; a mix of black cookie down and green, with white chocolate chips, to look zombie-fied. And the treat Sheridan's put down in front of him is a cupcake with white frosting that looks like a ghost.

"Really?" he asks her.

She grins and pats his shoulder. "I thought it was fitting. And funny."

"Why do I still work here..."

"Because you love me!"

"This is so good!" blonde girl interrupts, holding up a hand to cover her mouthful of cinnamon roll. "I'm definitely coming back for this."

"I'm glad to hear it!" Sheridan replies. "The frosting isn't too strong, right?"

"No, no, it goes perfectly with the strawberry. Best cinnamon roll I've ever eaten in my life."

"Yeah? I've got another new one in the kitchen if you wanna try it out for me."

Blonde girl lights up. "In what world would I say no? Hand it over, I'll eat anything you make."

Sheridan laughs and takes one step away from the table when the front door is kicked open.

"Ghost!" shouts Operative O, and Danny groans, pushing himself up to stand. "We knew you were up to no good, Fenton!" And then he pulls out a blaster gun and Danny is moving away from the table a whole lot faster. He means to put himself between the agent and the others, shielding them with his body, but he doesn't get far before Tim Drake and blonde girl are flinging their empty plates at Agent O. Their cheeks bulge from the food they just stuffed in their mouths, puffed out like chipmunks, but their glare is all danger.

Lucinda glows even brighter, standing from her chair enraged. "You," she intones, pointing at Agent O who lowers his hand from his face, shielding himself against the plates, "You and the others in your stupid white suits. How dare you cause trouble for Danny?!"

"I've got this, Luci," Purple Grandma says, pulling a handgun out of her purse.

"What," Danny says. He stops the question there because he's not sure he wants to know, actually.

Even Agent O has blanched, blaster lowered like he forgot he had it in the face of one angry senior citizen with purple hair.

Not how Danny was envisioning this night to go. Apparently, it's no longer Scones & Séances but GIW vs. Grandmas and Danny knows who he's putting his bets on.

"You should probably leave now," Danny tells Agent O helpfully. "Before they decide to escalate."

Agent O looks at each person around the table, glaring at him. Tim Drake and Blonde girl have their fists up, ready to physically throw themselves into a fight. Sheridan has a hand on her hip, looking more intimidating than he's ever seen her before. Behind Purple Grandma and her handgun are the other two grandmas, holding their purses up as makeshift weapons. Even Lucinda looks ready to pick up her chair and to turn this into a brawl.

Agent O puts his blaster away and wisely decides to cut his losses. "This isn't over, Fenton!" he shouts, "I'll get you one of these days!"

"Scram!" Sheridan shouts back. "You and the other white suits aren't welcome here."

Agent O scowls, but turns and leaves without trying to get the last word in.

Huh.

That was... easy? Is this what it's like to have a community backing him up? He can't help but be touched; he's not particularly close to anyone here except Sheridan, but no one hesitated from getting ready to throw down for him. Gotham's best feature really is her people.

"You good?" Tim Drake asks.

Danny nods. "All good. Thanks, everyone. You didn't need to get involved." Everyone starts voicing their protests at once, so he raises his hands in surrender. "Okay! Okay, sorry, I won't say that again. Thank you, seriously. Why don't we get back to what we came here for?"

After a few wary glances at the door, now shut, everyone sits back down and settles in.

Danny spreads his hands flat on the table and leans in with a mischievous grin. Now that the worst part of the night is past, he doesn't have to worry about how this event can go wrong. He can finally have some fun with it.

"What do y'all really know about ghosts?"

Danny is a coffee shop owner in Gotham and is repeatedly attacked by the GIW. Danny can (mostly) handle his own but he’s in the Bats’ city.

The help is greatly appreciated. The vigilantes have incorporated his small business into their patrol path. They even stop in to grab some coffee or a pastry. He thought he’d get to know this cities heroes as Phantom but instead they become friends with Fenton

[mchalowitz]

the woman is the king, part two

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

thank you to everyone who enjoyed the first part of this story! writing again has been so great and i’m excited for everyone to read where it goes from here! 

part 1: melissa

part 2: dana

———

The exam room is harshly lit, brutally overclean. When the doctor gives the diagnosis, it knocks the breath out of her, and she has the audacity to declare her gratitude. How could she.

The fragility of her age comes to mind on the drive home; her eyes prickle watching her copy of her oncology referral slide across the dashboard.

Dana is only thirty-three. Melissa was only thirty-three. She ponders her mother, Maggie, at thirty-three. Her destiny already decided; along for the military ride. She was carrying the fifth Scully child that year. Their matrarical line is cursed by the thirty-third year.

She simmers with the news for a few days; plotting methods of delivering impending doom. Mulder, the usual harbinger of bad news, is the one she tells first, and she believes using a clinician’s touch might soothe her.

The pronoun that binds them, the “we” travels from his vocal cords to their air between them. When he pauses, she can fill in the blanks of how he wants the sentence to end. We can do something about this or we can fix this. The problem is, there isn’t anything to be done.

Inside her head is a glass and cancer is the water from a faucet turned all the way on. They are merely waiting for the overflow.

--

Tara is pregnant; she is having a boy. Her brother’s wife is thirty-three. It must be so nice, to be dubbed a Scully, and yet remain so blessed at this foredoomed age. 

An appointment to be pumped with poison and Tara’s baby shower fall in the same week. What a scheduling nightmare, she jokes, when she declines the invitation with warm regards. Bill does not laugh and he buys their mother a plane ticket. 

The total lack of skeletal structure takes her over, has her melted into the couch. Scully finds the initial nausea passes quickly this time. It is the wave of self-consciousness from Mulder bearing witness to this betrayal of her body that lingers. 

“It must be kind of exciting,” Mulder comments. She is watching him wipe down the counter and she doesn’t remember a single time she has seen him willingly clean anything. He is not half-assing any of the responsibilities bestowed upon him by the Mrs. Scully. 

“It might be more exciting if it were someone else,” Scully responds, forgoing her usual diplomatic response on the subject. 

Mulder pauses, focuses in on her eyes, and in unsaid words, he nods in agreement. He throws the wet rag into the sink with a stomach-churning squelch and falls beside her on the couch. 

“You know,” she adds, “Melissa always said she wasn’t going to have kids until she was forty.”

Melissa would goad her into increasingly ridiculous futures; nothing is more ridiculous than futures that will never exist. Neither of them could have predicted such an outcome. 

When they were young, one Scully sister was rarely found without the other. It was only the intricacies of adult life that would split them apart. Melissa yearned for adventure; to shed ideals and expectations from their youth in far off places. Their parents envisioned a certain fate for their children, and Dana followed it, until she didn’t. 

As she conjures up those conversations about where their lives would go, she realizes she cannot even remember her voice. It rolls over her like a wave, the awareness of fading memories, and it cracks her guise held barely together. 

Her glassy eyes brim and she finally crumbles, feeling wholly pathetic. She lacks her usual resiliency that he is accustomed to seeing from her as she weeps, “My sister is gone and I have cancer, Mulder.”

“I know,” he says.

“I’ll miss everything,” she whimpers. The weight of mortality hits her; the decades worth of wasted holidays and the lost memory of her nephew’s birth. Scully will never stand in resolution with her partner after their tireless work for the truth. The loss of an uncomplicated life feels enormous. 

She laments what she was never sure of even desiring; the two-story in the suburbs, the babies of her own, the one true love...

“Let’s get married.”

--

His offer hangs in the air. Scully cries a bout of nausea and bolts for the bathroom. When she emerges, Mulder is there to tuck her into bed.

The sun sets and it rises again on a new day. She comes out of the bedroom apprehensively. Finding Mulder on one knee in her hallway isn’t an idea she can rule out completely. It wouldn’t even come close to the craziest thing she has seen him do.

Sitting at the kitchen table, Mulder rubs circles into his forehead with his cell phone pressed to his ear. She gets close enough to vaguely hear the caller on the other end, listen to the outrage behind, “I couldn’t even put the kettle on without her standing right behind me. In my own home, Fox,” and making it seem as though this is the only issue in the world that matters. And Scully kind of wishes that was true.

“That’s her job, Mom,” he replies. The tone of his voice almost makes her laugh. A polite but clear get me out of here she knows well that comes out during conversations with authority figures, midwestern cops, and not unsurprisingly, mothers.  

Their eyes meet, he looks at her as though she is his unsurpassable savior. He begs off the phone, making the usual adult child promises, and sets his cell phone down on the table. 

Scully commends Mulder for trying to be more involved with his family since his mother’s stroke. But what a fate he has, caring for the medically and emotionally broken women in his life. He gives her a tight lipped smile and she asks, “Is everything alright?”  

“Jury’s still out,” he declares with a shrug. He stands and starts walking toward the kitchen. “Can I get you anything? Water, toast, a ring?” 

A certainly interesting turn of events for them, a question that could develop into an actual conversation about the night before. 

“Mulder.”

“We could get married, Scully.” 

“This is so like you, Mulder. This is your stream of consciousness decision making,” she counters. Scully flattens her hands on the table, takes a breath, and attempts to change her tone to sound a little more kind. “I know the idea that I’m dying is bleak. But there are implications to getting married. I couldn’t do that to you.” 

Scanning Mulder’s eyes, Scully can see he understands what she means by implications. “Don’t think about that,” he tells her finally, “If you really believe this is the end, what do you still want to experience?” 

Scully’s eyes flash away, toward the door. Four years ago, she stood in that spot, and assured her sister unequivocally of her absolute disinterest in dating her new partner. Even if he were just a guy. 

Selfishness has often forced a wedge between them; a precursor to many experiences they would have as partners. His brilliance and humanity drew her in then, not unlike the way it does now. When the question was posed--just any guy--their debates were thrilling, a little flirtatious even, and now they can absolutely infuriate her, but she respects his ideals, and she knows that sentiment is reciprocated. 

On occasion, Scully is even a little selfish, and allows herself to appreciate just a guy with a little flop of hair that falls onto his forehead, and with the most charming smile. 

Whether it be guilt or admiration, Mulder wants her to experience everything before it gets taken away. She can admire the altruism. 

Mulder doesn’t ask again, he only suggests. And she accepts. 

--

The commencement of their marriage is without fanfare in a government building on a Friday afternoon with grocery store flowers and a safe kiss on the cheek to clinch the deal. There are no rings but he holds her left hand as they bound down the courthouse steps. During their late lunch at a local diner, the waitress notices their attire, and offers them a free slice of pie, any flavor they want, because it is a special occasion. 

A few paces ahead of her on the way to the car, Mulder opens her door. “Your getaway car, my bride,” he teases. The smile on her lips quickly fades. His jovial face morphs to confusion. 

But it’s the drip. Blood splatters on the clean, clear plastic protecting their chocolate cream. She tries to maneuver for her purse but he quickly procures tissues from the inside pocket of his jacket. 

He squats next to the passenger side of the car and holds tissues to the nose of his bride. 

--

Something is weirdly, intangibly incorrect. 

It starts with weekend plans. Mulder is already well aware of her singular escape, her monograph for the Penology Review, with its looming deadline coming up. 

He normally makes comments about her unwavering professionalism. It is a mutual agreement to keep their marriage to themselves. The federal government has no investment in the inner workings of their lives; they are legally married and they both know that could easily mean reassignment for both of them. It doesn’t stop him from sneaking in a few witticisms for his own amusement. 

Mulder knocks. That’s weird.

The wine is truly suspicious. Except for the occasional beer, Mulder was never much for alcohol to begin with, but what is especially bizarre is the sudden lack of concern over her doctor’s recommended meal plan. He had been following it down to the last letter, and while a glass of wine is not exactly forbidden, it is not the first item on their shopping list. 

“We never really talk much, do we?” 

Admittedly, the shared looks and delicate touches of silent communication is where they excel, but the question is still somewhat puzzling. Since beginning a routine of casual marital cohabitation, she believes they talk quite a bit. The minutiae of everyday life is often a topic of conversation in ways it never has been. 

Scully still plays along by agreeing that, no, they don’t talk. She sips wine and tells him true-ish stories of Marcus, the prom date of a Scully, but not herself, and the infamous pumper truck scandal involving her brother Charlie. 

Romantic intimacy has not exactly been a component of their marriage and she has found that cancer does not make one feel like the most desirable of specimens. He has never expressed anything to make her believe he feels anything for her beyond friendship, despite the deep affection they share. 

He leans in now; his eyes closed and head cocked. Kissing him isn’t a repulsive idea, but it just seems off, because Mulder is acting so strangely out of character. 

Scully scrambles off the couch to get away from the man that is so clearly not her partner. Absolutely horrified, she stares at Mulder, and has no reservations when he steps forward to cuff the pathetic and vile man that invades her living room.  

--

Many lines have still not been crossed and she doesn’t think they ever will be. The cancer is still aggressively present with the treatments doing very little. 

Scully prepares herself for the eventuality of hospitalization, potentially for good, and it is very tempting to keep that from Mulder, to allow them to remain in their bubble, but she knows that isn’t fair.

Her car idles on the street outside Harold Spuller’s care home and three soft raps sound on her driver’s side window. She sucks in air deeply and wipes the tears from her cheeks before rolling down the window.

“I didn’t mean for things to get so heated back there.”

“Me neither,” she agrees. When her eyes flash up to his, so guilty and fond, her words fall out in a tumble, unable to prolong this evasion of the truth any longer. “I don’t know why I lied to you. I’m not fine. My treatments aren’t working and my doctors don’t think another round will change that.”

“I’m in this with you, Scully.”

“I know you are,” she affirms. She ducks her head down toward the steering wheel, like a little girl caught eating dessert before dinner. “I’m tired, Mulder.” 

“I’ll follow you.”

His headlights shine in her rearview mirror, trailing behind all the way back to where they began this night in Georgetown. Arriving in the apartment, she shuts the door behind them, and informs him, “I’m going to take a shower,” and he nods, reaching forward to squeeze her shoulder. He loosens his tie and starts meandering toward the bedroom. 

The phantom ghost of his touch remains on her shoulder and it reminds her of his romantic soul that she is only now been introduced to. Mulder is more emotionally open and affection than she is. He treats her like a wife. They are married, after all. 

Their marital bliss is of their own design; enjoyably innocent with its lack of certain intimate elements left largely undiscussed. However, there is delight to be found in mere shared company. With a no-work policy now enacted in her home, the opportunity to see funnier, more relaxed, and domestic sides of each other often makes it feel as though their marriage could be real. 

An unspoken agreement to live this arrangement without rules creates something representative of authentic matrimony. Ignoring the initial awkwardness when sharing a bed leads to the normalization of pressing into his warm side each night; falling asleep faster and deeper. Leisurely playing with his hair while reading on the couch one evening introduced a few form of relaxation they both enjoy. He even calls her “honey” occasionally, and she must admit, it makes her feel pleasantly warm to hear it. 

It wasn’t right to keep him out of the loop.

Sitting on the tile shower floor, Scully washes the last six hours from her skin. In an attempt to prove to herself, to everyone, that she can still do this, she pushes herself too far. The best decision for the case was to take down the nurse. For her fragile body, not as much.

A small box sits on top of her towel. She picks it up, weighing it gently in her palm.

Mulder already lies innocently under the covers and appears deeply enthralled in his nighttime reading. He looks very youthful and sweet in his wire-framed glasses and his large feet poking out at the end of the bed. She presents the box in question and inquires, “Mulder, what’s this?”

“Hmm?” he murmurs. He glances up briefly, taking off his glasses. “Oh. Wedding present.”

Eyebrows drawn together in confusion, she sits down on top of the comforter, and cautiously opens the box. Her eyes fall on a gorgeously dainty bracelet with a small diamond affixed to a silver chain. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Scully finally admits. Mulder smiles, wordlessly leaning forward to close the distance between them. His kiss finally comes with soft lips and firm resolve.  

--

A keen ear kept on the exchange occurring in the hallway, Scully hears the malice in “let her die with dignity,” the intense intent to guilt. Since childhood, Bill has been masterful at identifying a scapegoat. 

Appearing at her bedside, Scully takes her brother’s hand. It has been quite some time since they were together in person and she is aware she should focus on the grand gesture of his presence. But they have always sparred on injustice and she just witnessed him as the purveyor. 

“I don’t want you to talk to him like that,” she tells him. 

It takes almost nothing to generate a quarrel between the two of them. “You keep defending him, Dana, and I don’t see what there is about him to protect,” Bill argues. “You wouldn’t even be in this situation if...”

“Fox has been very helpful,” Maggie interrupts. Their mother is well versed in deescalating the disputes of Dana and Bill; the oil and water of the Scully children. “Bill, sit down and be civil.”

Where Mulder pushes, Bill pulls, and Dana is left somewhere in the middle. Something akin to a jealous feud brews between the two men in her life; each vying for the role of ultimate fixer. It is only when Mulder orchestrates the impossible that her brother cannot deny the miracle. 

Most conversations were plans for a comfortable end or perhaps a prolonged, managed experience. The concept of remission, a life without the dark cloud of cancer, was a possibility never even considered. 

The day of her discharge finally arrives after a final weeklong observation of her progress, and Mulder, as a now regular fixture of the post-critical care ward, shows up to her room early as usual. He drops a bag on her empty hospital bed. “I brought you some clothes from your apartment,” Mulder informs her. “Unfortunately I couldn’t find anything as uniquely versatile as the hospital gown.” 

“I appreciate the effort,” she smiles, ripping open the plastic bag.

Scully can feel an awkwardness emanating from him with three feet between them. She is taking stock of the items he provided when he finally speaks, “Listen, I can be out--” 

With a week to discuss the topic, neither of them were brave enough to allow it. The last thing Scully wants Mulder to believe is she married him to take advantage of a kindness he extended to her. It was done with such a different outcome in mind; a selfless act with an outcome to be bathed in heartache. 

Now, there is no plan on how to approach where things will go from here. Scully didn’t ever think she would be in a position to have to consider it. 

At the very least, they deserve time to enjoy a lack of this particular impending doom. 

“Should we get dinner tonight?”

If there is anything they deserve more of, it is time.

It is health.

It is stability.

[quidfree]

For prompts: any OCs, maybe something like fake relationship? Sorry if you don’t have OCs I’m curiois

i have so many ocs for my original projects that narrowing it down for this was a nightmare buuut here we are anyhow- something v short and dumb

-

“i just don’t see why van and viv couldn’t have done this,” joa says for about the thousandth time when they get there, aware that he’s been stuck on this refrain since two weeks ago and that his partner is near his boiling point but entirely unable to stop complaining. it’s like something in him thinks if he just points it out one more time someone will take notice and put an end to it.

“van and vivienne could have done this,” ezra says, in the voice he uses when he thinks he’s being extremely patient and long-suffering. “but this was your mission, and if you would have preferred to be here with fucking corlett it is not too late for me to trade places.”

“dude,” joa says. ezra shoots him a look.

“you can’t call me dude. we’re madly in love, if you’ll recollect.”

ezra is funny like that; the pissier he gets the more clipped his vowels get, like those rich new england types that had sometimes swung through california on holidays, all east coast condescension. privately joa thinks ezra has more in common with that crowd than he’d care to admit.

“dude, even if we were really-” he waves his hand vaguely “-i’d still call you dude.”

“you call your girlfriends dude?” ezra inquires, shrewdly.

“thought the whole point was the not being a girl thing.”

“corlett,” ezra threatens, so he shuts up. normally ezra wouldn’t do that to him, or at least would never concede defeat, but when ezra’s really angry there’s no scruples to his revenge plans. as much as he feels ready to drink himself sick with nerves and discomfort at the two of them crashing this stupid wedding, having corlett on his arm instead would ensure he died of liver failure before the bride even hit the aisle.

he doesn’t like how antsy this has made him. ezra doesn’t say it but it’s obvious he thinks joa takes some issue with the gay thing, which isn’t true- he’s normally the most adaptable of them to whatever era they get stuck into; he was the first to know about van, and that’s a whole different ballpark. it’s not the couple he cares about, it’s the acting.

all the lying, sneaking bits of the job- subterfuge, vivi would say- he gets it, but he doesn’t like it. even when it’s shit he knows, is good at, like charming strangers or blending into groups, he feels bad for the people he involves. he knows it’s stupid- it’s not like he’s usually hurting anyone, and the whole point is that they’re helping. van finds the whole exercise fun, and vivienne thrives in it; even ezra, who never does anything but play himself, commits to the bit unflinchingly. he’s the only one who gets nauseous each time they make him do some extended charade. he doesn’t know why they couldn’t just go around killing people without lying about it to boot.

normally ezra knows this kind of thing about him, but if ezra has one fault it’s that thing about missing the forest for the trees. when he’s prickly about something he loses his usual invasive-cum-insightful observational skills. that this particular bout of acting is making him more nauseous than usual is neither here nor there.

despite what viv claims, joa is not entirely convinced that ezra can’t read minds, because just as he thinks this, his hand is grabbed with all of the affection of a snake winding around his arm to cut his circulation off. 

“c’mon, suck it up.”

he only just manages to turn his wince into a half-assed grimace, which earns him a foul look.

“i can’t feel my hand.”

“shut up and look like you love me, bride number one is heading this way.”

she is, inexplicably, looking delectable in a pearly white gown, blonde hair piled in curls atop her head. once their presence registers she smiles at them distractedly, eyes scanning them without recognition. it kicks him into work-mode, smile blooming wide and familiar as he extricates his hand from ezra’s to clasp hers.

“miriam! i’m joa, elena’s cousin- tia grassi’s son? and this is my partner ezra. it’s so nice to meet you, you look beautiful.”

“oh, joa, of course,” miriam says, warmly, relaxing as she gestures them in. “it’s a pleasure to meet you too.”

“i’m surprised they have you manning the door,” ezra comments, gesturing to the entrance they’re stood under. “thought that was what the guys in suits were for.”

“sure, sure,” miriam laughs, self-effacingly. “i’m not really playing valet. it’s just we’ve been waiting on the last cake delivery and i’m trying to get the guy through to the back before anyone accidentally tells elena. she’s convinced something’s going to go wrong.”

“sounds familiar,” joa says, with a knowing smile towards ezra, who just about curbs his eyeroll. “also sounds like something you shouldn’t be worrying about on your wedding day. where should we direct him?” 

miriam’s brows raise in surprise; he tries to broadcast sincere helpfulness her way. 

“oh- really? you’d do that?”

“of course. i know how elena gets.”

this sells it; she sighs a little in relief, shakes her head. “you’re a savior. the hall, through the back- it’s just down the ramp and to the left. are you sure?”

“what’s family for?”

only once she’s out of earshot does ezra shoot him a look, eyebrows quirked with amusement.

“what’s family for?”

“fuck you, it worked.”

“your customer service act gives me the hives,” ezra says, although he’s smiling  even as he reclaims his hand in an only marginally less painful grip. joa’s stomach re-knots itself. 

for all that he hates the lying the job involves, there’s something especially discomfiting about roles like these- ones where they keep their names intact, where the stories they construct keep big chunks of their lives unaltered. to the wedding guests they’re still joa and ezra, longtime friends and constantly travelling free-lancers; they may not be time-travellers and there may be some additional intimacy implied, but this joa and ezra have the same back and forth, the same inside jokes, the same dynamic. it makes the lines even blurrier and the lies even more uncomfortable. 

“you look like you’re about to hurl.”

“maybe i am.”

“you’re not. you’re a consummate professional and there’s an agency supervising us and also if you do i’m throwing your mini-fridge out of a window.”

“you wouldn’t like me sober.”

“you wouldn’t like anything sober. i’d tough it out.”

“remind me not to ask you to host my bachelor party.”

“i hate weddings,” ezra says, sourly. joa grins, heartened by his bad mood. viv calls them bad friends for always cheering up at each other’s misery. van calls them disgusting.

“hey, c’mon. this might be fun.”

“oh, sure. i love spending an entire evening pretending to care about two strangers’ impending divorce.”

“oh, c’mon. what about your moms?”

“they’re divorce lawyers. they’re outliers.”

"okay,” joa draws out, just to make him scoff. “themed missions, though. exploding wedding cake? that’s fun.”

“it’s also one of fifteen assassination attempts we’re handling tonight.”

“glass half full, honey.”

ezra flushes an unflattering but extremely charming shade of splotchy red. “half full of arsenic, if case files are to be believed.”

joa sighs, rocking back onto his heels. “talk about cliché, dude. even the cake bomb is more original.”

“messy, though.”

“hey, you love buttercream icing.”

“not mingled with my intestines, i don’t.”

“here comes the truck. are we doing salt lake city sixty five?”

“you read my mind,” ezra agrees, smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “you want the driver?”

so maybe this whole thing won’t entirely suck, joa thinks, smiling back. when ezra’s distracted his hand’s not even that bad to hold.

by the time the afterparty is in full swing, he’s kind of having a good time. foiling assassination attempts always puts him in a good mood, and the service was nice, for what it’s worth- he’d wondered how it would work with two women, but it was sweet in the end, just a couple of tweaks to the sermon and a lot more bridesmaids. he’d cried. ezra had hidden a laugh and complained at length about christianity. dinner had been nice too, although he’d had to eat in quick bursts what with the constant leaving to go thwart ploys to kill the bride. they’d done it under the guise of sneaking out for quickies, an excuse which had earned them surprising amounts of goodwill at their table. gay weddings, and all that.

regardless, they’ve handled attempts numbers one through fourteen and he’s feeling good. the work balances out the awkwardness- sure, he gets queasy when ezra is calmly explaining their meet-cute to strangers, but five minutes later he’s holding a stall door shut while ezra knocks someone’s face into a toilet and it calms his nerves. besides, whoever organised the wedding decided on an open bar for the night, and he’s been downing his fair share of drinks while ezra’s back is turned, which has pushed him into bright magnanimity. ezra will cover for him if he overdoes it, anyways- he still owes him for how coked out he got at that disco in the seventies. 

ezra has launched into a spirited debate of twenty-thirties midwestern politics with some elderly relative; he sips his rum and coke, tuning out the familiar fast-paced scratchy speech to gaze around the room. the music is nice, for the era. so are the brides, currently waltzing merrily around the room and blissfully unaware that this night’s happy ending will set into motion a series of events leading to the discovery of the cure for cancer, or that someone with a penchant for theme has employed fifteen different mediocre hitmen to stop that from happening.

the little themed cocktail umbrella would make a sweet addition to his collection of mementos. as he twirls it he thinks that he was expecting this to be harder, or worse, the whole couples pretence. really dating ezra has just been the exact same as not dating ezra, with some additional niceties thrown in for their audience’s sake. he doesn’t mind the niceties- ezra’s hard to be nice to on the regular, so it’s neat to have him cornered, and besides watching him struggle not to break composure throughout is fun. it’s weirder when it’s ezra’s turn, because ezra’s lying is always half true by default, and it makes him wonder which parts are the lies. 

he’s a little cold in his linen jacket and his drink is gone, so he follows his thoughts and drifts back towards ezra, drapes himself over his back. ezra stiffens like a corpse but doesn’t miss a beat in his sentence, because of course he doesn’t. he’s warm, though, and besides they’re playing pretend boyfriends, so he thinks he’s entitled to some shared heat without it being weird.

“maybe joa could be of use,” ezra is saying currently, obviously trying to throw him under the bus. “joa, do you remember who it was we saw that time with cousin esther at the thing in santa monica?”

“oh, sure,” joa says amiably, chin now resting on his bony shoulder. “rafael.”

the middle-aged couple make noises of recognition; ezra snorts in silent laughter, the movement making his shoulders jump. it’s a lucky guess primarily founded upon the statistics in his actual family. his cousins have shit luck- three of them with the same name has left them with some abominable nicknames. his previously name-dropped tia grassi is the only person stubborn enough to call them all rafael, just in different registers of disappointed suspicion.

ah, his tia grassi. funny woman. mildly terrifying. her fourth wedding had been an event, though he can hardly remember the second half of it, seeing as she’d refused to cater to the child-havers amongst the family and not left any of the punch alcohol-free. all he really remembers is her wedding dress, the cream-coloured version of her default pantsuit with the horrible bow. it’s funny- from where he’s stood there’s a woman right in his line of vision dressed in an orange abomination that looks exactly like the kind of thing only his tia grassi would subject some distant relative to on the day of their wedding.

wait. fuck.

“corazon, my tia grassi is here.”

"no, she’s not.”

“i’m serious, she’s walking right towards us. lady in the orange. fuck, she must be pushing a hundred.”

“shit,” ezra curses, sparing a nod for the couple he was talking to. “excuse us.” 

“she’s following,” joa warns with mild fascination, as they bee-line towards the garden. 

“great,” ezra says, glancing disbelievingly over his shoulder. “why the fuck is she following? and why is she even alive in this decade? how old is that woman?”

“ageless, i don’t know, she probably thinks i’m family,” joa mutters, glancing back. “which i am. just deceased family. she’s not gonna let up, you know.”

“you and your fucking bloodhound relatives. look, we can’t leave, they’re still going to try and do the thing with the fireworks.”

“well, we can’t stay either, or i’m getting marty mcfly’d out of existence, and i’m kinda partial to existing.”

“how is she even following us? scent alone?” ezra mutters, just a shade hysterical, as they wind their way past the bar. “we might have to pull a vermont.”

“oh, dude, no way,” joa says, immediately nauseous. “c’mon. it’s a wedding.”

“you were fine with it when you were beating that guy’s face in with the floral arrangement earlier!”

“yeah, and he was trying to ruin the wedding. this would be us, ruining the wedding. we would be the wedding ruiners.”

“we could choose someone neither of the brides like! they’d be grateful!”

“dude, i am not killing any guests at this wedding.”

“the only other option is worse!”

“no option is worse than murder, ‘zra, that’s kind of murder’s whole thing.”

“yeah? you rather kill hitler or fuck him?”

“always with the ultimatu- woah, woah!”

his second woah gets swallowed, which is probably for the best; ezra’s planting one on him with real determination. his brain short-circuits a bit or something; he doesn’t think to push him off, just lets him at it. it’s usually what works best when ezra’s on a mission, and also as it turns out ezra’s pretty good at the whole kissing thing, and also his nerves are singing and his blood is boiling and he is maybe, potentially kissing back, distractedly and then with intent, their bodies slotting together against the tacky fake rosebush as plastic thorns dig into his back and ezra’s sharp-nailed fingers dig into his shoulders. alcohol has made him warm and fuzzy, but there’s nothing drink-sloppy to it- just continuous, almost familiar ease, and his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

ezra pulls off first, with a nasty sound, head whipping around wildly as joa registers absently that the fireworks were going off in real life too.

“i can’t believe that actually worked.”

“three cheers for latent latin homophobia,” joa says, on auto-pilot, because right, his aunt, and time travel rules, and something. maria joseph and jesus, he’s just kissed a man.

“that and you not being violently sick on me,” ezra says, turning back to face him with his usual frown slotting absently into place. he looks awkward and irritated with his awkwardness and also extremely well-kissed. joa is struck with the realisation that he is entirely fucked in the head, because he finds the picture supremely enticing.

“dude,” he starts, because to be honest they have been skirting around this particular issue for a while and it’s hard to find a time and place to discuss it when it’s not weird or a capital offence. ezra is all narrow-eyed suspicion and coquettishly heaving breaths, which is not helping him focus but definitely helping convince him to labour the point. “i think we should probably- oh, shit, wait, the fireworks.”

he’s running before ezra can so much as cuss, and he gets there just in time, tackling the man right into the bushes and out of harm’s way, voice raised to an apologetic, casual slur even as they grapple for the gun.

“oh, my god, i’m so sorry, i must be drunker than i thought-“

the element of surprise wins him the fight; he manages to slam the guy’s forehead onto a marble lion a couple of times, sound drowned out by the fireworks above.

“honestly,” a slightly out of breath ezra is reproaching nearby, all fond reprobation, and then again once he’s shoved through the bushes himself, losing the affect. “honestly.”

“it’s fine, it’s fine,” joa says, wiping bloody knuckles on the guy’s shirt. “that’s fifteen, right?”

“it’s not fine, it’s fifteen minutes early. if coda is going to send us on these chickenshit gigs you’d think they’d get the fucking timings right.”

“it’s fine, he’s out,” joa repeats, shoving upwards and brushing bits of bush off his clothes. “viv’ll be angry about the suit though.”

“right, like she’s in the costume dep’s good books either after that stunt she pulled with the velvet dress,” ezra snorts, abruptly the voice of reason. “i can’t believe he was fifteen minutes early. that’s twice this week they’ve done this to us.”

“maybe we threw it somehow,” joa defends, rolling his shoulder. “you know the timeline warps the calculations.”

“we didn’t throw anything. twice in a week, seriously. what the fuck do we pay fees for if they can’t even get the timings right? this wouldn’t happen if we had a union.”

“‘zra, there are only ten of us. we are the union.”

“isn’t that a depressing thought. what were you saying earlier?”

“oh, that,” joa says, and then feels sick again. “hey, are you thirsty? i’m pretty thirsty actually.”

“don’t be an asshole.”

“i don’t know, honestly.”

“you’re not doing so hot on the non-asshole front.”

“oh, madre de dios, stop channeling your mom.”

“tu puta madre. i’ll give you passive aggressive.”

“fine,” joa breathes, in one big burst, annoyed and queasy and charmed all in one. “are we- like- ugh, dude, you know what-“

“specify.”

he pauses, exhales. “well, it just feels like maybe we should-“

“probably not.”

“right, but you’d like-“

“does it matter?”

“well, yeah, obviously. it’s just with work, it’s like... you know?”

“sure.”

“not that i...”

“sure.”

“although i don’t actually know if...”

“sure.”

“only then it’s like, overall- i think i want to kiss you off-duty.”

“mazel tov.”

“but would you mind?”

“did the tongue-fucking earlier not broadcast that enough?“

“jesus, dude, we’re at a wedding.”

“a lesbian wedding. that’s their expertise.”

he considers this point.

“hey, you wanna...”

“well, the body,” ezra says, albeit reluctantly. he doesn’t like mess.

“oh, sure,” joa says, thinking. “i guess maybe newark ‘02?”

“yeah, whatever,” ezra shrugs, but there’s a suppressed pleasure in the way he clears his throat. “blue’s your color, you know that?”

“my mom used to say. can you take his feet?”

“jesus, the shoes. hey, did you have some of that cocktail thing earlier?”

“yeah, a couple. there wasn’t extra poison again, was there? because last i saw the res-mac the mormons had it and i so do not want to go to their rooms again.”

“watch the stairs. no, and fuck those guys. i could just taste it earlier. the sour cherry’s not bad but the sugar in this decade tastes weird.”

“the rim is the best part, what the hell?”

“your palate is deranged.”

“you eat pickled fish, jackass.”

“fifteen minutes early. what a schlep.”

“kvetch.” 

“vete a la chingada.”

“don’t i have you for that now?”

“jesus, dude, we’re at a wedding.” 

“funny. so, bar?”

“you have blood all over your cuffs.” 

“like anyone’ll notice. dude, you know they do 360s on ice in this decade?”

“no shit.”

“yeah, right?”

“why the hell are we still standing around not drinking?”

“viv is going to be so mad she missed this.”

“good for her. i’m still pissed about the fucking plath thing.”

“oh, my god, dude. you’re such a hypocrite.”

“name one time-”

“seriously? abbie hoffman?”

“fuck you.”

“holy shit, i think i see my aunt again.”

“are you kidding me? is she part-K9?”

“you’re supposed to be cute about it and kiss me again.”

“i’m not going to be cute about it, i hate that woman. you kiss me since you want to be so cute.”

luckily for the both of them, joa has bad taste. he complies.

[caspianhayes]

                            CASPIAN ALEXANDER LEVI HAYES.

FULL NAME:  Caspian Alexander Levi Hayes. NICKNAMES(S):  Cas. AGE:  28. DATE OF BIRTH:  November 20th, 1991. PLACE OF BIRTH:  Chicago, Illinois. CURRENT LOCATION:  Red Ridge, Nevada. ETHNICITY:  White. GENDER:  Cis male. PRONOUNS:  He/him/his. SEXUAL ORIENTATION:  Pansexual. ROMANTIC ORIENTATION:  Panromantic. RELIGION:  Atheist, raised half Jewish, half nondenominational Christian. OCCUPATION:  Bartender at Violet. EDUCATION LEVEL:  Bachelor’s Degree in business from the University of California, Los Angeles. EXTRACURRICULAR:  Swimming, baseball. LIVING ARRANGEMENTS:  Has a studio apartment near the north side of Red Ridge, lots of windows, usually relatively messy. SPEAKING VOICE AND ACCENT:  Speaks smoothly & calmly, a very standard midwestern accent that’s barely noticeable. It’s very easy to listen to him speak.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE, ETC.

FACECLAIM:  David Corenswet. HAIR COLOR AND STYLE:  Brown, curly, very well taken care of. It looks just as silky as it feels. Typically kept short, has grown out once in his life, and didn’t like the way it looked then. COMPLEXION:  Pale, warmer undertones. EYE COLOR:  Blue. EYESIGHT:  15/20 vision - what the average person sees from 15 feet away, Caspian can see from 20. He won’t be needing glasses anytime soon. HEIGHT:  6’3” WEIGHT:  174 lbs. BODY AND BUILD:  Muscular, but not as muscular as he used to be. He retains his biceps and pecs, but has given up on ab workouts, aside from the occasional one once in a blue moon. TATTOOS:   None, with no plans on getting any. PIERCINGS:  None, no plans on getting any. CLOTHING STYLE:  Cas’ wardrobe leans casual. Dark jeans and t-shirts are his everyday apparel. He only dresses more formal for work because he has to. When it’s cooler outside, he’ll go for a sweater before a sweatshirt. He still wears white Converse, has a beat up old leather jacket that he got in high school, and doesn’t like jewelry on his wrists or fingers.   DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS:  Almost unnaturally blue eyes, his dark curls, and a smile that lights up a room. A sniffle that’s almost always there. SIGNATURE SCENT:  Whiskey, leather, vanilla, and cashmere.

HEALTH.

MENTAL DISORDER(S):  Anxiety. Fear of abandonment and failure. ADHD. PHYSICAL DISORDER(S):  None. ALLERGIES:  None. SLEEPING HABITS:  Caspian has nightmares most nights. He doesn’t go to sleep until the sun starts to rise most mornings, thanks to the fact that Violet doesn’t close until well into the night and he has to stay after closing to help clean up before he goes home. It takes him a while to fall asleep,  but, once he does, he usually isn’t asleep very long. His nightmares startle him awake. It’s rare that he gets a total of six hours combined any given night. EATING HABITS:  He tries to take care of himself where he can in regards to his food. His breakfast most morning is a smoothie and some eggs, he’ll spend the extra money for organic fruits and vegetables. While he does take care of himself most of the time, there are those times where he sits down with a whole pizza and a pint of ice cream and finishes it all, though. When he’s high, he rarely eats, which is why breakfast is so important to him. SOCIABILITY:  He is an extrovert through and through. That’s part of the reason he thoroughly enjoys his time at the bar - socialization. He’s a very smooth talker and a very good listener, which is likely why people typically find it easy to trust him. The cocaine makes him even more sociable. BODY TEMPERATURE:  Naturally warmer, he gets cold very easily. That’s part of the reason he likes the desert so much. ADDICTIONS:  Cocaine. DRUG USE:  Frequently. At least once a day. ALCOHOL USE:  Semi-frequently. Likely drinks one glass of whiskey whenever he’s on shift, but otherwise rarely touches alcohol. Outside of work, when he does drink, it’s likely watching a football or baseball game.

PERSONALITY.

POSITIVE TRAITS:  Loyal, hardworking, charming, resourceful, charismatic. NEGATIVE TRAITS:  Anxious, sly, liar, secretive, stubborn. LIKES:  Cocaine. The Chicago Cubs, dogs, cashmere sweaters, traveling, warm weather, swimming pools. DISLIKES:  The cold, rough textured clothing, grating voices, loneliness, the sound of someone chewing with their mouth open. FEARS: Abandonment, loneliness, never being good enough. Failure. Death. HABITS:  Cocaine, cutting his nails frequently, smoothies with breakfast, fiddling with a necklace or other small things. ASTROLOGY:  Scorpio sun, Taurus moon, Scorpio rising. PERSONALITY TYPE:  ESFP. MORAL ALIGNMENT:  Chaotic neutral. HOGWARTS HOUSE:  Slytherin. ELEMENT:  Water. PRIMARY VICE:  Lust. PRIMARY VIRTUE:  Diligence. WEATHER: Sunny day, no clouds in the sky. Somehow, still a chance of rain. COLOR:  White and red // light blue. MUSIC:  Doesn’t listen to much music. MOVIE:  Inglourious Basterds (2009, dir. Quentin Tarantino). SPORT:  Baseball. BEVERAGE:  Kale and banana smoothie / Arnold Palmer. FOOD:  Scrambled eggs with cheese, broccoli, cupcakes, raspberries, peaches. ANIMAL:  Dogs of all varieties. SEASON:  Late spring, early summer.

FAMILY, RELATIONSHIPS, ETC.

MOTHER:  Amy Hayes. FATHER:  Stephen Hayes. SIGNIFICANT OTHER:  None. SIBLING(S):  One older sibling, 33+. CHILDREN:  None. PET(S):  None.

PROMPT.

Routine.

Who would’ve thought that Cas would end up here, of all places? Certainly not his family, certainly not anyone from his past. He doubted that anyone actually needed a business degree to bartend at the Violet, or to bartend anywhere, really. He doubted that anyone would think to find him there, which was part of the reason he enjoyed being there in the first place. That was the point of running away from the past, no? To escape it? Nights at the Violet were indulgent, and that was Caspian’s favorite part of it all.

Indulgence. Sweet indulgence. To start his shift after a hit of the best coke he could get his hands on was a feeling of near-euphoria after a morning of restlessness and anxiety. He could feel that paranoia and constant worry wash away as he walked the length of the bar, ears tuned in to everything happening around him. That was the thing about Violet; people talked. And when people talked, Caspian heard. They may have thought that he wasn’t listening, that he was just there to do his job and go home. But that wasn’t the truth. He knew about the man at the third stool and how he’d been cheating on his wife for the past three months. He knew about the woman at the seventh who owed Valencia more money than she had in her bank account, and, despite that, continued to turn to Violet every night for the comfort of a glass of gin. He knew the high-rollers with their hands dirty, knew the secrets of the civilians who simply wanted to live life without Valencia’s influence, knew those who feared Rorschach and what his arrival may mean. And it was almost as euphoric to him as the coke was. Almost.

HEADCANONS.

He grew up in the shadow of his older sibling. He always hated it - always hated never feeling good enough for his parents. No matter what he did, it wasn’t enough. Not when he made the varsity swim team and baseball team as a freshman in high school, not when he was given a swim scholarship to UCLA for college, not when he worked his ass off to get good grades despite his involvement in two sports.

The Hayes family is big in the financial planning world. If you don’t know a thing about that, you probably won’t know who they are, but his mother has been on covers of industry magazines and interviewed for finance TV shows before. She and his father co-own their own company.

He started partying in high school to try to let off some steam after games and dances. He only increased his partying in college. This was when he first tried cocaine. The partying got heavier and heavier, and, eventually, he lost his scholarship. That’s when he started bartending - he didn’t want his parents to know that he lost the scholarship, so he had to pay his own way through the rest of school. This was also when he cut contact with his family.

He likes it when people talk to him as if he was a brick wall, not absorbing any of their information. But he keeps that dirt in his brain - after all, who knows when he’s going to need it?

He was a good cook, once upon a time. Now, he doesn’t really have the incentive to be one, especially since he works through what most people would consider “dinner time”.

He’s pretty good at poker, but he’d never go into the casino to play. That’s too formal for him.

He wouldn’t refer to himself as a cocaine addict - just a man who likes cocaine. He figures he could stop at any time he wants to.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

SUPPLIER: he's got a drug addiction; he needs drugs. this is probably someone within valencia who provides him with his fix - someone he pays either with information or money.

MUTUAL DISLIKE: this person doesn't like him for whatever reason. maybe he owes them money. maybe he's made a promise he didn't keep. whatever the reason is, cas doesn't like them, either. they're greeted with distaste.

FRIENDS: obviously everyone needs friends. these people may or may not know about cas' addiction problems, and, if they do know, he still won't admit to having an addiction problem.

PAST HOOKUP: any gender ! he does have a tendency to sleep around solely for praise and validation that he feels like he's been missing in his life thus far. don't be mad if he doesn't call you back.

BOSS: this is someone in Valencia, as Violet is owned by them. Cas probably doesn't know too much about them/their involvement in the organization, they probably aren't too close because he's wary of them more than anything.

WARY: this person knows that something's going on with Cas. May or may not suspect the cocaine addiction, probably someone on the side of the law, recognizing that Caspian isn't getting by on his own.

OWED DEBT: Cas owes this person something, whether it be because they provided him with coke or because his car broke down and he needed help fixing it - whatever the reason, he's in debt, and he can't repay it yet. Valencia or not !

OLDER SIBLING: this is the big one ; see the main.

[thisisthepartwhereyou]

BEASTARS MINI-STORY # 2: “Alea Iacta Est” by JCL

We are in an office somewhere in the Horns Conglomerate. Juno is standing behind a changing screen, changing her clothes.

JUNO: "You know Louis, it was very nice of you to have a tailor design an outfit just for me."

Louis is standing nearby with his arms behind his back, staring in the opposite direction with a bored expression.

LOUIS: "Don't think too much about it. Many of my father's most important clients will be present at this event, so I can't take you with me and have you look anyhow."

This prompts Juno to stick her head above the screen with an agitated expression.

JUNO: "Anyhow?! Since when have I looked just 'anyhow?!'"

LOUIS: "You misunderstand me. Appearences are everything on these kind of events, as they leave everlasting impressions that could prove to be very helpful later in life. That's basically what these occasions are for: Looking presentable and making valuable connections."

Juno's ears drop at this.

JUNO: "Sounds a bit self-centered for what is supposed to be a charity event..."

Louis gives off an amused little smile.

LOUIS: "Held by shallow and stuffy people, who'll look good as they handle donations entrusted to them by those who has more money than they know what to do with. They call it a charity, but really, it´s just a celebration of ego".

Louis looks over his shoulder, and then notices that Juno is giving him a sad expression. His smile dims and he looks away.

LOUIS: "... But if the money still goes to those in need, who cares if it's for egotistical reasons?"

Juno looks happier at this notion. Louis clears his throat.

LOUIS: "Ehum, anyway, you probably don't have to worry about blending in. This dress is designed to ease them in to you. If they can accept you on first sight, you can act as unrefined as you like. You can act pretty much as you always do."

Juno's expression turns to that of intense annoyance. She clearly didn't like the therm "unrefined" or the implication that she needs to be "eased in to."

JUNO: "Is that how it works for you I wonder, with them pretty suits you wear...!"

She mutters as she sinks back behind the screen. Louis give the changing screen a nervous glance, as he clearly sensed the venom in Juno's tone.

LOUIS: (Did I say something wrong?)

Then he sighs.

LOUIS: (Perhaps it was a bad idea to invite her in the first place?) --- We enter a flashback, seeing the events that lead up to this whole situation.

LOUIS: (The Horns Conglomerate has been a major contributor to this charity for years; it's higher ups are always expected to attend. As the sole heir to the company I can't just skip it)

For starters, we see Louis adoptive father, Oguma, talking to him with a serious expression.

OGUMA: "It is expected of you to be accompanied by a female. If you arrive by yourself it could be misinterpreted as a weakness, especially considering your age. It is unfortunate that Azuki had to leave to continue with her studies, but you can surely bring someone else for the sake of custom."

LOUIS: (It's a good thing that it doesn't have to be a romantic partner) --- LOUIS: (I am also quite glad I didn't have to ask Azuki. That would have been uncomfortable.)

We then go to Azuki, Louis fiance, who is outside a fancy-looking private school in what appears to be midwestern Europe. She does not look happy as she is looking through her textbook, with a noticable, popping vein on her forehead.

AZUKI: "Hmph!" --- LOUIS: (And I can't ask Haru either, considering she's with Legosi)

We are now in Legosi's apartment in the hidden condo. They're sitting at opposite ends of the dinnertable, while Legosi seems to be adjusting a broken tooth with gum, giving off numerous musical melodies though his mouth. Haru looks on with a fascinated expression.

HARU: "Wow, it's like you have a whole backup band in there." --- LOUIS: (I guess through the process of elimination, Juno was the most logical candidate)

Now we're in a café. We see Juno sitting at a table across Louis while drinking from a juicecarton with a straw.  

JUNO: "A charity event?"

LOUIS: (She is a great dancer, has good manners, is considered all around pleasant company by people around her...)

Juno stops sipping from the juice and grabs Louis by the hand. Her tail is wagging and her eyes are gleaming with excitement.

JUNO: "Is that like a party? You're inviting me to come to a party with you?! I've never even been invited to one before!"

Louis looks tense and waves dismissively with his free hand.

LOUIS: "Just as a friend though! I am still engaged you know."

LOUIS: (Considering the complicated feelings that has grown between us, this may indeed have been a bad idea) --- We're back in the present time in the office of the Horns Conglomerate.

LOUIS: (Though, if anybody at the gala thinks we're a couple, I can just explain that we used to be in the drama club together) "Are you finished soon?"

JUNO: "Okay, okay, keep your shirt on!"

Juno walks out from behind the screen. She is wearing a pure white dress with a long skirt, reminiscent of the one worn by Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch (1955), with a see-through shoal draped over her shoulders. Juno gives Louis a cheeky look, hand on hip and everything.

JUNO: "Well? How's this for anyhow?"

Louis stares at her with a stunned expression, like a deer caught in the headlights.

LOUIS: "It is...!" (If I admit that she looks absolutely radiant, she'll take full advantage of it) "It is quite good. Though it is a bit different from what I commissioned from the tailor." (Good, keep up a strong front and deflect the subject)

JUNO: "Well I had to ask for a few modifications. I don't think the original design was meant for a canine; it would have been too restrictive to move in. Also, considering this is a formal affair, I don't want to look like a little lost girl. With this I look more like a young woman who knows where she's at, don't you think?"

Louis gives off a little smile.

LOUIS: "Well, I suppose..." (I guess she does have a good feel for these kind of things. Impressive for someone who claims she has never been to a party before)

JUNO: "Oh, I almost forgot!"

Juno suddenly spins around, revealing that the dress has an exposed back.

JUNO: "What do you think about the back?"

Louis eyes pops out of his skull, like a lovestruck character from a Tex Avery-cartoon.

LOUIS: "Nuh-"(BACK! NAKED BACK! BACK NAKED!)

JUNO: "It's not too daring, is it? The tailor insisted that this was the norm for women on these charities."

LOUIS: "D-Did he now?" (That perverted little BASTARD! Forget the drama club angle, there isn't going to be a single animal in the building who'll think she's just an aquiantence with an outfit like that!)

JUNO: "I mean I think it should be appropriate enough with the shoal."

Juno lets the shoal over her shoulders drop a bit, which further seems to excite Louis. Louis stretches his hands out in front him, approaching Juno like he was zombie or something.

LOUIS: (What is this unnatural desire? I am losing control, my hands are moving by themselves... I want her, I want her NOW!)

Louis hands grab ahold of Juno's shoulders. She looks surprised.

JUNO: "S-Senpai?"

LOUIS: (CRAP! I've lost control, my desire for her is overflowing my common sense...! I need to think of something quick...! Something... Something UNSEXY!)

Louis summons the unsexiest memory he can think of: Legosi in drag. It works like a charm and he simply pulls the shoal back up to Juno's shoulders.

LOUIS: (I have to thank Legosi next time I see him) "If you keep it up at this level, I think it'll be fine."

Juno smiles at this, unaware of what Louis almost did.

JUNO: "Really? And it still works with what you're wearing?"

LOUIS: "A white dress should work just fine with a black tux."

JUNO: "Do you have it here?"

LOUIS: "Sorry, it's at the cleaner." (Actually I have it in my father's office, I just don't want to partially unclothe myself after this)

JUNO: "Aww that's too bad...! I would have loved to see how you look in it.'

LOUIS: "You will soon enough. Now, if that is all, how about lunch?"

Louis turns around to look at his phone. As he does this, Juno notices something: Louis tail is wagging.

LOUIS: "I feel like I could eat a whole three-course meal right now..."

JUNO: "Alea iacta est."

Juno mumbles this at a very low volume. Louis gives her a questioning look.

LOUIS: "Hm?"

Juno quickly turns on full cheerful-mode.

JUNO: "I said I'd like that too! Your treat as always?"

Louis sweatdrops at this.

LOUIS: "Sure..."

JUNO: (I'm onto you. Your tail, your appetite, it's the same for me. Who would've guessed that a deer would show the same signs as a carnivore?)

LOUIS: "You may want to change though. That might a little too extravagant for the cafeteria."

JUNO: "Alright. You go ahead, I'll come as soon as I can." (You better watch your step, senpai)

Louis proceeds to walk out of the room, while Juno goes behind the screen to change back to her regular clothes. Juno gives off a sly expression; this is what she's been waiting for.

JUNO: (The die is cast)

THE END

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

i could never define all that you are to me

Christmas fluff based off one of these AUs. In which Josh has a comically large box under the tree for Donna, and she’s more than a little suspicious of it. 

Josh x Donna, The West Wing. Also on AO3.

Donna rolled her eyes the moment she spotted the giant box under the Christmas tree. Some small part of her had thought that Josh would tone down his gift-giving obsession after they got together.

As her boss, he’d always had an uncanny knack for finding just the right thing, or connecting it to just the right sentiment. Their first year as a couple, Donna teased him about overcompensating for something, then ended up sniffling back sentimental tears.

But within the chaos of the Santos administration at Yuletide, it would have been enough for her that he made any effort at all. Instead, Josh remained insistent--refusing to give her any hints, scheduling his shopping into the official calendar with cryptic destinations. He was still chasing that perfect present...or buying her too many.

By their second official Christmas together, she didn’t bother asking for anything specific, because last time he’d ignored her hints anyway. And she’d loved what she gave her more than any gift she thought she wanted.

But even if she had asked for something, it wouldn’t have been the size of a toddler. So she frowned at the large rectangle with its cheerful green wrapping every time she passed it in their apartment, for the next two weeks until Christmas Day finally arrived.

Josh insisted that she take her turn unwrapping second, and Donna agreed impatiently because again, overcompensating much? She didn’t need so much build-up to Connecticut’s biggest teddy bear or whatever left-field item would take her breath away this year...especially when a part of her was maybe a tiny bit annoyed.

For a guy who used to be so emotionally immature, Josh was way too good at condensing years of banter and longing into a present that only he would think to get her. It was maddeningly charming. And she was pretty sure that no matter how hard she tried, she would never be quite as good at it as he was.

He opened the handful of gifts that Donna had gotten him, pausing to express his gratitude with kisses between each one. They were her usual mix of practical and sentimental presents: a book he wanted to read but would never remember to buy for himself, a tie that only she would be able to fix correctly for him, the goofy keychains she collected on official trips that had become code for ‘I was here and missed you.’ 

Finally, only one gift remained--the huge one in front of her. Josh exhaled and bounced a little where he sat.

“Okay, your turn.”

She was usually careful with wrapping paper, but the lead up had been such an ordeal and Josh had dragged it out so deliberately that she rushed to tear it off. The box, she realized immediately, was for a commercial-grade mixer...which made no sense.

Even if she wanted to bake, which she really didn’t, there was zero time for a hobby like that right now. When Josh just shrugged and looked back at the box pointedly, she realized the mixer box wasn’t sealed shut.

Donna raised her eyebrows and lifted the cardboard flaps. Of course, she thought, there was another box inside the mixer box. This one was about the size of a basketball, and wrapped in bright red stripes, with a shiny bow.

She lifted the smaller box up and out, watching Josh’s grin spread. The finger aimed his way didn’t dissuade his elation at all. “Josh.”

“That tone does not sound like proper Christmas spirit,” he replied as she unwrapped the red gift.

This box was for a rock polisher, and Donna didn’t waste time wondering if he’d actually gotten her a rock polisher, of all things. She opened it up, sighed at the silver and gold gift within, and carefully unfolded the paper just in case maybe it was the present that counted.

“There had better be an actual gift in here, Joshua, or so help me.”

Instead, inside the metallic box was an even smaller one in pale blue, and he remained silent as Donna confirmed that it wasn’t her gift either.

She exhaled in relief a few seconds later, though, when opening the blue gift revealed a box in white paper that was so small she couldn’t imagine the game continuing on any farther. Earrings, she guessed. Maybe a pendant he found when he’d mysteriously disappeared last weekend. All this for some jewelry.

Her second clue that she’d made it to the right box was the fact that Josh stopped grinning at her expectantly and started talking before she could open it.

“The first real Christmas gift I gave you, you hated,” he told her with that soft smile she never got tired of seeing.

“I didn’t--”

He cut off Donna’s protest by reaching for her left hand and kissing the back of it. “You did. It’s okay. You wanted what you’d asked for, ski gear or at least something fun. Instead I got you a musty old book that you would never have time to read because you worked sixteen hours a day for me in the first place. Your face sort of froze in that Midwestern mask of politeness, and you tried to be nice about it.”

“Okay, yeah.” She nodded, squeezing the hand holding hers. “But then I read the inscription. You remember that part too, right?”

“I do.” He chuckled. “You hugged me, right there in the office. It was pretty great.”

Josh shook his head. “Anyway, it wasn’t what you were expecting. But you thanked me, and we both moved on, and when I looked back, you were reading the inscription again.”

“Aww. You were looking at me?”

“I did a lot of looking at you,” he pointed out. “You were like magnetic north.”

“Okay, so I liked the book. This,” she lifted the white box, “is clearly not a book.”

“No,” he agreed, “but it’s relevant, because we never talked about it back then and I avoided thinking about it...but I already loved you that Christmas, Donna. I tried not to, because it would have been safer for everybody, but God, I did. And that book, with the inscription, was me not being able to hold those feelings back.”

She pulled him in for a kiss, the box pressed between them as Donna rested her forehead against his. “You know I did too. I always have.”

“Yeah. But because of our jobs, our situation, it was never appropriate, to love you as much as I did. I couldn’t show it. Except at Christmas. You know?”

His warm brown eyes searched hers for understanding, and she thought maybe she finally did get it. Josh was made for the political arena because he had an ego fit for politics...but gift giving had never been about showing off, being the best, any of that.

It had been a way to love her, without risking the rest of their lives, and to let her know it. Everybody was allowed to give and receive affection at Christmas; he’d just done so a little extra hard with her.

“That explains so much,” she told him seriously, leaning back to look down again at the box in her hand. “So what you’re saying is that this tiny box shouldn’t irritate me because you made me open seventeen bigger boxes to get to it? Because it’s the thought that counts?”

“I think that’s a little simplistic,” Josh argued back. “What I’m saying is, that first present from me wasn't what you were expecting. And finding you in my campaign office that day, and everything that's come after...wasn't what I was expecting. But I'm so glad that I did. Open your present.”

Donna removed the tiny, shimmering, stuck-on bow first, then unfolded the delicate white paper. Inside was more white, a box with a stamped lid, and she was lifting it off when she heard Josh ask, “Donnatella Moss, will you marry me?”

She almost dropped the box instead of getting to see what was inside it.

Donna would be embarrassed to admit it later, but her hands shook when she looked up at him and saw all of the hope and promise shining in his eyes. She couldn't tear her gaze away.

“Yes,” she breathed out, and saw her engagement ring for the first time as he was sliding it onto her finger--the smallest Christmas gift Josh had ever given her, but also the biggest.

And her favorite so far.

[lilacmoon83]

Swan

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 4: Family

Over the next few months, the Swan family settled into their new lives in the mid-sized Midwestern town that allowed anonymity without being lost in the bustle of an even bigger city life like Boston or New York. Snow was teaching third grade, under the name Mary Margaret Swan, having officially changed it from Blanchard upon legally marrying David in this land. It allowed her to use her teaching credentials, without keeping the name Blanchard. And though legally she was Mary Margaret, she had taken to going by just Margaret. She was worried they would call Storybrooke for references, but since outside calls didn't actually go through to the little town that wasn't supposed to exist, they hired her based upon a written recommendation that August had helped her work up.

Normally, she did not like having to do things dishonestly, but she recognized the need for it in order for their survival. August was very adept at surviving in this land and she accepted that this was the reality of their situation.

David had applied at a lot of local places, but really lucked out one day when he and Emma had been out near a local vet that mainly dealt with equine and farm animals that nearby farmers came to. He and Emma happened to be passing by the place, which was on the outskirts of town, not far from their small apartment. There had been an unruly horse and her husband, being the man he was, stepped in and calmed the animal. The vet was so impressed that he had hired David as an assistant to help handle the animals. The pay was not great, but not terrible either and David enjoyed helping with the animals. It was a lucky break for them, considering he didn't have any documentable education in this land. The hours were also good too and allowed him to go in very early and be off in the afternoon in time to pick Emma up from school, which was great since Margaret taught at a school on the other side of town.

David had never really imagined a life like this. When they had first been told of the curse, he actually had not given much thought to the land the curse would be taking them or what it might be like. He soon found that he loved the simple life they had, in which they were able to focus on their family and their marriage. So much of royal life had been daunting at times and the dark cloud of the impending curse had always been hanging over them. This may have not exactly been the life they imagined, but they found they were both enjoying a life free of the duties and responsibilities of royals. Here in this land, they could just be themselves and focus on their love and family. A family that included their precious daughter and an adopted son in August. It was something they were all still adjusting to, but they had both come to love August as their own and it was their hope that he felt the same. And on that day, as he arrived at school to pick him up before they went to get Emma, David would get some insight into just how August felt, as he unknowingly overheard a conversation his adopted son was having with some of his peers.

"Come on man...this is a good offer," a tall boy said, obviously pressuring August about something.

"I told you...I can't. I'm not doing that stuff anymore. I have a family now," August protested.

"You're seriously turning down a huge payday for some so-called family?" another guy asked.

"I love them...they've taken me in when no one else would," August argued.

"Oh please, Booth...you're almost ready to age out. They'll dump you the minute you get too old," the first youth told him.

"Yeah...and they'll never love you as much as they love their biological kid," the second one added. He heard silence from August at that and his heart sank a bit.

"Come on, you know we're right. Didn't your own Dad abandon you? Why would these people be any different?" the first teen urged.

"Because he is my son and you're wrong," David interjected, as he made his presence known. August looked at him in surprise, as the prince whom he had looked up to in awe as a boy stepped in to support him.

"The only place August is going is home, with his family, where he belongs," David said, as they turned to walk away.

"Oh and his name isn't August Booth anymore. It's August Swan," he added, as they walked away and back old truck they had managed to purchase not too long ago. Snow and August had taught him how to drive, so he could get around when Snow was at work.

"Did you mean all that?" August asked, as David put his arm around him.

"Have you ever known me to say something that I don't mean?" David answered with his own question.

"I guess not...but they were right. I'm not even your kid," August replied.

"But we love you like you are and I know that after everything you've been through, that seems hard to believe," David told him, as they got into the truck.

"I know you have issues with abandonment...Emma does too, but we're not going to do that to you," he continued.

"Look at how much you've helped me navigate this world," he reminded. August smiled.

"I was happy to...this world is overwhelming at first," he said.

"Yeah...and you faced it as a kid, by yourself. But you don't have to face it by yourself anymore. You've taught me so much...I was beginning to wonder if there was anything I could even teach you," he replied.

"Are you kidding? You've taught me so much…" August revealed.

"You've taught me about family and the kind of man I want to try to be. I mean, you're this amazing husband and father...I just don't know if I can be that. I guess that's why those guys tempted me. I guess running away when I'm scared is what I've always done," he added. David smiled.

"There was a time that I used to think running away or trying not to make waves was the way to live. But someone taught me that was no way to live. And only when I started standing up for myself and others did I truly realize the kind of man I wanted and needed to be," he told the young man. August smiled.

"And you really were wondering if there was nothing you could teach me?" he teased. David smiled and ruffled his hair, as he started driving toward Emma's school.

~*~

Emma stuffed things into her backpack from her locker and glanced at the recent picture she had pinned inside the door of the four of them. How her life had changed in such a short time. She had parents now. And not just any parents...her real parents. All her life, she had wondered what they might be like and looked like. She wondered who she looked more like and finally knew the answers to those questions. But most importantly, she was happy for the first time in her life. She knew now that they never wanted to give her up and were actually forced to do so. She knew now that they were wonderful people and loved her more than she thought possible. She knew now that she looked like both of them in almost a perfect symmetrical mix of the two of them. Her mother was an actual princess and her father had humble beginnings on a farm before he became a prince. It was surreal, but really exciting that she had come from such heroic and amazing people. Emma had always known she was different, but now she knew why. She wasn't from this world and that was still a lot to take in at times, but she had a family now and that was everything.

Her parents had talked a little bit about the curse, since it was the reason they had all been separated and they had told Emma that someday, they would be going back to Storybrooke, the place where everyone was cursed, to save everyone. But they had told Emma not to worry about that since they wouldn't be going back for a very long time.

She picked her new beanie up and put it on, smiling at the thought of it. Her mother was learning to knit. Apparently, before the curse, Granny had been teaching her to do so. Her parents had told her how Granny was the old woman that had made her blanket for her and was trying to teach her mother to knit. Snow wasn't very good at it yet and her first effort was a bit misshapen and awkwardly stitched, but Emma loved it.

"Nice hat, Swan…" one of the popular girls said derisively. Being made fun of for not wearing the latest fashions and hand me downs used to bother Emma, since it reminded her why she had to. But the reason she had to was different now. She had her real family now and though they didn't have a lot of money, they were together and happy.

"Man, I didn't know even thrift stores sold things that ugly," another girl commented. But she didn't react to them, as she saw her father waiting for her outside with August. They could say whatever they wanted, but she now had everything she wanted. Sure, those girls had families too, but they took their parents for granted and Emma knew that was something she'd never do. Besides, her parents were still in love and Emma had seen enough parents to know that wasn't the case for everyone. They were Snow White and Prince Charming and they shared true love. Emma came from that true love and that was why their words no longer bothered her. After losing hope so young, it had been reawakened in her when her parents walked through a magical door and into her life again. They found her and she had an amazing future ahead of her now. So walking past them without a word or reaction was easy now, which of course infuriated them.

"Hey Princess…" David greeted, as he hugged her against his side and they walked to the truck.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Well, it was school so it was pretty boring," she replied, making him chuckle and he noticed a couple of other girls glaring at her.

"Is everything okay?" he asked. Emma shrugged.

"They're just mean girls, but they don't bother me anymore," Emma replied.

"Can we have grilled cheese for dinner?" she asked. He chuckled.

"Sure peanut, but you know your Mom is going to want you to eat some vegetables," he replied. She wrinkled her nose, as they got into the truck.

~*~

About an hour later, Snow entered their small apartment after a long day and smiled, as she spotted her family in the kitchen.

"Hey…" she said, as she greeted her husband with a kiss.

"Hey you…" he purred, as he watched her kiss August and Emma both on the forehead.

"Grilled cheese again?" she mused playfully to her husband, as she took things out of the fridge to make salad. He shrugged.

"She loves it," he said.

"Okay...but she needs to eat a salad with it," Snow replied.

"We did discuss the eating of vegetables," he said.

"Mmm...and you folded under her puppy eyes and sad pout," Snow teased, as she mimicked Emma's look that she often gave her father to get her way.

"Oh, you mean the same look you're giving me now and have used in the past to get what you want?" he retorted and she grinned at him.

"Touche," she replied, as she kissed him again and they smiled at each other.

"And besides, we both knew this was always how I would be with her," he reminded and she rested her head against his shoulder, as they watched August and Emma banter between each other in the living room. Someday, they knew they would return to Storybrooke for their people and they could still hear Rumpelstiltskin's warning about the final battle that would begin in Emma's twenty-eighth year echoing in their minds. That time would come, but for now, they would continue to embrace this chance to raise their daughter that they had been gifted and be the family they were meant to be.

"I love you…" Snow whispered, as he caressed her face.

"And I love you, my darling," he whispered back, as their lips met in a passionate kiss and they continued to watch their children together with a fondness in their eyes.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @sandalwoodmalecs!

For sandalwoodmalecs: I hope you enjoy this piece: there's a lot of tropes in here which I hope you will like - there's enemies to lovers, though it's one-sided and quite silly, Magnus taking care of Madzie, lots of Queen, and it is set in the summer of 1982.

Read on AO3

*****

whatever this world can give to me

The sky billowed with clouds. Rain fell, heavy and fast, and Magnus cursed, pulling his briefcase closer to his body. He couldn’t stop a groan from slipping through his mouth as the bus sped past him, water drenching his bag despite his previous efforts. It was waterproof - allegedly. Hopefully, it stood the test, or there would be some very angry students when Magnus turned up with their essays - already belated - destroyed, their marks illegible. With that scintillating thought in mind, Magnus chased after the bus. The signpost of the bus stop faced him, almost mockingly. Next to the signpost, underneath the shelter, stood a man, a leather wallet already in his hand. The bus stopped, and Magnus cursed under his breath again.

The man, his suit perfectly dry, entered the bus. The money clinked, the ticket was exchanged, and the door hadn’t closed yet.

But as his eyes met the man’s - they were stunning, molten gold wrapped in jagged emeralds - he shook his head. The door closed, and the bus rattled off. Slightly out of breath, Magnus grabbed the signpost to steady himself, swearing vehemently under his breath. That asshole. He wouldn’t be able to make it to tea with Catarina now.

...

Thankfully, due to his early departure, he wasn’t late for work. Which was just as well. It hadn't been easy to secure this job. Yet, when he turned up to his first lecture, coffee in hand and briefcase slung over his shoulder, there were already students waiting outside the lecture hall. “Right,” Magnus said, opening the door, “come on in.” Chaos swarmed over the room as he stepped inside, the chatter continuing to flourish as the loud snap of desks opening filled the hall. Magnus sighed, throwing his belongings down on the table beside him. 8 am really was too early for a lecture. “Welcome. I have your essays.” The chatter started to crackle, to bubble, on the verge of setting fire to the room. He unclipped the brass clasp of his briefcase, pulling out the slightly damp essays. Magnus smiled, feeling only a tad evil. “Please collect them after the lecture.” A collective grumble spread across the room, but Magnus knew from unfortunate experience that handing them out now would lead to distracted and disinterested students. Well, only slightly more so than usual. Perhaps Magnus wasn't being fair to his students. They were generally a good lot, turning in most of their assessments on time and treating Magnus with respect. Magnus started to walk around, surveying the room, and everyone fell into a silent hush. “After exploring the rise of communism through the allegoristic story of Animal Farm, we will be exploring the fragility of the American Dream in early 20th century Midwestern America through Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men. Of course, if you pay any attention at all to the course you are studying, you would already know this.” Magnus turned around, scrawling Of Mice and Men onto the blackboard. He turned back around, his burgundy coat sweeping out. “Get out your books. There’s no rest for the wicked,” he said, winking. “Let's thoroughly dissect and explore the tragedy of George and Lennie.” The lecture passed in a swirl of content pouring out of his mouth, his own battered copy of Of Mice and Men lying on the table. It might not have been the easiest job, teaching adolescents the wonder of literature in the midst of this crazy decade. Life would never be easy. But at least, as a reputable professor, it was easier.

...

When Magnus finally found the time to swing around to Catarina’s place, it was Saturday afternoon, the vicious rain replaced by soft rays of sunlight. As always, Catarina opened the door with the bolt still in place. “Who is it?” The question hung in the air, soaked with the uncertainty and fear born out of societal prejudice.

“Magnus, dear,” he replied.

Catarina unlocked the door, leaning against it with a sigh. “Thank goodness you’re here.” Magnus frowned, walking inside. “Are you alright?” Catarina bit her lip, gesturing towards the phone lying limply on the table. “There’s been an influx of AIDs patients at the hospital, and, well…” "It's not your fault," Magnus cut in, trying to stop Catarina's spiral of self-deprecation before it took over. "What do you need? “Can you look after Madzie?” Catarina asked. It hurt Magnus to hear how hesitant Catarina was. They had been best friends for years. There was no reason to be hesitant in asking for a perfectly reasonable favour. “I know it’s short notice, but -” “Of course I will,” Magnus said, wanting to go up to Ronald Reagan himself to punch him in the face for contributing to all of this distress. “You know I love my sweetpea.” “She’s got a doctor’s appointment at five,” Catarina said, “it’s her yearly check-up, and she really can’t afford to miss it.” “Where is it?” Magnus asked, pushing down his anger at the world and its rigid, unjust ways, as Catarina needed cooperation, not venting, right now. “At the Lightwoods’ clinic down the road.” Catarina tilted her head to the side. “Madzie, you can come out now.” A door down the corridor creaked, opening to reveal Madzie. She dashed out from behind it, running up to hug Magnus. Madzie looked up at him with stars shining in her eyes. "Uncle Magnus! It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, sweetpea,” Magnus replied, dropping down to Madzie’s height, “how’s school?” Her smile widened. “Great! Some kids are mean, but Zoe sticks with me.” Magnus nodded, grateful for the small mercies of life. “And we’re getting to write, now, on these tiny blackboards,” Madzie continued, enthusiasm sparkling within her eyes, “nowhere near as big as yours, Uncle Magnus. Do you know why they make chalk so crumbly?” Magnus laughed, shaking his head. “No, I don’t, sweetpea.” “Anyway,” Catarina interrupted, “Madzie, darling, Uncle Magnus needs to take you to your appointment shortly.” Madzie nodded, entwining her hands with Magnus' jacket as if afraid that he would go away, now that she had stopped talking to him. “May I go to the park after?” “Of course, dear,” Catarina said, slinging her bag over her shoulder, dropping down onto her knees to press a soft kiss to Madzie’s forehead. “Be safe.” “I’ll try,” Madzie promised, “Uncle Magnus knows how to keep me safe.” “He sure does. I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Catarina said, unlatching the door, the bolt banging against the wood. “Do what Uncle Magnus tells you to do, okay?” “I will,” Madzie repeated, fiddling with Magnus’ jacket. The door closed with a click. Madzie fell into Magnus, forcing him to sit down so that she could crawl into his lap, though he didn’t mind.   Magnus opened his arms, making it easier for Madzie to hug him. “We need to go to the doctors shortly, then supper and then the park. Sound good?” Madzie nodded against his neck. “Yep. Can you please read to me?” It broke Magnus’ heart that, even after all these months, Madzie was still so hesitant to ask for what she wanted. “Of course, dear,” he replied, pulling Matilda out of his pocket, “just relax.”

...

The clinic wasn’t difficult to find, with a neat Drs Lightwood scrawled on a sign in front of the place. When Magnus opened the door, he was met with a clean interior. And a friendly receptionist. “Welcome,” she greeted, putting down her pen, “I’m Ms Fray.” “Nice to meet you," Magnus said, "I'm Mr Bane, here for Madzie Loss' 4 o'clock appointment with Dr Lightwood." Ms Fray nodded, checking her notebook with practised ease. “Ah, yes. Please wait in the waiting room and you will be called shortly." “Thank you,” Magnus said, as Madzie grabbed his hand, tugging him towards the waiting area. “They’ve got a nice piano,” Madzie whispered into his ear. “Can you play it please?” Magnus smiled, sitting down at the piano. “Of course, sweetpea.” And as he slipped dramatically into a soft rendition of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, he started to relax. It was nice to only have to worry about one thing at the time, if only temporarily.

...

Dr Lightwood, unfortunately, broke Magnus’ reverie. He turned out to be that asshole from the bus stop. “Ah, Dr Lightwood," Magnus said, his smile now tight, "nice to meet you. I'm Magnus Bane, Madzie's uncle." Dr Lightwood leant forward, offering his hand, and in the name of politeness and in not scarring Madzie, Magnus shook it. "Please,” Dr Lightwood said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “call me Alec.”

If his eyes hadn’t been so familiar, Magnus might have believed that he was mistaken, that this charming doctor wasn’t the same person who had made him miss his bus.

Magnus tried and failed to add some semblance of warmth to his tone before he spoke next. “Alright.”

“Well," Alec said, flipping through a thin file, "as I told Catarina before on the phone, the health insurance has come through." "Right," Magnus replied, having to make a conscious effort to keep the bitterness out of his voice, "let's commence, then."

If it had been a regular day, and Magnus had missed his normal bus, he would have had some serious explaining to do to his boss.

So he wasn’t exactly brimming with positivity about this Dr Lightwood. Yet as the consultation went on, Alec continued to dote on Madzie with soft words and even softer smiles, leading Magnus to think that, despite his selfish tendencies, perhaps Alec wasn’t the devil incarnate. Still, for the peace of his own mind if nothing else, Magnus wanted to ask Alec why he hadn’t simply asked the bus driver to wait. So at the end of the consultation, he spoke up. "Madzie, if you could please wait outside, I would like to have a private word with Dr Lightwood." Madzie nodded, slipping outside without a fuss. Alec sighed, shuffling the paperwork. “Catarina has already paid for everything this year and completed all of the necessary paperwork - you know that, right?” “Yeah,” Magnus dismissed with a wave of his hand, “I do. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Is there a reason why you didn't wait for me to get on the bus?" Alec blinked. “I wasn’t trying to be rude.” “You clearly saw me,” Magnus couldn’t help but argue, “what, did you think I was running for the trees?” Alec shook his head, a small laugh escaping his lips. “Magnus. That wasn’t the public bus.” Magnus frowned, feeling his irritation slipping away. “But it looked exactly like one.” “A disguise,” Alec said, shrugging. “It was for a… training day, for a special selection of doctors.” “Oh.” Thank goodness Madzie was outside. She didn't need to see this. “Well - what happened to my actual bus?” “It turned the corner as you entered the street,” Alec said, his eyes crinkling with laughter. “Look, as an apology for creating you all this stress, however inadvertently, why don’t we meet up for coffee some time? My treat.” “Sure.”

There wasn’t any real reason to turn down an offer of free food and genuine companionship.

So Magnus took it.

...

There was a certain comfort to his loft, the long, draining week of exams finally behind him, a place where he could simply relax. As Magnus loosened his tie, excitement pierced his weary soul: tonight, he wouldn’t simply be eating takeout alone, but going out with Alec to a local diner. It had been so long since he had gone out with anyone new. His bell rang, and Magnus sighed, tightening his tie back up: despite the tie, his outfit wasn’t awfully fancy, just nice pants with a grey dress shirt. After slipping his wallet and keys into his back pocket, Magnus somehow found the strength within himself to walk to the door. It swung open outwards with ease - thankfully, Alec had taken the precaution of standing away from the door. But his smile still lit up the hallway, despite how relatively casual he was dressed compared to his stiff suit from the other day at the clinic: loose-fitting jeans, a simple t-shirt and scuffed sneakers. “Hey,” Alec said, stepping forward, “you look nice.” Magnus couldn’t stop the warmth in his chest from spreading, despite the danger. “Why thank you,” he replied, a smile slipping onto his face, “so do you, Dr Lightwood.” A slither of disapproval fell into Alec’s gaze. “No titles here, Dr Bane. Simply good food.” “Right then, Alec,” Magnus said, pulling the door closed behind him, “let’s head to the famous diner, then.”

...

The diner was lovely, tucked away from the general hustle and bustle of New York. “How’d you find this place?” Magnus asked as they walked inside. “It’s gorgeous.” Alec shrugged. “Come here all the time with my partner. It’s near the clinic and it serves good food.” As Alec spoke, a waitress approached them, her blonde hair tucked up into a bun. “Take your seats wherever you please,” she said, “and I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.” “Thanks, Lydia,” Alec said, before leading Magnus to a corner booth, near the jukebox that was belting out Don’t Stop Believin’.

Alec picked up the pitcher of water when he sat down, gesturing for Magnus to do the same. Magnus slipped onto the seat opposite Alec. “Who’s your partner?” he asked, opening the menu, “your wife?” It wasn’t something that Magnus necessarily wanted to be true, but something that was likely to be. Alec spluttered, putting down the pitcher of water. “Oh God no. It’s my sister.” “How’s working with your sister?” Magnus asked, scanning the menu absentmindedly, in an effort to shield his relief from the world. Alec shrugged,  pouring water into his glass. “Good. She’s an amazing doctor. Could do without the teasing, though.” “Ah, but that’s the sisterly love right there,” Magnus said, his tone warm. Alec snorted. “Sure. Sisterly love. Want some?” he asked, gesturing with the pitcher. Magnus shook his head. “Nah, I’m good. Thinking of getting a chocolate milkshake.” Alec nodded, humming. “Izzy told me that they’re good. What else?” “A scone.” Magnus couldn’t help but think of how ashamed Ragnor would be of Magnus for daring to order and consume a disgusting, American scone. “Sounds good,” Alec said, sipping his water. He tilted his head towards the jukebox, which had now slipped into Under Pressure. “Do you like Queen?” A smile broke through, a topic of ease sliding onto his tongue. “Yeah,” Magnus replied, “they’re great.” Alec put down his glass of water, his gaze content. “Brilliant. My sister doesn’t. Nice to meet a fellow fan,” he said, holding his hand out in a mock handshake. “Why ever not?” Magnus asked as he shook Alec’s hand, pushing down the laughter bubbling within himself, feeling more comfortable by the second. Alec shrugged. “Bad taste, I say.” Magnus laughed, closing the menu. “Fair call.” And as the night fell away, into laughter and delicious food, Magnus couldn’t help but reflect on how screwed he was. Alec was such a beautiful man, both inside and out. Magnus really should learn to stop wanting what he could never have.

...

It wasn’t difficult to track down the clinic’s number, but it was with unsteady fingers that Magnus dialled it. Not knowing how something would be received tended to instil fear into a person. There was a click, a whirl, and the line crackled. “Dr Lightwood speaking.” It wasn’t Alec speaking - Magnus could tell that much. “Um, hi. This is Magnus Bane -” “I see,” they replied, smugness crawling into their voice. “I’ll get my brother in a minute, he’s on a break.” So Magnus waited, fanning himself to try and cool himself in the stifling summer heat. “Hello,” Alec said, “Magnus, thanks for calling.” It wasn’t what he had expected. “Oh - that’s quite okay. I was just wondering...” the line crackled with static, “if we could meet up again?” “Definitely. It’s game night with my sister tomorrow night if you’d like to come?” “That sounds lovely,” Magnus said, mopping the sweat from his forehead. “We even have an air conditioner,” Alec added, amusement slipping into his voice. “Izzy insisted that she would not live with me if I stunk up the place every summer. So, I let her invest.” “How chivalrous of you,” Magnus commented, the information making the deal sweeter if time spent with such an intriguing man needed to be improved upon. Alec chuckled. “Indeed. You can meet us at the clinic at 6 o’clock tomorrow night. Trust me, it’s easier that way.” “Well.” Magnus paused, taking a sip of his lukewarm water. “If you insist. See you then, Alec.” “See you. Stay safe.”

...

The clouds swirled above Magnus as he entered the clinic, the reception area empty but for the chatter of Alec and his sister drifting through from another room. “Stop overreacting,” someone chided, “everything is going to be fine.” Magnus couldn’t help the curiosity from spiking beneath his skin, as he strode forward and knocked on the door behind the reception desk. “Hello,” he said to an eyeful of plaster. The door opened, and with it, a young woman, her dark hair twisted into an intricate bun. “Magnus!” she said, beaming. She started to unbutton her lab coat, shedding the world of work from her shoulders. “I’m Izzy, Alec’s sister.” “Lovely to meet you,” Magnus replied, reaching out to shake her hand.

Izzy shook his hand. “You’ve found a chivalrous one, brother,” she teased. “I guess so,” Alec said as he stepped into the room, his hair ruffled. "Let's go.”

Only joy came from following Alec to his home, to another phenomenal night.

...

The game of the night turned out to be Payday; a game that Magnus cherished, if not for the game itself but of the countless times he had played it with Madzie. But never before had it been such a competitive exercise. “Honestly,” Alec muttered, reluctantly forking out some of his fake cash, “I didn’t even go to any High School Dances. Why do I have to pay for it?” “Stop complaining,” Izzy interrupted, her own wad of cash thick from a particularly profitable deal involving water pipes, “it’s a game, and anyway, you can survive buying your sister a few dresses.” Magnus laughed, lightness brewing within him, and it had nothing to do with the champagne. “Darling, I had to pitch in the same amount to make you a mayor. It’s a chance game.” “Well,” Alec said, handing the dice to Magnus, his palm warm, “my luck is a sham.” Izzy snorted, putting down her wine. “No, it’s not. You’re going to Queen next week.” “Yeah, because it’s my birthday gift from you, who I’m going with,” Alec replied, his gaze deadpan. Izzy shrugged. “Excuses, excuses.” She paused, swishing her wine around, turning to face Magnus, her eyes sparkling with the same fire that had made this game so intense. “You should go.” Magnus shook his head. “No, dear. You bought the tickets. You should go.” Izzy shrugged again. “Yeah, because I wanted my brother to have the option to go with someone, and I was there if he didn’t find anyone else he wanted to go with.” A logical response. Those always were more difficult to refute. “Really, Izzy, there’s no need -” Magnus said, repeating himself. As much as he would love to go to Queen, see Freddie Mercury’s face sparkle under the gleam of fluorescent lights as he belted his heart out, he didn’t want to be an intruder. Didn’t want Alec to resent him for stealing his sister’s rightful place. “Izzy’s right,” Alec interrupted, “she could care less about Queen, but you clearly love them.” Magnus blinked. “Are you sure?” “Yeah,” Alec said, putting down his own glass, “they’re my tickets and I’d love to go with you - if you can make it. It’s 8 pm next Tuesday.” Magnus finished work at 5. “Yeah,” he said, defeated, “I can.” “Right,” Izzy said, crossing her arms, “that’s settled, then.” Magnus smiled, his chest tight. “I guess it is, then.” “I’m looking forward to getting to spend more time with you,” Alec replied, picking up his glass. Lies fell, sugar sweet, from Alec’s lips, again and again. Yet perhaps Alec did genuinely enjoy Magnus’ company. Magnus lifted his glass in mock salute. “So am I.”

...

It took an hour on the dusty, crowded trains of New York to reach Madison Square Garden - but with Alec, it hadn’t mattered the surroundings, but who he was with.

The chatter swelled as they were caught up in the crowd moving towards Madison Square Garden. The sun still flared across the city as they shuffled through Tower B, yet there was also a cool breeze swirling throughout the crowd of people. They walked in the sticky heat to their seats along row 14, near the corner, but with a clear view of the stage. “You have a very nice sister,” Magnus muttered as they sat down. Alec shrugged. “Izzy’s amazing. But you should see what I got for her birthday.” “What?” Magnus asked as people continued to file in. “Her new home,” Alec said as if it was the most mundane gift in the world. “She had recently qualified as a doctor, much to our parents’ detriment, and I offered her a place where she wasn’t constantly asked when she was going to marry.” Alec fell quiet. “I don’t think either of us is going to please our parents in that particular area of life.” “Well.” Magnus cracked open his water, expensive as it was, and took a sip. “Marriage isn’t everything.” Alec laughed dryly. “Tell that to my parents. You’d be out of the door before you had even entered.” “Let’s not talk about those of the past,” Magnus said, squashing down the glee that arose from Alec’s untraditional views shining through, “let’s talk about the present, and the miracles we’re about to witness.” Alec nodded, and as he did, the whole entire stadium fell into a hush.

But then the whole crowd cheered and they joined into the roar, Freddie Mercury himself strolling onto the stage. “Hello New York!” Freddie said, his voice rolling across the stadium in a booming echo. “Welcome to Madison Square Garden!” The music thrummed with energy; but the display itself enthralled Magnus, with the dancing of the lights, in shades of green and red and blue, smoke curling off the stage. But perhaps the most enchanting part of the performance was Freddie himself, as he sung, walking across the stage like it was his home. He clapped, along with Alec, as the crowd joined in for a fast-paced rendition of We Will Rock You. The songs took him away, to an easier time, to a lighter time, to a world full of possibility.   The crowd buzzed with enthusiasm, and it was contagious. For Magnus sung, he clapped, he laughed. A brilliant night, made sweeter by the man by his side. As it drew to an end, the chorus of We Are The Champions swelling into place with the banging of drums, fire licked against his skin due to the sheer intensity of the atmosphere. This was a concert of flame, of passion, of joy. But Magnus didn’t think that he needed to come here to find that part of himself - if he was allowed, he could find it in the man sitting right next to him.

...

They stumbled onto the night train with others from the concert, chatting idly with laughter stirring their weary bones. “Aren’t you glad that we forced you to go?” Alec teased, his eyes twinkling. Magnus shrugged. “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice slightly raspy from all of the singing, “I am. Thank you, again.” “I don’t think you quite understand,” Alec said, as the carriage shook and rattled, “it was my pleasure.”

...

There was a notable silence to Alec’s apartment after the buzz of the concert, covering Magnus like a blanket. Magnus flopped onto the couch, closing his eyes. The click of the door closing, the thud of Alec’s boots; all these little things reminding Magnus that he needed to get himself under control. “Magnus?” Alec called out, uncertainty wavering in his voice. “Are you alright?” Magnus lifted his head to smile, but it was strained and his eyes felt as dull as tarnished silver. “I’m fine.” Alec bit his lip. “Of course. It’s getting late.” There it was - the dreaded finality to Alec’s words. Alec had indulged Magnus for long enough. He was under no obligation to stick around. Even as a friend, even if - even if Magnus wanted more than that. But the world still shouted, still degraded and scorned and defiled men like him - yet Alec wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t yell at Magnus, but his rejection would be soft, and - Magnus could lose him. Magnus didn’t think he could bear that. Magnus nodded, fixating his gaze on the portrait of a beautiful woman in front of him. He’d never seen her before. “It is.” “Magnus,” Alec reprimanded softly, dropping down onto the couch beside him. “I think it best if - if you stay the night, if you don’t mind. The city isn’t safe at night when you’re alone - and -” Alec seemed worried, in a way Magnus really hadn’t seen him fret before. “Calm down,” Magnus interrupted, “I’ll stay, if that makes you feel better.”

But his words were simply another form of pretence: he wanted to stay for his own sake, simple as that. Alec sunk further into the couch. “Thank you. You can sleep in Izzy’s room, she’s with a friend tonight.” Alec sighed, curling up in on himself. “She can take care of herself.” Magnus doesn’t know who Alec was trying to convince - himself or Magnus. “Of course she can,” Magnus reassured, pushing away the hurt that arose from Alec choosing to not face him, despite the awkward position that ensued. “That’s her friend, Maia,” Alec said, pointing at the picture, “fierce and stubborn. Perfect for Izzy.” Magnus could feel himself relax, albeit slightly. Not a girlfriend, then. Alec shifted on the couch, restlessness interwoven into his bones. “There’s something I need to tell you.” Alec wasn’t looking at Magnus. “Go ahead,” Magnus said, “we’ve got all night.” “The thing is.” Alec sighed again, shaking his head. “Do you want some tea?” Magnus didn't particularly want tea, but - but it would mean that he got to chatter with Alec a bit longer. “If you don’t mind,” Magnus replied, “that would be lovely.” It seemed that all of the energy from the concert had been sucked out by the oppressive heat that still swirled around the city, even as the sun bid New York good night. Alec got up, quickly, as if thankful for the distance it put between him and Magnus. “How’s work?” It felt like Alec was trying to stagnate the conversation with mundane topics. “Exam season is coming up, so busy.” There was the whistle, the click of the kettle and the rattle of tea leaves before Alec spoke next. “I don’t miss it.” Magnus buttoned and unbuttoned his right cuff a few times. “Neither do I, rather, it’s much more pleasant being on this side of exams. Look - Alec - are you alright?” No matter how unfulfilled, how lost Magnus felt - how he felt didn’t matter. But, now, if Magnus was making Alec feel uncomfortable - that mattered. “Um.” Alec blinked, almost dropping the mug he was holding. “I need to tell you something.” The fear from before came roaring up into his heart, winding around it in an act of strangulation. “Okay,” Magnus said, swallowing down his own fear, “I trust you.” Alec smiled. Something fragile, small, but oh so beautiful. “So do I.” The kettle started to bubble, to boil, but Alec wasn’t paying any attention to it - instead, his eyes were fixated on Magnus. “I’m gay.” The words were quick, muttered under his breath like Alec was ashamed. “Hey,” Magnus said softly, “that’s okay. Thank you for telling me.” Such an immense show of trust; but even if Alec could be attracted to him, it didn’t mean he was. “And.” He paused. “Only Izzy knows, but I thought it would be important to tell you because -” Alec trailed off, turning off the whistling kettle. “Alec,” Magnus said, pushing aside his own mess of emotions in an effort to untangle Alec's, “you don’t have to tell me anything else that makes you uncomfortable.” Alec shook his head, putting the mug down, pouring tea into it. “No. I need to. And - if you never want to see me again after this, I completely understand.” Magnus couldn’t fathom anything that would turn him against Alec. Well, perhaps murder. But even then, it would depend on the circumstances. Alec exhaled, walking over with Magnus’ cup of tea, his eyes flickering down to the rug as he sat down on the armchair across from Magnus. “I like you.” Alec seemed frozen, rubbing his hands together. “Romantically - and - I just thought you should know, before it got more serious, before.” He swallowed again. “Before it would have been more painful for me to let go of you.” It broke Magnus’ heart, the way that Alec cut his own emotions away as if they were worthless. They were definitely not worthless. “Look,” Magnus began, walking over to Alec, putting his hand on Alec’s shoulder. “I’m bisexual, so I get how brave you are.” Alec stared at him, the sheer vulnerability and accompanying fear in his gaze throwing another dagger at Magnus’ heart. “Oh,” he whispered, “that’s good, but -” “I have feelings for you, too,” Magnus interrupted before Alec could enter another spiral of self-deprecation. “How could I not? You’re the most magnificent man I’ve ever met.” “I.” Alec blinked, his eyes wet. “I just. Really?” “Really,” Magnus said, rubbing circles into Alec’s shoulders, a smile slipping through. Alec leaned forward, tentatively, to cup Magnus’ face as if he was the most precious object in the world. “Can I.” He hesitated. “Can I kiss you?” “Of course,” Magnus replied, unable to stop himself from leaning into Alec’s touch. It was like being enveloped in pure, gentle warmth. With that, Alec leaned forward. The kiss felt like coming home, like kicking off your shoes after a long day at work. Alec pulled at Magnus’ jacket, and Magnus melted further into the kiss, winding his arms around Alec’s neck. He’d never felt so safe. The kiss ended, and Magnus laughed in disbelief. “I’m glad you took this risk. That was.” He searched for an adequate word, but couldn’t find anything adequate for the exhilaration spreading throughout his body and mind. “Wonderful. Exquisite.” “It was,” Alec said, joy shining in his eyes, “It’s getting late, though. Do you want to go to sleep?” Magnus nodded, stifling a yawn against his elbow. “Yeah. Is it okay if I go into your room? Just to sleep.” In the wake of their confessions, Magnus simply wanted to be close to Alec, to soak up his warmth, for as long as he could. “Yeah,” Alec breathed, “yeah, that sounds nice.” It took a few minutes, a few moments sinking into the wonderland spinning itself into existence before Magnus’ eyes, before Alec got up, Magnus following behind him. Once there, they sank into the bed, exhausted. But not too exhausted for Magnus to slip a hand around Alec’s waist, pulling him close, burrowing instinctively into his warmth. “I’m not going anywhere,” Alec mumbled, entwining his hand with Magnus’. The world outside might not be the most accepting; but here, in the arms of the man he was already halfway to falling in love with, Magnus had never felt freer.

[agentnico]

Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar (2021) Review

Is this the best summer holiday we’re gonna get this year? In form of a film? Yup, sounds about right.

Plot: The story of best friends Barb and Star, who leave their small Midwestern town for the first time to go on vacation in Vista Del Mar, Florida, where they soon find themselves tangled up in adventure, love, and a villain’s evil plot to kill everyone in town.

What a bunch of nonsense. No, really, this film is a bunch of nonsense, however in these pandemic times nonsense may just be the temporary cure we need. It’s super colourful, tropical, and ridiculously goofy… basically, the complete opposite of the pandemic. It’s super random and honestly I’m not too certain how to progress with this review, as it feels like writers Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo (who also star as the two leads) must have been on some strong shrooms as this film is absolutely absurd. One moment you have two midwest middle-aged culotte-wearing besties chatting on a couch about how one used to have a crush on Mr Peanut with his top hat and monocle, the next you’re in a talking club eating hot dog soup (its as disgusting as it sounds), then you’re on a beach with a Morgan Freeman impersonator voicing a crab called Morgan Freemond referencing his Shawshank days and spreading some nonsensical wisdom, and to finish it off it’s American singer Reba McEntire emerging from the ocean as an angel mermaid or whatever for absolutely no reason. Oh, and there’s also a terrorist plot involving genetically modified mosquitoes, you know, just cause. None of it really makes sense, yet that is kind of the main charm of the whole thing. Its one of those movies that is so stupid, you’re either going to like it or hate it. Think along the lines of Wet Hot American Summer or Zoolander.. It’s stupid to the point where you roll your eyes at first, however if you get into it, you end up laughing at the complete chaotic set of events that is thrown at you, and honestly its a jolly good watch. With some musical numbers! Yes, there are musical numbers in this film, for some reason. I don’t know why. No really, I don’t why, I’m not really certain what I’ve just watched.

Kristen Wiig and Annie Mumolo are on top form as the lead two characters, bringing life and energy to their respective roles, and if you’ve seen anything of their previous SNL work, you know the two share solid chemistry. But its in fact Jamie Dornan that somehow steals the show. Yes, I know, it feels weird for me to give the stand-out performance to Christian Grey of Fifty Shades. Someone who’s usually really stiff (now now, stop it ya filthy animals!) and wooden, turns out to be a natural born clown. See, Jamie Dornan still gives a bad performance, but its Dornan being fully aware that Dornan is giving a bad performance, so Dornan takes advantage of Dornan’s knowledge of Dornan’s bad performance and churns out Dornan’s best parody of Dornan, Jamie. You catch my drift? In a nutshell, he embraces the stupidity of the entire film and rolls with it. As such, now I can say that seeing Jamie Dornan prance about a beach singing off-tune a cheesy power ballad to some seagulls in the sand is the second best thing I’ve seen this year following Bernie’s mittens!

In terms of negatives, with the movie’s randomness comes the truth that a lot of jokes don’t land. Also the science fiction side-plot comes off as tedious and the movie does drag a bit, but at the same time there’s also so much enjoyable bizarre goofiness to it all that you’re still guaranteed to have a good time… though maybe you should watch it drunk. Probably.

Overall score: 6/10

[wigwurq]

WIG REVIEW: AMERICAN CRIME STORY - THE ASSASSINATION OF GIANNI VERSACE

It’s finally here!! After months and months of random set pictures and Entertainment Weekly photoshoots, we can finally bask in the wigs of this true crime nonsense. As with Twin Peaks Return and Stranger Things, I will be updating this entry with weekly wig reviews and adjusting whether the wigs wurq as a whole. Let’s discuss! 

EPISODE ONE

We begin in the quiet morning of July 15, 1997, the day Gianni Versace was murdered. Yes, this show literally starts with a bang. But first, we see Versace going through his normal morning rituals of breakfast with his staff in the gorgeous museum he lives in. Straight up: Edgar Ramirez looks EXACTLY LIKE VERSACE. Granted, he is about a decade younger than Versace was but this wig WURQS. You know I am not a fan of 99.9% of male wigs but this thing is great - excellent texture and seams and no weird flipping out in the back as with most male wigs.

We also get some flashback wigs to the early 90s when Versace met his assassin, Andrew Cunanan (the truth of which I definitely question) but sadly, the internet refuses to give me these younger Versace wigs (which are also good) so please enjoy another Versace in 1997 pic. 

Darren Criss is also excellent, if wigless, as Cunanan. Though he is definitely about 1000% more attractive than the actual Cunanan. Also can this show please explain to me who this rando couple is that he hangs out with? One of the issues with this show is it is hella disorganized about its storytelling (and I actually know a lot about this story - I think someone who doesn’t would be lost) but I guess we have a whole season to find out who the hell Annaleigh Ashford is supposed to be playing. FINE. 

Also excellent (but wigless) is RICKY EFFING MARTIN as Versace’s partner. He spends most of this episode being drenched in blood while having to answer homophobic questions from cops AND then being totally bitch slapped (sadly only metaphorically) by Donatella.

AND THEN THERE’S DONATELLA. Penny Cruz, good lord. The Versace family has already publicly denounced/disowned this TV show but Donatella should be SO EFFING HAPPY that this goddess is playing her. At first glance, this is obviously a terrible wig but let us all remember what Donatella’s hair looks like...

So...actually pretty accurate.

The seamwork is a little iffy but I’m still going to give this wig a pass since the color and texture are spot on as is Penny Cruz’s performance.

EPISODE TWO

I see what they’re doing here: rather than going ALLLL the way back to the beginning, we’re just going back episode by episode until we finally get why Cunanan did what he did...I think? I dunno. Anyway, in this episode we travel back to 1994 when Versace was diagnosed with some mystery disease (mmmmmhmmm) which wikipedia will have you believe was ear cancer...

We also get Penny Cruz in a flashback wig WITH BANGS and learn that she was always a dick to Ricky Martin. BOO!

Meanwhile, in the not-so-distant past (of 1997), Cunanan has arrived in Miami with full Laura Branigan underscoring to recreate select scenes from Staying Alive with some shady old dudes he finds on the beach. He also gets propositioned to start a beachside florist business with a cocaine addict.  Seems legit!

Also despite being one of the FBI’s Most Wanted, a severe paper shortage (and/or some patriarchal bureaucracy) has lead to 0% FBI flyers with Cunanan’s picture on it to be made MUCH TO THE CHAGRIN of Daya from OITNB. TRUST DAYA, random dude from Mad Men! UGH.

Oh, and Ricky Martin and Edgar Ramirez are totally in LURVE. Aw. 

EPISODE THREE

This episode didn’t involve one goddamned Versace and was essentially an hour long “for your consideration” episode for Judith Light getting an Emmy FINALLY. PLEASE? The fact that Judith Light has never won an Emmy is a whole other issue but I’m hoping this episode will fix that. 

As this show moves slowly back in time, we begin in May 1997 when Chicago real estate mogul Lee Migler was murdered by Cunanan. Judith Light plays Marilyn Migler, the “queen of perfume” and straight up queen of my heart. She also wears the only wig in the episode. 

Yes, this wig is your average ‘90s power ‘do and the texture is all over the place but it is not a far cry from how the real Marilyn Miglin’s hair looked and might actually be an upgrade? Everything Judith Light does is an upgrade. 

In general, this is a really upsetting episode and showcases how many mistakes were made that led to Cunanan murdering more people (don’t tell the murderer that you are tracking him via his fancy car phone, for instance?!) but Judith Light’s subtle blonde waves and fake fingernail tappings were everything. 

EPISODE FOUR

Okay this show is officially really upsetting. And I already knew this upsetting story fairly well to begin with. UGH.

This is the second week without a Donatella wig (which is upsetting enough!) but this episode is all about how Cunanan murdered his first victim, and then, after a week of Stockholm Syndrome that could rival Beauty and the Beast, his second. We’re still moving back ever so slightly in the timeline so the whole Versace story (which IS in the title...) is really just becoming the Cunanan show. 

And wigless though he is (there are actually no wigs in this episode!) Darren Criss is definitely a revelation: he is both sinister, charming, ridiculous, and heartbreaking at the same time. Gurlfriend wants that Emmy, henny. 

This dude who plays David is also really good and his haircut/blonde highlights definitely give me bad high school flashbacks.

Not for nothing, Aimee Mann is in this episode singing a Cars cover in a midwestern roadhouse while David tries and fails to escape from Cunanan through a bathroom window. And yes: that sentence was PEAK Ryan Murphy. 

EPISODE FIVE

VERSACE IS BACK! Thank god. The last few episodes have been hella depressing (don’t worry - this one is too!) but at least we get some fabulous wigs from the Versace family. This episode is mainly in 1995 and is all about coming out of the closet! Which was actually not that fun back in 1995 despite being the same year that cinematic gay masterpiece Too Wong Foo Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar! came out. I think everyone in this episode just needed a hug from Miss Vida Boheme.

Anyway, Penny Cruz and her fabulous BANGS as Donatella are none too pleased about Gianni wanting to come out, though she tells him it’s not because she hates his partner Antonio (it’s totally why) but because she thinks it’ll damage the business. Because we all know how much people have historically hated gay fashion designers (eyeroll emoji). UGH DONATELLA.

Anyway, Gianni tells Donatella to STFU and goes ahead with a splashy Advocate spread (that’s how you do it, gurl!) which makes Ricky Martin really happy and it’s nice though ultimately super depressing since this real-life happiness was obvs shortlived. But regardless: Gianni’s wig still wurqs.

Elsewhere in wigless storylines, we learn all about Cunanan’s first murder victim, Jeff Trail, and his decidedly NOT splashy coming out story as a member of the US Navy during the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell years. This episode has the kitchen sink of upsetting things: hate crimes, suicidal thoughts, anti-gay comic books, self-inflicted tattoo-removing wounds, sad gay bar scenes, and finally finding who you think is your gay ally.... who then ends up murdering you a couple years later. Cheers! Sobbing.

This episode leads us right up to where we started in the last episode....with Cunanan murdering Trail. But not before stealing his gun.....dun dun dun.

EPISODE SIX

We begin this episode in the lap of luxury and also with Darren Criss’s lap as he skinnydips his way around Michael Nouri (OF FLASHDANCE FAME)’s La Jolla estate. At this point (in 1996), Cunanan is a rent boy (who barely puts out - good deal!) for Nouri’s older millionaire character.  

Anyway, Nouri is throwing Cunanan a birthday party and invited all his friends over, plus a few of Cunanan’s friends and we get the return of his rando galpal played by Annaleigh Ashford. Despite being described as his best friend, gurlfriend straight up asks Cunanan if he is 100% gay now. GURL HE IS LIVING WITH AN OLD MAN AS A RENT BOY. DO THE MATH.

Basically the whole party turns into a lie-filled ruse to impress Cunanan’s ain’ true love, David, who is far more interested in talking to Jeff. Oh, also Lee Miglin shows up which I found highly dubious but regardless: Ryan Murphy presented us with 3/5 murder victims at this bday party. What a fete!

Jeff and David clearly were starting to see through Cunanan’s veneer, but no one had his number like Nouri’s queen on the scene friend (played by SNL alum Terry Sweeney) who READ CUNANAN FOR FILTH. The library was open!

Sufficed to say, it wasn’t the best party. Still: Nouri offered to keep Cunanan on as his rent boy but of course, Cunanan got greedy and asked for a bunch more perks (including but not limited to being Nouri’s sole heir...)....so it was byeeeeeeeee to the La Jolla lifestyle and HELLO to a really depressing studio apartment.

Of course, this in no way stops Cunanan from continuing to do his favorite thing: lying and spending money he doesn’t have! Despite a lavish weekend in LA, David made it clear that he was not THE ONE which sent Cunanan into a crystal-fueled drug sequence (UGH RYAN MURPHY) which offered us the only glimpse this week of Gianni’s fabulous wig. And the only wig of the week! Bring back the wigs!

In the end, Cunanan ends up broke and desperate at his mom’s ultra-depressing apartment and we get a glimpse of where he got his crazy genes. Mama did NOT wanna hear about her goldenboy having any issues so...it was byeee and off to Minneapolis (which for the record does actually have an opera house if you were wondering...)

EPISODE SEVEN

So this episode involved a LOT of Donatella wig action and I am here for it. Circa mid-90s Donatella is busy at work NOT designing the dresses she’s supposed to design and instead telling actual designers to read her mind and design the dresses she’d like to design. Since the only one with a glass ball into Donatella’s noggin is Gianni hisself, he steps in to show a bitch how it’s DONE.

The two collaborate and by “collaborate” I mean Penny Cruz stood around while a belt was placed around her neck and BOOM - the Versace belt dress is created! Somehow? 

We are gifted with this rando storyline because Versace is suffering from a bout of ear cancer and is priming Donatella to take over the company JUST IN CASE which obvs foretells when she actually has to take over the company a few years later. But mostly it just shows Penny Cruz in a pretty good wig wondering if she’s pretty enough to model a dress, which by all accounts is peak nonsense. 

Spoiler: she wears the dress and it is a big hit! Well, with fashion critics anyway but apparently not with the buying public (which we’re left just to assume they work out since this dress ended up being a hit?) Basically, this storyline is kind of a waste of time other than the fact that we are gifted with Donatella’s LEWK above which is everything the 90s loved in hair - bangs, wisps, Elaine Benes updo poof, and chunky hair clip. WURQ!

Things are decidedly less glamorous (and less wiggy) over in Cunanan’s storyline. He’s working at a pharmacy where they won’t even let him spend his downtime reading Vogue magazines. RUDE! Even ruder: his mom buys LOW COST ICE CREAM which does not befit his fancy schmancy pharmacy ways. SUPER RUDE! So to fuel his high-cost ice cream needs (I assume?) he tries to get a job at a prominent (?) male escort company but doesn’t make the cut because gay men who get escorts apparently don’t want Asians (?!?!?!?!)

So Andy of course takes matters into his own tentacles and becomes his own damn pimp! He achieves his high class hooker status pretty easily: he randomly looks through some newspapers to identify rich gays, buys some opera tickets, conveniently meets a rich gay man, becomes his house boy, witnesses his murder, convinces the victim’s friend to move from Arizona to La Jolla and buy a needlessly expensive house and become HIS house boy. EASY! 

Whilst out celebrating his (secret) high class hooker status, he meets his ain’ true love (and 2nd murder victim): David! They spend a romantic (?) night together at a fancy hotel which seems to be Andy’s only time with a dude his own age and David charms him with a story about telling some rando chick he’s gonna build her a house (which Andy conveniently retells as his own story to his rich gay dude). What a tangled web!

EPISODE EIGHT

We begin this episode in 1950s Italy. Sure! There, a young Gianni Versace sketches dresses and sucks at school, and everyone speaks English for some reason (seriously, Ryan Murphy - you couldn’t have these actors speak Italian with subtitles? True weirdness). Anyway, he loves making dresses which is also what his mom does and in a true forward-thinking twist, this old-school Catholic Italian mama seems to not mind that her son wants to follow in her dress-making ways. Ok?

Over to 1980s San Diego, things are decidedly less accepting and 1000% weirder. We finally meet Andrew Cunanan’s dad, Modesto. He is a true psychopath who moves his family to a fancy new house, inexplicably gives young Andy the master suite (but retains ownership of the closet - metaphor much?) leaving him and the missus (who he abuses physically and mentally) to have a tiny bedroom and his 3 other kids who he treats like garbage into what appears to be a pantry with bunk beds. Everyone accepts this behavior somehow because he’s a complete lunatic monster who would probably murder them at any moment. Like father like son, eh?

Anyway, we get to see Andy’s high school days at a private school in La Jolla (this school is also my husband’s alma mater if you seriously want the library to be open....). At said school, Andy is gay bashed but also unabashedly takes his shirt off and showboats at school keggers in full Michael Jackson cosplay so I guess it wasn’t all bad? 

Oh but you know what is bad? When your already awful dad steals a lot of money from old ladies and then flees the feds AND the country leaving you and your mom (and your 3 unaccounted for garbage siblings) completely penniless and you have to fly to Manila just to see for yourself if your father is terrible and then he’s even MORE terrible and you give yourself a really bad hand wound and have to go home and get a job at a crappy pharmacy. Pretty bad! Which is not to say that this is bad enough to make you later kill 5 people because there’s still no excuse for that. 

EPISODE NINE

We’ve finally come to the end, and what a long strange trip it’s been! After moving backward in Cunanan’s narrative every week and, frankly, making him far too sympathetic a character for someone who murdered five people, we end as we began: with Cunanan murdering Versace. But this time we move forward instead of backward - to Cunanan’s final, pitiful days. 

Immediately after murdering Versace, Cunanan hottailed it to a conveniently abandoned houseboat. We are not told how he discovered this houseboat, or how its closet magically has clothes that fit him and its refrigerator has champagne that pops for emphasis at exactly the right time because Ryan Murphy isn’t interested in such trivialities when he can focus on how many TVs it has (3! so go ahead and shoot one!) and how many Cunanan ghosts are in the bedroom (1! well, 2 if you count Cunanan after he kills himself...) Indeed, after being found out by the caretaker of said boat and running out of dogfood to eat, and quite literally being smoked out by police, Cunanan, as we all know, shot hisself. Though not before seeing a lot of footage of hisself on TV, being doublecrossed by his father again, and ultimately giving hisself a really butch makeover (at which point my eyes absolutely rolled out of my head into the water). They rolled back long enough to see yet ANOTHER totally made up scene of Cunanan and Versace at the Opera and then they fell out again. Yes, Ryan Murphy wants us to sympathize with this monster but let’s not shall we?

Instead, let’s focus on the triumphant return of JUDITH LIGHT! YAYYYSS KWEEN! As Marilyn Miglin, wife of Cunanan’s 3rd victim, she, like the rest of America, rightly wants to know why the effff the FBI hasn’t found Cunanan yet and just WANTS THIS TO BE OVER SO SHE CAN SELL HER DAMN PERFUME, MMMMKAY? Bitch has priorities, and I’m here for them. I will say that this show does rightly shed a light on how much authorities really effed up this case - from revealing that they were tracking Cunanan through Miglin’s car, leading him to ditch it and murder a rando caretaker with a special needs son for his truck (SOB) to not listening to Daya and refusing to print enough WANTED posters in Miami, not realizing that Cunanan used his own name to sell one of Miglin’s coins at a pawn shop and essentially not stopping him before he killed Versace. Anyway, Judith and her perfect  woman-of-a-certain-age 90s wig is serving PERFECTION and had better be remembered come Emmy award season.

Also Daya from OITNB was back (yes I already used this picture - this is literally the only picture available of her in this show). Anyway, she interviewed Ronnie (OH RONNIE!) about Cunanan and made sure he knew that she knew about those 2 gay clubs in Miami. Ronnie was NOT HERE FOR IT and had prepared a lengthy monologue about 1990s attitudes toward gay society which essentially shut down the entire FBI for a full day I think.

Speaking of shutdowns, somewhere in Milan, Penny Cruz as Donatella in a flawless blonde wig was getting ready for Versace’s funeral but not before throwing some extra shade at Ricky Martin (seriously most of this show was about everyone being such a dick to Ricky Martin!) She told him that no, he couldn’t go live in Versace’s Lake Como house, because, uh, the Versace board wasn’t on board with it? Ricky Martin then got some more shade from a rando priest at the funeral and then took a bunch of pills and wine and was found half-dead by a maid and we’re led to believe he also died. Which is pretty messed up since this dude is actually still alive and I’d like to believe he spent the last 20 years playing bocci with George Clooney.

Anyway, in Donatella’s final reveal, she tells her husband (who, like most dayplayers on this show is essentially just furniture) that on the day Versace died....SHE DIDN’T TAKE HIS PHONECALL! DUN DUN DUN! I guess this is supposed to be some big surprise but honestly, this isn’t even as cold as every single thing she has done on this show to Ricky Martin. She then takes her flawlessly flatironed wig to the Versace mausoleum where she looks into the Versace logo and I swear to god for a second turns into Medusa. FAIR. And...then we see Cunanan’s crypt in a long anonymous hallway and then the whole thing feels like the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark which kind of makes sense since Cunanan, like the lost ark, is full of haunted ghosts and violence but...what the hell Ryan Murphy?!?! THE END!

VERDICT: WURQS!

[mexcine]

The Killing of a Sacred Deer (2017) review

I really liked Dogtooth (Kynodontas) and The Lobster, so I eagerly anticipated the new film by Yorgos Lanthimos.  The Killing of a Sacred Deer is a very fine film with lots of Lanthimos lunacy, but...it's not as weird as the other two.  Opinions will differ as to whether this is a positive or a negative development; I'm conflicted.

         When I say The Killing of a Sacred Deer isn't as "weird" as Dogtooth or The Lobster, I don't mean it's conventional either in story or execution, but try this exercise: summarise Dogtooth, The Lobster and The Killing of a Sacred Deer in one sentence each, then look at what you've written.  Can you imagine anyone else making these films?  The answer is probably no, but The Killing of a Sacred Deer comes closest to conventionality.

          The plot (have no fear, no spoilers here): cardiac surgeon Steven (Colin Farrell, wearing a bushy beard that makes him look like an old-timey desert rat  prospector in a Western movie) is married to eye doctor Anna (Nicole Kidman); they have two children (Kim and Bob). Steven has befriended teenager Martin, whose father died while Steven was operating on him a few years earlier.  Steven even brings Martin home to meet his family. Martin becomes more and more demanding of Steven's time and when Steven pulls away, Martin reveals his "plan"--Bob, Kim, and Anna will all fall ill, first becoming unable to walk, then refusing to eat, and finally bleeding from their eyes just before death.  Steven has to choose which member of his family will die (or all will), in retribution for the death of Martin's father.

         What do you know, first Bob, then Kim cannot walk, although there is no medical reason for their condition.  They also refuse food.  Steven and Anna (as yet unaffected, physically) try to reason with Martin, then threaten him, but in the end Steven is faced with a kind of Sophie's Choice.

          The Killing of a Sacred Deer is leisurely paced (the film is just short of two hours, not counting the end credits) and takes its time getting to the big "reveal" from Martin, but even prior to that point there are definite signs that things aren't normal in this world.  Set in a large midwestern city in the USA (most of the movie was shot in Cincinnati, Ohio), the outward trappings of Steven's life are calm and substantial.  He and his family live in a large, expensive house (they even have a “typical” dog), the children seem well-adjusted and happy, Anna is a professional and also a homemaker, and Steven is a respected surgeon at a modern hospital.  However, cracks in the façade appear: Steven is apparently a recovered alcoholic, his lovemaking with Anna is...non-standard, everyone talks in a rather stilted, overly polite manner (and yet are almost too frank in what they discuss).  Steven's relationship with Martin is mysterious: how did they meet? Why does Steven give Martin expensive gifts? Why does Steven lie to his friend, saying Martin is Kim's classmate who's interested in a medical career?  Is Steven having an affair with Martin? (No, although there are some uncomfortable moments which seem to hint at it)  If he was, he certainly wouldn't bring Martin home to meet his family, would he?  

         Martin, excessively polite, ingratiates himself with Anna and especially Kim, although Bob doesn't seem that impressed.  Martin brings Steven home to meet his mother, who--as odd as Martin--makes a strange pass at Steven, apparently with Martin's connivance.  All of this occurs before Martin makes his death threat against Steven's family, creating an air of eerie expectation and uncertainty.  

        The second half of the film is somewhat more straightforward: there's a problem and a villain, how is the protagonist going to overcome adversity and triumph?  Yet Lanthimos subverts expectations here as well, turning the story inward to focus on Steven, Anna, Kim and Bob, with Martin lurking around the edges but not playing a very active role in the denouement (even though he, somehow*, set it in motion). 

        *There is no explanation as to how Martin achieves his revenge.  Is it magic? Or is he just a master manipulator who convinced Kim and Bob that they were going to fall ill? (The latter doesn’t explain the bleeding-eyes bit, though)

        The Killing of a Sacred Deer has a distinctive style--perhaps it would be better to say, a mix of styles.  Lanthimos alternates long fluid shots with giant closeups, standard cutting and narrative flow with disorienting flash-forwards (mostly in one sequence), and deadpan drama with black comedy and scenery-chewing melodrama. Lanthimos is an unconventional filmmaker, but he's also definitely capable of generating some Hitchcockian-style suspense--we've been told what's going to happen and (more or less) to whom, but when and how these things will occur are unknown.

        The performances are all fine. Colin Farrell, who'd been in The Lobster, creates a different sort of character here, a kindly but controlling patriarch whose attempts to impose order on the world are thwarted at every turn by events beyond his control (albeit events precipitated by his own past flaws).  Nicole Kidman's Anna at first seems to be subordinate to her husband, professionally and personally, but when her children's lives are at stake (and her own as well) she shows some steely resolve (then seems to back off in a curious bit at the climax).  Barry Keoghan (who looked awfully familiar, then I realised he was in Dunkirk) is appropriately sinister with an obsequious veneer.  The two actors playing the children, Raffey Cassidy (Kim) and Sunny Suljic (Bob) are also good, especially Cassidy: the naïve Kim falls prey to Martin's charms, despite her realisation that he's evil.  The only other characters of significance are Bill Camp as Steven's medical colleague and Alicia Silverstone as Martin's mother (a one-scene appearance, but pretty effective).

          The Killing of a Sacred Deer is, in the final estimation, a more "accessible" film than either Dogtooth or The Lobster, with several name stars (The Lobster had Farrell and some other known performers like John C. Reilly and Rachel Weisz, but no one of the star power of Kidman), an American setting, and a relatively straightforward narrative and premise.  However, the film's style (and, a Lanthimos trademark, an open-ended conclusion) mark it as something out of the ordinary.  It's not a reboot of Cape Fear or The Omen or The Bad Seed or Tomorrow the World or The Child (1977 version), although it has some aspects of them all.  

    I'd have to say that while I didn't find The Killing of a Sacred Deer quite as novel, shocking, and outré as Dogtooth or The Lobster, some of this reaction may be because I'd already seen the two earlier films and had thus been inoculated to an extent against being pleasantly stupefied by the eccentric Lanthimos filmic world.  That doesn't mean The Killing of a Sacred Deer isn't an excellent film, one that’s well worth watching several times.  Because it is.  

    P.S:  If, like me, you don't care to see a giant closeup of actual open-heart surgery, you might want to keep your eyes closed for the first two minutes and 30 seconds of the movie.  

[oilskirt7-blog]

LISTMANIA 2018: TOP 20 ALBUMS YOU MIGHT’VE MISSED THIS YEAR (FROM SEB PAINCHAUD, TUMBLEWEED DEALER)

(2016 was the year when I discovered Montréal’s Tumbleweed Dealer through their extremely cool third album Tokes, Hatred & Caffeine (and I’m still trying to be patient while waiting for TD4). The band’s main man Seb Painchaud has very expansive and very eclectic musical tastes, and a way with words, and so for a third year I asked him to share a year-end list with us. As before, he pulls us off our usual beaten paths by highlighting some favorite releases that are way outside the usual metal lists… including a lot of very interesting Not-Metal.)

So this year we’re going to call it a Top 20 Albums You Should Check Out. If I were to make a top 20 list, I’d waste a lot of space telling you about albums you’ve already heard and will be present on every other list you read. Do you really need to see me overcompensate for my limited vocabulary with swear words to explain that Frontierer and Sectioned dominated the scene with their amazing albums? If so, then here you go: Fuck a cock on a stick its god damn fuck your mother fucking good.

And when you have every established music website and magazine tripping over themselves to talk to you about The Armed, you don’t really need me adding to it. Do we need to discuss Mol? You either hate it or love it, but you probably know about it. And all the big tech death bands released great records that pushed the limits of the human body this year. Only one remembered to include amazing song writing. Let’s not get into a shouting match over which one it was.

It was Obscura. Those Cynic-like robot vocal hooks had me going back for more all year long, Fight me if you don’t agree.

So here is my ‘Top 20 Albums You Might’ve Missed This Year’ (yes the title changed since the opening line).

20. Idle Hands – Don’t Waste Your Time

To win my friend over on this amazing EP I told him to imagine if Beastmilk had fucked with Eternal Champion to make a gothic ’80s baby that wore fur underwear. If that doesn’t entice you to give it a listen then you are clearly dead inside.

19. Glorior Belli – The Apostates

Why are people sleeping on this amazing record? I was disappointed that their last offering was devoid of their southern charm and consisted mostly of melodic black metal, but this one more than makes up for it. The bluesy vibes now channel an epicness that wasn’t present before in their sound. This is their best work yet. The closing track is the highlight of the album.

18. Weedpecker – III

I think this album isn’t making a lot of lists simply because it was released so early in the year. If you’re like me, you’ve overdosed on by-the-numbers stoner metal bands. This album infused the formula with a touch of psychedelic and prog rock, genres that have been incorporated before into this sound, but not as tastefully as on this album.

17. All Traps On Earth – A Drop Of Light

I’m a huge fan of the Scandinavian Prog Revival sound, so they had me at ex-Anglagard. They kept me because this surpasses that band’s post-reunion record. They basically kept the same sound, but they get to business quicker and stay there, unlike their predecessors who would go into almost ambient-like levels of activity for minutes at a time.

16. JYOCHO – 美しい終末サイクル

Daijiro Nakagawa is one of my favorite guitarists ever. From his work with his former band Uchu Conbini, mixing math rock with j-pop sensibilities, to the insane riffs he posts on Instagram playing both electric and acoustic guitar, the guy encompasses everything I love about math rock riffing. His new band, JYOCHO, picks up where he had left off, infusing post-rock into the mix, keeping the overall atmosphere light and airy, augmented by the female vocals and flute, while he taps away some of the most complex licks you’ve ever heard.

The kind of record you can turn your brain off and just listen and enjoy, or turn it on and notice the disjointed rhythms in odd time signatures and insane guitar work that lurks underneath. You either walk away infused with the courage to face your day, like only an anime closing song can inspire, or depressed at how much practice you need to put in on your instrument to ever aspire to that level of musicianship.

http://jyocho.com/

15. Moss Upon The Skull – In Vengeful Reverence

In a year that was, for me anyways, dominated by OSDM releases, this album stands over all of it. While other releases like Tomb Mold, Outer Heaven, and Genocide Pact are getting all the year-end press, and deservingly so, I find this album mixes all the elements that all these bands brought to the table perfectly, being the only one to touch on all of ’em at once in a cohesive effort. The band manages to mix old school vibes with a bit of technicality, a bit of dissonance, and a lot of get-your-head-banging catchiness and groove.

14. Robohands – Green

This album has a sound that immediately transports me to the early 2000s when I lived in a loft in downtown New York and would stay up to 2 A.M. working on my novel, inspired by nothing but the sounds of the city coming in through my window. Except none of that ever happened and I’ve never been to NY. That’s how powerful this record is.

You’ll be surprised at how often you’re drawn back to this minimalist jazz record that fuses simple jazz melodies over a hip-hop influenced back beat. I was curious enough to look up a video of him (yes, this is a one man project, making it that much more impressive) drumming to see if it was sampled or played live, and seeing this video of his drum work and the ways he emulates a drum machine on a real drum to get that exact sound is what really sold me on this record.

13. Grivo – Elude

This band walks the line between typical MBV worship reverb-drenched shoegaze and the riffier brand of depressed, downtrodden music that True Widow brought us. The way they easily switch between the two sounds is simple yet genius, combining both elements in different quantities in order to make for an album that is varied yet focused. It hits the same spot as Cloakroom’s debut EP and Nothing’s zenith release of Tired Of Tomorrow, yet it seems to do so without the band having an actual influence from heavier music. It sounds like it just ended up being that damn heavy through amazing compositions and production rather than by design, making it a feat in itself that they could do so while not relying on any tropes of the heavier genres.

12. Koenjihyakkei – DHORIMVISKHA

I’ve been a fan of these guys since their album Angherr Shisspa came out in 2005. Their brand of Magma-On-Cocaine Zeuhl (if that reference means nothing to you, then go on YouTube, search Mekanik Destruktiw Kommandoh, and in 38min52sec you’ll be compelled to send me a personalized thank-you note for introducing you to the forefathers of this obscure offshoot of prog rock) walks that fine line where it’s weird for the sake of weird while remaining artistically enjoyable and never crosses into whacky cringy territory. These are complex compositions crafted with precision. No one lays down an odd metered groove with jazz scats like these guys!

11. Wake – Misery Rites

This is one of the two bands on my list that I do see on a lot of other people’s top albums, yet I’ve decided to include them anyway. This album is just a slab of mean with a heavy side of fucking angry. I couldn’t bring into words what exactly sets them apart from any other worthy grind record this year. It’s just better. The riffs, the atmosphere, the production, it all works together in a violent way that none of those other records managed to attain.

10. Murphy Radio – Murphy Radio

This Indonesian math rock band aims for the feel good vibes and hit their mark every time. It’s Midwestern Emo worship at its finest, yet unlike Chinese Football, it’s not all tribute and has substance of its own. Most of it is instrumental, and goes through all the prerequisite Midwestern emo parts like that one gang vocal sung chorus, the obligatory electronic drum and bass influenced part, and tons of twinkling guitar parts, but does them all with enough gusto that it never feels like they are paying tribute to anything, just doing their own version of it and putting everything they have into it.

9. Shake Stew – Rise And Rise Again

Jazz for people who aren’t big jazz fans, these guys go for the catchy back beats of afro beat funk and add fun repetitive melodies and counter-melodies over them. It surges into epic bursts only to disintegrate back into minimalist parts for the saxophone to solo over just so they can build everything back up into another massive burst and bring back the main theme of the song and hit that sweet spot. This album won’t get your head banging but you’ll find yourself nodding back and forth as a show both of appreciation and as a way of saying Do Not Stop This Fucking Song For The Life Of Me.

8. The Aftermath – Vermine

Several years ago (I’m a make an educated guess and say around 2011) I went to Quebec City to see some friends and get hammered to the point of no return. The following day, as a useless mass of hungover flesh, I tagged along as we visited Studio Broil where its owner proceeded to play us a few tracks off this album. I was blown away at the brutality and technicality of the material he was playing us.

Fast Forward about 7 years and I had assumed the project was dissolved and I’d never get to hear the finished product. I was stoked to see it finally released this year, and to be honest, it was better than I remembered. It’s like Cephalic Carnage and Cattle Decapitation had a kid that grew up to resent them and be angrier than either band ever dreamed (or had nightmares) of being.

7. He Was Eaten By Owls – Inchoate With The Light Go I

I had really enjoyed this band’s debut record, a nice and intricate mix of math rock and jazz experimentation. I was sure I’d enjoy the new record as much, but I was blown away at what I got. This album is more of an orchestrated indie rock masterpiece than anything that fits the boundaries set by their first release. I’ve been describing this one as ‘2018 Indie Rock’s version of King Crimson’s Islands’ as it touches on the same orchestral rock that’s experimental yet still very much melody-focused and lyrical. This was a massive undertaking (which I somewhat followed through their Facebook and Instagram posts) that could’ve failed miserably, a huge gamble that could’ve easily turned into a piece of pretentious garbage, but they pulled it off. This is what Arcade Fire fans think they hear when they listen to Arcade Fire.

6. Cypecore – The Alliance

I’m 38, so I grew up in the mid ’90s with the boom of Gothenburg masterpieces coming out. I’ve been an In Flames fan for more than half my life. Of course, at first, I hated their new direction (don’t worry I’m getting there) but grew to love it with time. I now firmly believe that had Reroute To Remain been all killer (“System”, “Trigger”, “Cloud Connected”) and no filler (“Drifter”, “Transparent”), it’d be by far their best release. These guys take that sound and lean into the industrial Rammstein elements, and thankfully leave the emo whiny vocals aside.

This record is better than it has a right to be. It adds nothing new to an existing formula, yet here it sits at number 6 because it’s just that damn fucking good. Every song on this album could’ve been the lead single. Every chorus will have you singing along. Every new riff will have you hitting the person next you in the car and saying ‘Listen, listen, this is the best part of the whole fucking album’ only to repeat this action during the following song.

5. GoGo Penguin – A Humdrum Star

Beautifully sad, melancholic piano-led jazz of the chill-up-your-spine variety. The kind of album you love and recommend yet don’t listen to that often as it is a heavy and laboring undertaking that leaves you emotionally exhausted. Just the opening chords of the second track, “Raven”, will bring a wave of nostalgia on its second listen since you will know the journey you are embarking upon and the roller coaster of emotions you will have therein. I’m not swearing and attempting to put some effort into my description, that’s how good this record is. It’s just that damn fucking good (one can only try so hard…).

4. Monobody – Raytracing

These guys have been on my radar ever since their first release. Midway between jazz and math rock, they had put out an amazing debut record and EP, but nothing could prepare me for the sonic onslaught that would be this new album. The complex unison line and composition work I love so much in ’70s jazz rock gets a modern update and then tossed in there with electronic ambiences and coated in a math rock glazing of sugary goodness. It’s ambitious when it needs to be and laid back when it doesn’t, yet holds the listener’s attention constantly. A very modern take on Yes’ Relayer album is about as close as words can come to summarizing it.

3. Journal – Chrysalis Ordalias

With all the love Frontierer and Rolo Tomassi are getting, this album is getting left behind when people discuss this year’s mathcore offerings. What I love about Journal is that they embrace both sides of the math, going from frenetic chaotic dissonant mathcore passages to major scale upbeat math rock passages and melding the two together masterfully. It creates something pretty so it can shit on it afterwards, and makes darkness so the following light can shine brighter. In the world of brutal progressive music, whether its mathcore or tech death, it’s rare to see a band embrace this contrast. These guys do it, and they pull it off on this insanely long and diverse record.

2. Respire – Dénouement

I mentioned before that there would be a second record on the list that is actually getting recognition, and this is it. I still felt compelled to include it. The line between screamo and post black metal keeps getting thinner, and these guys have taken residence upon that divide and brought horns and strings with them. Every single second of this recording is emotionally engaging yet never manipulative. It’s simply mournfully amazing, taking the best of several genres, from the ones mentioned before to post-rock and post-metal, and puts it all together to pull you in for a heartfelt ride through genuine feelings put into music.

1. Revolting – Monolith Of Madness

Throughout this list I’ve overused the words beautiful, complexity, and composition, as a lot of these albums bring a myriad of different subtleties to the table that I find enjoyable as an artist. If you compare them to surgeons using surgical blades to make precise incisions after years of studying and training, this record is a blunt object to the motherfucking skull. And as is the case with my rankings, getting hit in the face with a sledgehammer leaves more of an impression than any medical intervention can.

This album is just all balls. Old School Swedish Death Metal done right. If you loved Edge Of Sanity before Crimson, then you’ll understand why this album filled a void that had been empty for years. They took Swanö’s melodic and catchy yet still fully death metal approach and mastered it. I could make a compilation of my favorite EoS songs such as “Twilight”, “Hell Is Where the Heart Is”, and “Eternal Eclipse”, compare it to this album, and it would still hold up.

This is the filler-less, all-singles album EoS should’ve given us instead of the uneven Infernal. If you loved them as much as I did, you understand why an album that fills that void that was left inside of me for such a recording deserves the number one spot. And, for all my attempts at using fancy words and metaphors to describe the other albums on this list, this one beats them all out on one important point: I played it twice as much as anything else this year.

I’ll be posting 100+ other albums I enjoyed this year on my instagram so follow me at https://www.instagram.com/tumbleweeddealer/

Source: https://www.nocleansinging.com/2019/01/08/listmania-2018-top-20-albums-you-mightve-missed-this-year-from-seb-painchaud-tumbleweed-dealer/

[newyorktheater]

The calendar for the 74th annual Tony Awards,:

Thursday, April 23rd: Official cut-off for 2019-2020 Tony Eligibility

Tuesday, April 28th: Nominations announced

April 30th: Meet the nominees press reception

May 19th: Nominees luncheon

June 1: Tony Honors reception

June 7: The 74th Annual Tony Awards

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“As a director I’ve watched thousands of actors audition,” Jeff Zinn writes in Arts Fuse. “You can tell whether or not someone is of interest within the first 60 seconds.” His assessment of the major Democratic presidential candidates in the captions (and the current president in the article):

“Buttigieg is a natural performer in front of the lens. I’m in awe of his ability to respond to seemingly any question with a well thought out, perfectly formulated answer which, though you know he’s said it a hundred times, somehow still has the quality of spontaneity. You can tell he’s thought hard about the issues and has developed a coherent world view, so the words flow easily for him. That ease appeals to voters and is part of the reason he’s been building from the start and is now a legit front runner. His weakness is what you might call his unbearable lightness of being. I’ve noticed that, when it comes to actors taking on roles that are different from themselves, it’s much harder to add weight than to lighten it. So, his small stature and boyish appearance work against him. He does best in intimate settings – on the set of an interview show or in a town hall – but on the debate stage you can sense him trying to “bulk up” and put on a serious face. It doesn’t work. He should just relax and be himself.”

Bernie Sanders “is brilliant. His overriding quality, always, is his passion. He burns with intentionality. When he speaks, the stakes are existential. His shape – the easily caricatured rumple – makes the point that his exterior is irrelevant to the message, which makes the message all the more effective.”

Amy Klobuchar “has a sunny demeanor and her midwestern charm goes a long way toward helping her performance, but I find her tense and tight. I believe it was in the first debate that an unfortunate confluence of nerves and hairspray added up to a twitching of bangs that was disastrously distracting”.

Elizabeth Warren “speaks with passion and her message is strong. But this isn’t about message, it’s about affect. She tends to pivot away from tough questions into well-worn stories and talking points which come off as, well, canned.”

“Mike Bloomberg never seems to be trying very hard to project anything in particular. This is what [acting teacher Patsy] Rodenburg calls “first circle” where, “…the energy you generate falls back into you… You can come across to others as self-centered, uncaring and withdrawn…” I suppose that’s what happens when you’re REALLY rich and don’t much care what others think of you. But we are drawn to charismatic leaders who inspire. Will voters look past that lack of charisma?”

Presidents on stage over the past century.

Benjamin Chapin in “Lincoln,” 1906.

Christopher Jackson as George Washington in Hamilton, 2015

The drunken Virtual Real Estate Tycoon turned Dictator (T. Scott Lilly) is trapped in his own wall, in Theater for the New City’s musical “No Brainer,” which traveled to outdoor stages in all five boroughs last summer.

The current president of the United States has been depicted largely satirically on out-of-the-way New York stages, but nearly every past president has made it to Broadway over the last century, as this photo essay makes clear.

  Broadway Theater Quiz

Ageism on stage – an international issue The international theater journal Critical Stages offers a special issue on ageism and theater, with nine articles in seven different parts of the world, including the U.S.

David Byrne’s American Utopia, which closed on Sunday, will return to Broadway’s Hudson Theater September 18, 2020 through January 17, 2021, with an opening date to be announced. Spike Lee has directed a filmed version of the show, planned for a released sometime in Fall 2020, “in collaboration with the Broadway hit,” whatever that means.

The complete cast for Mrs. Doubtfire, which opens April 5 at the Stephen Sondheim, includes Cameron Adams (My Fair Lady), Akilah Ayanna (Broadway debut), Calvin L. Cooper (Broadway debut), Kaleigh Cronin (Summer: The Donna Summer Musical), Casey Garvin (King Kong), Maria Dalanno (Broadway debut), David Hibbard (Something Rotten!, Cats), KJ Hippensteel (The Book of Mormon), Aaron Kaburick (Hello, Dolly!), Erica Mansfield (Kiss Me, Kate), Brian Martin (Broadway debut), Alexandra Matteo (A Bronx Tale), Sam Middleton (Broadway debut), Doreen Montalvo (On Your Feet), LaQuet Sharnell Pringle (Lysistrata Jones), Jaquez André Sims (King Kong), Lily Tamburo (Broadway debut), Travis Waldschmidt (Kiss Me, Kate) and Aléna Watters (The Cher Show).

They join the previously announced Rob McClure as Daniel Hillard/Euphegenia Doubtfire, Jenn Gambatese as Miranda Hillard, Peter Bartlett as Mr. Jolly, Charity Angél Dawson as Wanda Sellner, Mark Evans as Stuart Dunmire, J. Harrison Ghee as Andre Mayem, Analise Scarpaci as Lydia Hillard, Jake Ryan Flynn as Christopher Hillard, Avery Sell as Natalie Hillard and Brad Oscar as Frank Hillard.

Cassie Levy and Patti Murin end their run in Frozen

Broadway theater goers hit with pepper spray-type irritant at ‘Jagged Little Pill’ matinee

60 Minutes: West Side Story behinds the scenes

How Instagram is shaping the theater industry

Do You Hear the People Sing? , the defiant chorus from the musical Les Misérables, has become a song of protest in Hong Kong and, more recently, mainland China…The authorities have responded to the song’s incendiary impulse by removing it as an individual number and scrubbing it from the soundtrack albums

Rest in Peace

Lynn Cohen 86, well-known actress on screens large (Golda Meir in Munich) and small (Magda in Sex and the City) but a long-time fixture in New York theater, as both performer and theatergoer. I talked to her frequently about shows we happened to see together. This one stings.

The Tony Awards 2020 Calendar. Utopia Returning to Broadway. A Director Assesses The Candidates. #Stageworthy News of the Week The calendar for the 74th annual Tony Awards,: Thursday, April 23rd: Official cut-off for 2019-2020 Tony Eligibility…

[lindyhunt]

Maria Bamford: Just As Lovable As Ever

There’s nobody quite like Maria Bamford. She has been a trailblazer in using both standup and her acclaimed Netflix show Lady Dynamite to delve into her experiences with bipolar II disorder and OCD. She’s a talented mimic, shaping her signature squeak into laconic Valley Girl cadences or an earnest Midwestern twang. She is a little strange. She is also terribly charming. Her specials poke fun at the form; one of them featured her doing standup for her parents, sitting on their couch. Her most recent Netflix special, Old Baby, found Bamford starting off performing in the mirror, then moving onto doing jokes for her husband and dogs, then working a small party for friends, then appearing at a bowling alley, and finally crushing it in a theatre full of cheering fans…and then retracing her steps through all these venues, all the way back to her looking in the mirror. It’s like watching an entire comedy career in one hour, both hilarious and poignant.

She is unafraid to experiment with format, turning weird jokes inside out and working them until they’re even weirder—something many women in comedy tend to shy away from, it seems. She is one of the industry’s most well-respected comedians, a comedian’s comedian. And she does a set you’ll never forget. We caught up with Bamford just before she hit Canada for a couple JFL42 dates to discuss opening up about her mental illness, the perils of joking about your family and why we need to pay our comics.

Maria Bamford will be at the JFL42 comedy festival in Toronto Sept. 27 and 28, doing standup and sitting down for a Q&A.

What made you want to get into standup originally? What appealed to you?

I always loved the feeling of being on stage. When I was three, my parents forced me to play the violin, and I loved being on stage, but I did not like playing the violin. I couldn’t wait to get that cock-block out of the way.

What do you love most about doing comedy?

It’s changed over the years. I was very shy, so originally it was a really good way to have human connection, even if it was limited. It felt very safe. Now, it’s just trying new ideas. And still trying to connect with people, although it is more community-oriented: like, I want to connect with other comedians, and be a part of the group. That’s more important now.

What’s the hardest part about being a comedian?

This could be said of every single job in the United States at this point, but there is no social welfare net. So, even if you’re doing a TV set, you really have to have a full-time job, in order to pay expenses, to live in these giant cities like Los Angeles or New York. Yes, certain people won the lottery and are able to do it, but there’s much less of a middle-class element in comedy. The income for middle acts across the country has remained the same for the past 25 years, so that’s the hardest, because being without food or shelter is not as funny as you’d hope.

What are you proudest of, in this new material?

I just to have to keep going, you know? That’s how I look at the arts, at this point, for me, is that I’m a flower, and I’m blooming, and that’s all I need to do. I’ve made it 100 times over—but just to keep making things, I think, is wonderful.

You’ve been lauded for being very open about many topics many folks shy away from, including your mental health experiences, as well as your skill in performing more surrealist bits and strange characters. Does this fearlessness come naturally to you, or do you have to psyche yourself up to be so open on stage?

In any job, there’s always new highs and new lows: like, there’s always a new thing. I did a gala last night for the TV show and I was terrified; I did three runs of the sets and I’m not even sure how it went, after. So I think sometimes newcomers can be just as good—or better—than the comedians who have been doing it for 30 years, because of how much they’ve prepared, and how excited and focused they are. Like, I’m distracted by fudge and kites.

Comedy festivals occasionally come under fire for having too few women on the bill or being too white, but at JFL42 this year there’s a much bigger number of comedians of colour, and female, queer and non-binary comics. Do you feel that the comedy industry is improving, diversity-wise, or are we still woefully lagging behind?

This year has been heartening; it’s a much better situation. The one thing that I think needs to change is that festivals don’t pay the un-repped comics who come out. And those are the people who need it the most. They pay for hotel, but everyone has to pay their flight two weeks out, which means the flights are packed and you have to pay maybe $800 to $1200 per ticket, so you’re borrowing money, or sometimes in the hole, or in credit card debt, to come here. That needs to change.

Being on the road all the time can be really hard on a person. How do you practice self-care?

We slowed down a lot, over the past several years, because of health issues. I just don’t have the energy to do things, so I do probably six cities a month at this point, and just do one night at a time. I’m definitely not a hard-driving comedian doing a 150-day tour on a tour bus, you know? I’m definitely on the high side of self-care; I’m sitting by a pool now, and I’m going to get in it after we get off the phone.

Do you find speaking about your mental health experiences to be cathartic? Does it help in managing your mental health? Do other people who have mental health issues come up to you and thank you for increasing that visibility?

Yes, for sure—it’s been very helpful to me to know how many people are out there who have had the same experiences, or similar experiences. So it’s only been positive.

Is talking about your personal relationships hard on the people you talk about?

I wish I were a better person. My sister finally told me after about 10 years that my impersonations of her hurt her feelings, so I was like, “oh, shit.” So I have had those talks. And I’ve had people do impersonations of me, which is very humbling. I would hope that it brings me closer to people in my life—that they are part of my work—but I also hope that they would feel comfortable telling me if they didn’t like it. My husband has spoken up and said, “hey—the way I appear in that joke, it felt weird,” and I was like, “oh! Oh, yes. Yes, you are correct.” And I rewrote it, and it made it a much better joke. Nothing’s worth losing a family member over; no story or shtick is worth that. Maybe I can work together with my sister, who I’m hoping to talk to about this very issue. It’s interesting, because when I started, and I was doing impersonations of my family, nobody cared, because nobody was watching, and then suddenly—they live in a small town—and people were like [heavy Minnesota accent] “did you hear what your sister said about you? In that one show? Ohh!” So I don’t know what that’s like, and how painful or bizarre that is, so hopefully it’s only to bring us all closer together. The pain, the stinging broth of intimacy that we’re all soaking in.