#and she would drive herself progressively more unhinged about it

[the-crooked-library]

okay but like, as much as I am a fervent proponent of “not every ship should get married and in fact some of them would Never” - especially in context of enemies-to-lovers - I hope that everyone who sees me posting like that knows I am not talking about Spuffy. in fact, I would go so far as to say they are the two characters most willing and even desperate to get married that I’ve ever seen.

one of Buffy’s most persistent struggles is her right to girlhood and the inevitable expiration date she faces as the Slayer. she’s forced to fight and claw for every possible milestone that other girls around her take for granted - trying out for the cheer squad, running for prom queen, going to college, etc. one of the nightmares she has after killing Angel is about being unable to be a bride and get married. in Something Blue, she throws herself into wedding planning with a passion that speaks to her having daydreamed about it. in most cases, her commitment issues veer toward clinging rather than avoidance, and marriage is absolutely one of those beautiful, unreachable things that were ripped away from her when the Powers chose her. it haunts her.

Spike is probably even more obvious - he’s a man from Victorian England, a society that held marriage on a pedestal. furthermore, he is fundamentally a creature of devotion, never straying from Drusilla for over a century, and then from Buffy even after she was dead. their desperation is also quite similar - Spike’s original community had considered him undesirable, barring him from a love match; and while a union may have been arranged for him as a human, his vampirism took that option away entirely, in the same way that Buffy’s becoming did it. during Something Blue, he is just as committed to planning the minutiae of the wedding as Buffy is, even though they could’ve just decided to do it at the courthouse and get it over with under a shoehorned pretext. he’s been dreaming of a wedding for 150 years, let’s be real

Spuffy would’ve gone insane about a wedding. they would’ve fallen in love worse. they would have threatened each other with divorce constantly but stayed married anyway for however long they lived. hell, they should’ve done it just for the CPS reasons in season 6, just imagine having to hide it from everyone except the government, lest Anya thinks they’re trying to steal her thunder

[howdaretrashships]

Feihua Most Unhinged Moment Tournament: Semi Finals, Bracket 1

Tournament Masterpost

Propaganda:

Option 1: "You're still so clingy."

They, until very recently, each thought the other was dead. (Not a wild conclusion to come to. Di Feisheng was told Li Xiangyi died, and he was in seclusion healing from his injuries. The world assumed he was dead when he wasn't heard from for ten years.)

When Li Lianhua (Li Xiangyi) last saw Di Feisheng, he was planning to kill him. And then the poison took effect. The poison that allowed Di Feisheng to get the upper hand. (The poison that would have killed him sooner if not for a certain monk.)

With the clues he put together over the years, Li Lianhua couldn't be blamed for thinking Di Feisheng poisoned him. Or, perhaps, that he knowingly let his subordinates poison him.

(If Di Feisheng would kill is shixiong, and steal the body after they negotiated a truce, what wouldn't he do?)

But Li Lianhua reveals himself as Li Xiangyi and meets his supposed enemy.

Why then, if they are supposed to be enemies, does Di Feisheng greet him with "How have you been?"? (If he knowingly poisoned him, or let it happen, shouldn't he know? Shouldn't the question be a little more pointed; a little more winkwinknudgenudge smirksandgloating?)

And why, if they are supposed to be enemies, does Li Lianhua respond with "You're still so clingy after not seeing each other for ten years."? (And not: "Shouldn't you know? Considering you poisoned me?")

(And what does it say about their relationship before Donghai that he says still so clingy? That Di Feisheng... is Still. So. Clingy.)

"You're still so clingy..." said to a supposed enemy that smiles after finding out Li Lianhua (Li Xiangyi) isn't dead. Said in response to the supposed enemy genuinely asking how he's been the last ten years.

(And then Di Feisheng is surprised and angry on his behalf when he finds out Li Xiangyi [Li Lianhua] is Not Okay.)

Option 2: Di Feisheng writing 'If Found Return to Li Lianhua' on his hand

You've been investigating how everything went so wrong ten years ago. You've determined that someone has been working behind the scenes to drive a wedge between you and your... husband rival ex... rival for their own benefit. The lead you have is the crazy lady that's obsessed with you, but she couldn't have done it herself.

You're this close to finding out who she's working with and being rid of her for good when the guy shows up to save her, stabs you in the side, and poisons you with something you can feel will ruin your lifelong progress in martial arts.

Do you go to your personal bodyguard? No. (Well, maybe you couldn't find him, but still.)

No. You take the time to wrap your dao in rags to disguise it and then you go to the Sigu Sect waterfall and write "Find Li Lianhua' on your hand. It's a note for yourself. Y'know, since you've isolated the poison in such a way that you'll have amnesia.

Ok, note for yourself - check. Then what?

Well then you walk into the river just before you pass out and let it take you downstream.

What's downstream? Well who knows really. Your rival, Li Lianhua, the man previously known as Li Xiangyi? Maybe a blind guy collecting corpses to sell into ghost marriages?

What if someone else finds you first, what then, huh? Better hope they don't recognize you when you don't even know yourself anymore.

But don't worry.

The note on your hand says you belong to Li Lianhua.

[half-developed-frontal-lobe]

My predictions and analysis on the new Hero in Overwatch →

Also Lore on Oasis, Moira, and the hero lore itself.

Wayfinders and Vanadium

The Wayfinders find a vein of an unknown vanadium isotope in Petra. One that isn't decaying in the natural environment.

I actually looked around Petra at one point didn't find anything regarding the isotope itself, so maybe they really aren't interested.

Which is ironic because Venture has a pet rock, Rosetta, with similar looking crystals on its head, a violet colored crystal poking out at the top.

This also brings some insight to what's being used. What we should be expecting from this experiment. It may also explain why Talon is going around Wayfinder dig sites, if substances like these can be found.

Vanadium is known as a steel additive. You mix it with other metals to strengthen tools, armor, weapons, etc, and makes them resistant to corrosion and rusting.

It's incredibly durable when mixed with a different material, and makes it shock resistant and vibration resistant. Not only that, but an oxidized vanadium isotope has the power to store and emit efficient amounts of energy.

Which is why it is said to be 'nearly indestructible'. Whatever mixed with this might be hard to eliminate.

Moira and Oasis

On the Chemistry Ministry lab's computers, right next to the destroyed site of where one experiment has escaped, you can find recent chats between Moira and Anya Al-Shahrani.

And my god, these messages not only talk about the hero and it's possible abilities, but about how off the rails Moira is when it comes to the experiments in Oasis. Her craft is unhinged, and she truly is a mad scientist. She goes as far as keeping the material used for the experiment away from the other Ministries, specifically the Ministry of Geology.

You can find the entire translation of the chats here.

Minister Anya Al-Shahrani and Moira are constantly clashing heads at this point, and not only does it give us insight on the new hero, but also how Moira works around her Oasis peers.

Where her demeanor towards the others is snide and possessive. Undermining another Ministry in the process. In this instance we need to remember that Moira's drive stems from her own self-testing, she is physically 'withering away' as Lifeweaver would put it.

You can see how her own self experimentation is adding pressure to her progress overall. Where she is isolated and obsessed, pushing herself until the material itself is thoroughly analyzed.

However, when Moira says that the material has found a permanent home in the Genetics Ministry, you can guess that she's already used the isotope for her own personal experiments, keeping it stored in the Chemistry Ministry later on.

And, it breaks loose.

Who is or what are the 'Phreaks?'

I'm just going to say, holy cow, this hero and their faction has made a mess of things in the Oasis lab. We can't be entirely sure whether or not to call this person a hero, but I'd like to think this is a hero amongst Moira's experiments.

Perspective wise, a hero towards the newest 'Phreaks' faction that is being introduced. They are foils against Oasis, but this does not mean that they aren't capable of hurting other factions as well.

I'm going to also assume that Talon is one of them considering that this is one of Moira's experiments gone awry. But also say that Doomfist is not going to be pleased about any of this.

Or he might be pleased that one of these experiments is wreaking havoc on people in revenge, though I think this might make his plans more difficult with coming to fruition.

(I'm being open minded about the possibilities.)

I also would love to see this hero interact with all of Moira's experiments. I'm sure we will at some point, but I'm rooting for Sigma's interaction the most. Maybe Mercy's if we're lucky enough.

As for the Phreaks, I'd like to say that the sprays in the Chemistry Ministry is not conveying just one character.

I think that it could convey a number of different experiments. A character mutated plant-wise with a touch of toxicity, a dog-like experiment guarded with armor and it's own enlarged teeth, and a sparked up serpent with a lit fuse. There's also another small holo-spray to the right door of the lab, but I can't quite figure it out.

This could also be seen that with the Vanadium isotope being used as the main part of this experiment, that these signs could just be the different parts of this hero altogether, or the different facets of each experiment affected by Vanadium testing.

Armored Dog: Vanadium's capability to enhance other metals, making them stronger.

Acidic Flower: Vanadium's resistance to natural corrosion.

Electric Eel/Serpent: Vanadium's capability to store and emit energy efficiently.

So what about the new hero?

However, with humans, Vanadium is a toxic material. It affects in a negative way.

"High exposure to Vanadium can cause nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain and greenish discoloration of the tongue."

So I think this character, although mixed with an 'indestructible isotope' could have negative side effects if not taken care of properly, or watched over by the person (Moira) who is responsible for the change in the first place.

Regarding roles, and the ongoing buzz of this being a tank, I do think making use of the vibration and shock resistance would make sense if going up against a different hero like Venture, or a possible Mauga slamming down onto your team.

This does sound like another form of an Orisa fortify, but I think the difference is that this hero might become slightly less hindered by status effects instead of knockback. You're still going to get pushed around, but the damage intake can be lessened with one of your abilities.

As for the resistance to natural corrosion, abilities that cause map and area denials might not work, but end up charging this hero's damage output.

I'm thinking of Lucario from Super Smash Bros, mixed with Electro from the Amazing Spider-Man 2.

Abilities like Torb's Molten Core, Venture's Tectonic Shock, and Sigma's Gravitic Flux might not work well against this hero.

But D.Va bombs, Kitsune Rush, High Noons, Baptiste's matrix, and ultimates that can dish out incredible amounts of high damage input and increase could work well.

Then again, this is all just a theory, so let me know what you think. Since the hero has yet to be released, I'm making it adamantly clear that this is purely my take on what they could be. It is no way canon.

[inkbutterflyuniverse]

Some random thoughts about Grease Rise of the Pink Ladies, before Paramount+ removes it, because I liked the show so much:

First, Buddy. Honestly, I never really cared about him, so his character development about his dad doing everything for him, didn't hit me. Like yeah, good for you that you finally know it, but it was kinda obvious that it wasn't the first time he did something to help you.

Second, Jane. Ah Jane, nice Jane, sweet Jane... How can I say this nicely? Okay listen, it's not that I hate you, but I didn't like you either. She was so annoying, she had moments were she was a good character, but overall she was so annoying. "Oh Richie pushed me back and Buddy's here... Oops I kissed him". "What do you mean you're angry because I kissed Buddy? But it's you that I chose, Richie!". Yeah not a fan of her character. Maybe because the show was too much about Jane and her family...

Third, Hazel. I loved her. So happy she got her jacket! She deserves it! She also faces a love problem, between Wally and Buddy. Buddy may know her better, but I prefer Wally, just because of the song and the things he talked about, like finding a middle ground. But let's be realist, whoever she chooses, it won't last long. After graduation she will go to college, become a great scientist, win a lot of prizes for her work, and maybe then she will meet a great person who likes her for who she is and share some of her interest!

Fourth, Nancy. Her character development took some time, but it was worth it. I love her, she's so unhinged, so funny, and such a great character. I love how she was there for Cynthia, and how she stood up for Olivia by slapping the teacher. YES GIRL, you're right, she's a child! And her discovering that she has a crush on Potato was cute! I would have love seeing more of them...

Fifth, Cynthia. And Lydia. Or Lynthia. They were so good together, I really love how their relationship progressed! The way they were on edge with each other at the beginning, and how they slightly began to like the other, to the point of Cynthia confessing... It was one of the best relationship written in the show. I would have been so down for more of them in a second season, and to learn more about their life, especially about Cynthia's mysterious dad and her mom who apparently left?

Sixth, Susan. I like her. I really do. She's kinda mean, but I understand. And I loved the little development she had after the driving test! I was a little sad that after that she threw her development away, but I can't blame her after everything Olivia's said and done. It was a shock to learn that she aborted and that she never talked Buddy. And the way her mom talked about soooo casually in the hallway, when everyone could hear you... It's honestly shocking that no one heard that! It could be a very valuable information!

Last but not least, Miss McGee, aka the true queen. She was the star of this show. Forget about the girls and their teenagers problems, this woman deserves more respect. She is the principal, not the other dummy who plays golf in his office. She does ALL the paperwork BY HERSELF, she's the one who talks to the students and their parents if needed. She literally kept most of the kids into the school when it wasn't safe for them to go out, almost by herself. None of the other adults helped her, she had to rely on kids! This woman deserves more recognition.

[moonpiemoonshine]

Dog eat Dog world pt.5

( A Rocky Balboa fanfic)

After Rocky’s big fight, him and Olivia had almost immediately gotten married. The service was short and sweet. Olivia’s only guest and bridesmaid being her friend Seri. Her father had shown up in the beginning but left halfway through. Rocky had invited Mickey and a couple of his trainers and friends. The ceremony was intimate and sweet. Even with how short it was it was worthwhile. Rocky and Olivia were happy.

Olivia had settled and gave birth to their son, Robert Jr. She had Seri help her raise Robert since Rocky was mostly busy with training and defending his title. Olivia loved Robert with all her heart but being a simple doting housewife was not her lifestyle. It was miserable and she knew she could be doing something anything else. Getting to see Rocky living out his life and fighting and living his dream was hard. She was happy for him but what about her dreams. Every day she thought she looked like her father in the mirror. A man hungry for a fight and would do anything to feel it again. When she felt like this she distanced herself from her kid.

When they moved into the big house she felt even more lonely, the spacious house making her feel empty and more miserable. Rocky was striving, fighting and doing commercials. It was amazing to have alone time with her husband and seeing him do charity work for children, but she seemed to not be able to break free from her sadness. Years had gone by and she had gotten enough of sitting around and doing nothing. She’d sneak out and watch matches with Mickey and her and Mickey had picked up on Clubber Lang. Olivia could tell Mickey was hesitant and this worried her. Mickey had told her that he doesn’t think Rocky has the drive that he can tell Olivia still has. He asked her to get in shape and start fighting again. Give Rocky something to be fighting for besides himself.

That’s what Olivia started to do. Her son wasn’t an infant anymore so he didn’t need to be babied by Olivia as much. Rocky had been around his son lots of time and Olivia could tell he favored his father over his mother. So Olivia would train at night while Rocky was out or while Rocky was sleeping. Olivia had gotten into amazing shape, she had been telling Rocky and Seri she did it just cause she wanted to look good again. Rocky didn’t mind seeing his wife taking care of herself and he didn’t mind her new look.

Mickey had been training her lightly but he knew she wasn’t in any shape to fight any time soon. Since Mickey was living in their house it was easy for him to see her progress and train her away form Rocky. The night where Rocky was to fight a wrestler Olivia was excited to watch. Olivia made Robert sit with Seri while she stood close to the ring. Seeing the big wrestler come out into the ring excited her. She was worried for Rocky’s safety but this weird unhinged type of fighting is her type of fight.

She watched as this wrestler intimidated Rocky. Thunderlips threw Rocky around like a rag doll int he first half of the fight. Hearing Rocky tell her name while being thrown out of the ring shocked her. This is where she worried for Rocky’s safety. She noticed Mickey hunched over in pain. She runs over to him and asks if he’s alright, and if he needs a doctor.

“Mickey you don’t look good, you need a doctor” She said in worry trying to get the old man up right.

“It’s fine, I’ll be fine” he says weakly.

“You sure Mick, I wanna make sure you’re okay” Mickey reassured he was fine.

Olivia turned back to the fight and she saw he had cut off his gloves and planned to fight without them. She got excited and watched as Rocky got Thunderlips back onto the mat. Rocky throwing body shots left and right to the giant man. She got excited but it quickly left when Rocky was held up by the throat, he looked like he wasn’t gonna come down so out of pure adrenaline, Olivia grabbed a wooden chair on the side of the ring and got onto the mat and hit him on the back, breaking the chair. She quickly slid off the mat so he wouldn’t throw a punch and this gave Rocky time to put him in a headlock.

Thunder lips walked around the mat with Rocky on his back and got the wrestler to his knees. Rocky threw many body punches then picked the man up and threw him out of the ring. The bell rang and it was announced to be a draw. Olivia got onto the mat and when Thunderlips came over to say good job to Rocky. Rocky asked about his behavior and before he could answer Olivia interjected.

“That’s the name of the game Rocky” She said in a joking tone and Thunderlips agreed.

“That woman of yours has a heavy arm on her” He says in a impressed manner.

“My wife, she used to bare knuckle fight with guys so she’s got some heat in her” Rocky gloated in a loving manner. “Well while I got you calm how about we take that Polaroid” he says.

Seri had brought Robert to the Mat and Olivia picked her young son up and gave him to Rocky. Thunderlips stood next to Olivia when the picture was taken, Olivia expressing a genuine smile she hadn’t shown in a long time.

They had a bit of time at home and Rocky and his son where having a ball. Olivia stayed around Mickey and making sure he was okay but he also over viewed her training. One day they had a celebration from the city to go to, so Rocky, Olivia and Mickey all dressed up and when the art museum.

The band played Rocky’s theme and Olivia stood close to Mickey making sure he was alright. When the statue was revealed Olivia couldn’t help but be a little envious of her husband. Him getting to live out his dream while she’s kept dormant. Rocky’s speech was sweet and him announcing that he was retiring made Olivia a little excited cause it could possibly be her turn to fight, but when the crowd got angry and then Clubber yelling about how Rocky was a coward too scared to fight him. Mickey wouldn’t let that happened, letting rocky know he was finished.

“ hey woman, hey woman! Listen here since your man and got no heart maybe you’d like to see a real man, I bet you stay up late every night dreaming you had a real man don’t you I’ll tell you what bring your pretty little self over to my apartment tonight I’ll show you a real man” Clubber directed to Olivia and this pissed off Rocky.

Olivia walked down the steps to Clubber, the crowd shocked at her actions and so is Rocky. She looked at him with a condescending smile, he smirked to himself in satisfactory but was cut off when Olivia punched him right across the face sending him to the ground.

“If I he won’t fight you, I will” Olivia said and stormed back off with Rocky.

Rocky rushed home to talk to Mickey about what he had said at the ceremony. Mickey had told him how Rocky’s matches weren’t actual challenges. They were chosen matches to keep Rocky safe. Rocky knew he couldn’t retire knowing his whole career was a lie and a fake. Rocky promised Mickey that this fight with Clubber would be fake.

Rocky trained in his weird club like training center. Him being distracted by the fans and the glamour of everything around him. Olivia couldn’t even imagine training in a place like this, she was embarrassed to even be seen there. She could tell Rocky isn’t really taking it seriously. This makes her snap and she went home and trained out of frustration. If her husband gets to parade around not with a care in the world, she gets to fight. She had called the old promoter and he had told her of a fight that could happen in about three to four weeks from now. Olivia immediately agreed, it was a woman v. woman fight but she didn’t care.

When Mickey came back from training Olivia pulled him aside and told him about the fight she booked. Mickey jokingly said he’d rather watch her fight than Rocky’s. Once the night of Rocky vs. Clubber happened she stressed. Olivia stressed over Mickey and Rocky’s safety. She knew Rocky wasn’t ready, and this could push Mickey over the edge.

When they were walking out of the locker room and Clubber started hollering at Rocky and threatening him, that’s when Olivia started to really worry. Clubber started to push the press around him then pushed Mickey, and Olivia rushed towards him and Clubber pushed Olivia but she headed straight for Mickey, he looked bad. She screamed for Rocky and he picked him up and got him to the locker room. Rocky wad Mickey get onto the table and yelling for a doctor for Mickey. Rocky wanted to call off the fight but Mickey made him stick tot he fight. Rocky left to go to the fight but Olivia stayed to take care of Mickey.

Olivia was in tears seeing Mickey so weak. She had him lay down on the bench, placing his head on her big fur coat.

“Mickey please, don’t go. Rocky needs you, I need you” she begged in a shaky voice.

“No, my times up. You gotta take care of yourself now. Don’t give up on what you gotta do. Don’t settle and become something you’re not” Mickey said in a weak tone.

Olivia sobbed and hugged Mickey close. Not leaving his side. She wanted to drop everything, she’d give up her dream right then and there to let Mickey live. When the doctors came and started to do CPR on Mickey, Olivia started to shake, she couldn’t handle this. Mickey was what her father wasn’t. She needed Mickey and she knew Rocky needed Mickey. Olivia knew it was bad news when she saw Rocky back in the locker room so soon. Rocky’s expression and how busted it was, she knew Rocky had lost. Rocky saw the critical condition that Mickey was in but he told Mickey it was a second round knockout and this made Mickey happy to think Rocky had won. Olivia held herself close to Rocky in tears hearing their soft conversation. When Mickey stopped talking and then breathing Rocky broke down in sobs and yells of pain. Olivia quietly sobbed next to Mickey. Heartbroken hearing her husband scream in pain and the loss of her trainer and best friend.

The funeral was hard on the two, Olivia couldn’t even think about going through her fight without Mickey and she knows she can’t tell Rocky this, in his condition. The two head to a empty bridge after the funeral and sit in silence, the two not being able to comfort each other in this moment. Olivia couldn’t sleep and couldn’t function without the help of Seri. Rocky always left to visit Mickey at his tomb and was constantly angry. He went out one night and went to the gym angry at the loss. Apollo had stopped by the house and Olivia told him Rocky would be at the gym.

Olivia stopped being sad and started to be angry. She let all her anger out while training and she was determined to go through with this fight, proving to herself and to Mickey she’s worth it. She deserved to full fill her dream. Apollo had taken up the mantle of trainer and wanted to train Rocky. Apollo knew Olivia still and the itch and said he’d give her his bare knuckle trainer to her but she needs to tell Rocky. One night Olivia sat Rocky down in their bed.

“I know this is a hard time for you, and you need to be focused but I need to tell you something. Mickey wanted me to pursue my fighting career” Olivia said calmly barley being able to look in her husbands eyes.

“No, you said you were done with that! I just lost Mickey I can’t handle losing yous. What about Robby, he needs his mother” Rocky protested in a angry tone.

“I’m only fighting women, no more men. Rocky I lost Mick just like you. He knew, he saw how miserable I was. I couldn’t live my life seeing you getting to fight her heart out while I have to stay on the sidelines. Mickey wanted me to be a fighter.” She replied in a demanding tone.

“What do mean miserable. This house not good enough! Your expensive stuff isn’t good enough! Our son not good enough!” Rocky shouted in a accusing tone and this snapped something in Olivia.

“I’m a fighter just like you! I can’t live my life through your eyes! I need to do something besides just sit around and let you live! Mickey didn’t want that for me, he wanted me to live and to give all that I got! I’m gonna fight and that’s that. I say when I’m done, I have to have a reason to fight and I do. I wanna love and live with my son, I wanna actually be happy for once and not have to cage myself!” She snapped at him and Rocky was taken aback. Seeing his face made Olivia go from mad to upset, and tears formed in her eyes. “I just wanna be there and present, not just blank and contempt”

“Sweetie, I don’t wanna hold you back. I’m just scared ya know. I wanna be able to see my wife every day and I want my kid to have his mother. I just don’t want anything happening to you” Rocky said softly holding his wives face in his hands. “If you’re gonna fight, be smart and safe about it” he stated ending with a reluctant sigh.

“I promise Rocky. I wanna live and fight for the men that I love” she stated softly and the two shared a tender kiss.

The day that Rocky had to leave for LA was about a week before Olivia’s fight. Olivia swore to be safe and to win this fight. She’d come down to LA afterwards to help and support Rocky during his training. Rocky said goodbye to his son and promised to call when he landed. Olivia trained with Apollos friend, Chris.

Chris had helped her gain back her groove in fighting bare knuckle style. Once the night came for the fight Seri had brought Robert to the fight. Olivia was a little rusty at first but when she found her groove, she was untouchable. She was dodging and weaving with ease. She set up a good trap and been able to knock out her opponent by the third round. Olivia felt alive and well. The thrill of the fight and the knockout made her ecstatic.

“Mommy you won!” Robert yelled when he saw his mom exit the locker room.

“I know, you brought me the strength to knock her down.” She said in a cherry tone picking up her son. She was sore but didn’t care, she loved seeing her son so excited for her. “I love you so much Robby, I’m gonna miss you when I have to leave” she continued walking to her car.

“Do you have to leave mommy” her kid whined and it made her melt.

“I’m sorry baby but I do. Your daddy needs me, and I need him. I’ll be back before you know it and you’ll be able to watch me win again” she said with a smile and this made her kid excited.

Olivia finally flew down and arrived at LA. Apollo filled her in on Rocky’s training and how hard it’s been. Rocky’s head hasn’t been in it. Olivia knew she needed to talk to her husband. Apollos crew was happy to hear her win and so was Rocky but she knew helping him was the focal point of her visit. She watched the race between Rocky and Apollo, she could see the frustration and turmoil in Rocky’s eyes and when he stopped this is how she knew something was really wrong. Apollo thought it was all over for Rocky, yelling at him asking what’s the matter with him.

Olivia pulled Rocky aside, walking to a empty part of the beach. Olivia asked why Rocky came here, she knew he wanted this fight to be over. Olivia told him how he isn’t a quitter and that he can’t quit now. Rocky went off about how the fights were fixed and how his career was a lie. Olivia fought back trying to say it was for Rocky’s protection. Rocky admitted he didn’t wanna lose her or his son. He was afraid, he didn’t think he could do anything without Mickey. Olivia wanted Rocky to know he’s a fighter and that he’s always gonna have her and his family behind him. There’s no reason to be afraid and that he can do this, there were so many people in his corner and he just needs to believe that he’s fighting for himself. If he loses so what, he loses with no excuses or fear. This breaks through to Rocky and he understands. The two share a kiss and a hug, him being deeply thankful for his wife. This puts Rocky into hyperdrive and gets serious with the training.

(I had a change of heart with this series and I decided to continue it, hopefully it’s still good so stay tuned for part 6 😌)



[herrage]

Name five things you love most about any muse of your choice; it can be motifs, headcanons, canon facts. Anything you want.

i'm gonna disperse these over a COUPLE just because!!!!

eve polastri: i love that, for a woman who began framed as a mundane woman, it's very apparent from the get-go that there's always been this lurking darker side to her. i think that no matter what happened in the show, no matter if villanelle had pushed her in the way that she had (like in season 2), eve would have ended up becoming more in touch with her innermost desire to essentially kill and not feel remorse. later in the show, she does it, and it's with such a sense of freedom, like this was who she was meant to be the entire time. i like that progression, that something normally so damning is what actually frees her instead.

cassandra pentaghast: i love her faith. she is the epitome of dedication, of discipline, of loyalty. she will vouch for someone and will be at their side once that trust is gained. however, her greatest strength is also her greatest weakness: it causes her to neglect some wrongdoings, to be blind to mistakes and warning signs she should have seen coming. she wants to believe the best in them.

glenn rhee: he was the heart of the show for the longest time. there was always a sense of innocence when he was around—glenn was a callback to a better time, before the fall of civilization. he reminded everyone of their humanity and of their heart during the most difficult times. he didn't deserve what he went through.

angela ziegler: i love the entire angel motif and the notion that she wants to be separate from mercy as an identity. angela ≠ mercy and vice versa. mercy was an image specifically created during Angela's collaboration with overwatch, was meant to represent everything good about the organization. pristine, angelic, healing, celestial, what have you. after the dissolution of ovw, she does not answer the recall, and does not associate herself with mercy anymore. angela still uses and possesses the swift response suit, but does not respond to mercy.

the deputy: to be honest, she is a little bat shit crazy. the deputy is about as unhinged as it gets, but wouldn't you be, too, if you suddenly had to dismantle an entire cult one piece at a time? she's a real southern charmer, she only uses snipers and a compact bow and arrow, and she drives like a god damn maniac.

[aitarose]

PROLOGUE | READ CH.1 [UNEDITED]  HERE

PAIRING: Zuko x Waterbender!Reader [fem]

PLOT: Princess Y/N finds herself falling for the young Fire Nation prince with the shy smile. As their feelings grow, the childhood lovers face unimaginable challenges together.

TIMEFRAME: Winter 90 AG

WARNINGS: angst, separation

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

A/N: i’m rewriting the chapters i currently have posted as my writing has improved since i first created this series. the prologue is now a mix of the original work and the leaving the north extra.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Crystal clear streams of water circled in repetition around the young Northern princess. Droplets of water failed to rain down onto the stark icy ground as her control was near to perfection.

Y/N’s arms swayed at her sides, her mind fully concentrated on the actions that she was igniting in her vicinity. Soft hums escaped her lips, finding joy in the calming nature that waterbending brought her.

The waning moonlight sparkled around her, giving her a ghostly look and causing her to look like a lost phantom in the wind. The smile on her face was haunting, the look being of pure and utter bliss.

Her footsteps tread lightly, barely making a path on the snow covered hill. Y/N looked to her left amidst her dance, spotting her shadow against the white powder and grinned at the sight.

All that she could see was her silhouette, which was oozing undeniable joy and freedom. Y/N was at one with her most true self—the cause of that true self being the element of water.

Waterbending was the definition of Y/N’s comfort zone. Having the skill mastered at such a young age was unheard of, but it was also the thing that she loved most in the world.

The members of the Northern tribe commonly said that Y/N’s ambition would be the end of her. That her drive for success and perfection would be her great downfall—but in the six-year-old’s mind, it was the one thing that put her at ease.

That and her favorite person in the entire world. Her favorite person who was just drenched in the formerly suspended water. The person who was glaring at her with the most bothered expression Y/N had ever seen.

“It’s freezing!” Yue cried out, wringing out her hair whilst Y/N laughed, falling to the ground in a fit of giggles. Both girls were drenched in water, their formal attire beginning to stick to their bodies in the cold air.

The baffled expression on Yue’s face gave Y/N more joy than the waterbending itself. It wasn’t uncommon for Y/N to give her half-sister a hard time, but at the end of the day Yue loved her, no matter how far her antics were taken. 

“Oh, so you think this is funny?” Yue raised her eyebrows, placing her hands on her hips in overall amusement. She opened her mouth wide to give Y/N her next dig. “I’m not the one who looks like a sea sponge!”

Y/N scoffed as she pulled at her frozen clothing, blowing the straying strings of hair away from her clouded eyes. A disgusted look dawned her face in retaliation to Yue’s attempt at an insult.

Yue was naturally kind, nearly incapable of showing bitterness and resentment. Even when her words were in good fun, Y/N hated to see her better half act in any negative way. It simply wasn’t her.

Y/N, herself, on the other hand was the polar opposite of Yue. She was hard on the surface, holding her head high, rather than cowering in fear. She knew that the world wasn’t all good or all bad as she was a realist.

The princesses rivaled each other in every way, but also found true balance in the fact. Yue’s reserved nature versus Y/N’s boldness made them the perfect pair. 

However, when they disagreed, though that rarely ever happened, Y/N was always the last to apologize. She’d never admit that she felt inferior to Yue. Their inborn rivalry was unspoken but also undeniable.

As Yue would always have the thing that Y/N wanted most in the world. The one thing that was stolen from her due to her birthright. She’d always be the black sheep of the North without the unconditional love of their people.

The unconditional love that they only showed Yue. Yue who was her half-sister—meaning that half of Y/N wasn’t native to the North, but native to the nation that they feared the most—the Fire Nation.

While Y/N and Yue continued to bicker, chasing each other around in circles and lapping the snowmen that they’d created together, their serene playtime was interrupted by a pair of large arms wrapping around Yue’s waist.

The white-haired girl squealed in surprise, her arms flailed chaotically as Arnook chuckled, watching his two daughters with love in his eyes. As Yue settled in his embrace, he rubbed Y/N’s shoulder gently.

“Spirits, you two feel like icicles.” Arnook’s gaze become concerned. He held Yue in his outstretched arms, inspecting her for any bruises or scratches. “Your mother was worried sick, Yue. You can’t run off without telling us first.”

Yue pouted, pointing at Y/N in exasperation. “Y/N wanted to come out and show me some of her new waterbending moves! I’m sorry, father. We were only having fun.”

Y/N let her head drop as Arnook gave her a disappointed look. He’d told her many times that he didn’t want Yue involved in the progress of her bending as her mastery would also be the reason behind her departure.

The royal chieftain nodded his head, gesturing for Y/N to follow as he carried Yue in his arms back towards the palace. The waterbender trudged behind her father, envying her sister’s state of content.

The walk back to the capital was silent, the only sounds being Yue’s faint snores drifting off in the wind. Y/N’s eyes were on the ground, occasionally lifting to watch her father show his love for her sister.

Her footsteps were light, barely leaving marks of fresh powder on the palace floor as she and Arnook gently closed Yue’s bedroom door. They’d each given her a kiss on the forehead before leaving her to sleep.

Arnook sighed, running a hand down the back of his braided hair. He looked down at his little girl, the one that he’d never meant to have but promised to always protect.

His mind was scrambled, thoughts flying everywhere with no place to settle—whilst Y/N’s soul was unhinged. It was as if it was drifting away, not able to settle in a single place since it never belonged.

“What’s going to happen to me, father?” Y/N whispered, her body shaking in anticipation for what was to come of her fate in the morning. “Why do I have to go away?”

Fear consumed Arnook’s emotions. Fear for the safety of his tribe, the fate of his daughter, the future of his people. He didn’t know what would become of his eldest child—but whatever did happen to Y/N, he knew that it was entirely his fault.

She was only a child. A child that was to be forced to become a slave to the Fire Nation, another pawn in their game to win the war. Arnook had been given six years to raise her under the peace treaty.

The peace treaty that ensured that his eldest waterbending child would be the punching bag of the Fire Nation’s royal family. The treaty that prevented her from having a loving and nurturing childhood.

When he’d first made the deal with Fire Lord Azulon, Arnook hadn’t thought twice about the fate of his future child. He’d agreed for Lady Homura to be sent to the North to mother the infant, not wanting it to be of full Northern blood.

His thought was that if the child was half of Fire Nation genes, he wouldn’t feel so close to it. That he wouldn’t grow to love it as his own, since it wouldn’t truly be a part of his people.

However, what he didn’t take into account was the sight of her beautiful blue eyes and the goodness that radiated from them. At first glance, Arnook knew that he’d do anything to take back his promise—that he’d do anything for his firstborn daughter.

And when she became ill with the sickness that Yue would later contract at birth, he and Homura immediately took her to the spirits—thanking them graciously when the ocean lent its power to extend her lifeline.

Their time as a family was something he’d never forget, but have to learn to live without as their time was up. They didn’t have a sparring moment, not a day left to bask in the glory of being together.

The six years had gone by in a flash, the Fire Nation navy was arriving at dawn, and Y/N and her mother were to be whisked away at once—but at least Y/N was lucky enough to have one final laugh with her sister, making snowmen and dancing under the moonlight.

With her question having remained unanswered, Y/N turned away from her father and sadly left the hall, opening the door to her own bedroom in a hurry to avoid any more of the depressing mood.

She nestled herself beneath her covers, wrapping the blankets around her shivering body. Her mind was restless, insomnia overwhelming her exhaustion and keeping her awake until morning.

Morning which had come far too quickly. Y/N had done her best to ignore the callings and worrying that came from her mother. All she wanted was to run away, to be alone and at peace with her bending wherever she chose to rest.

But Homura had other plans. She needed this transaction to go smoothly, her wish was to make her daughter’s life relieved of the immense stress. She wanted Y/N to be a child without the heinous responsibilities that had been thrust upon her. 

So, as they said their final goodbyes, Homura watched Y/N’s expressions. She watched how her daughter put on a brave face, how she shook her father’s hand rather than giving him a hug.

It was a saddening sight to see. A mere child, a six-year old girl, giving up her entire world to please a man who put his honor over his own family. A man who was letting his flesh and blood enter the lion’s den.

However, in Y/N’s mind this was perfectly normal. She was content with the interaction, considering the love Arnook had once shown her had diminished over the years.

This was their final moment as father and daughter. A moment of silence and respect for the act they were following through with. There was no love in their exchange, but apologies for the future of their bond.

Their bond that would inevitably be broken by the influence and hardships that the Fire Nation would teach Y/N. After all, a child has the most influential brain of any living being.

The minute Y/N and Homura stepped foot on the navy ship, they’d become members of the rivaling nation. Members of the nation that threatened lives and good fortunes. 

But a second before boarding the militant boat, Y/N paused to wave a goodbye to her sister who’d been calling out to her in agony. Yue’s cries could be heard over the crowd’s roar, despair ringing in the breeze.

Y/N’s gaze met Yue’s tear-filled eyes. She pursed her lips into a sad smile, giving her an acknowledging nod, and turned away—disappearing in the vast sea of Fire Nation soldiers.

The heat was indescribable, differing greatly from the cold and sullen air that Y/N was used to. The sun was clear in this part of the world, no clouds or mountains blocking its natural light.

Beams of gold reflected off the towers of the palace and the top of the soldier’s helmets. Everything appeared to be shiny, sparkling, and new in direct relation to the power the nation held.

Not to mention that the only visible color was red. Red tapestries of frightening men, crimson artifacts lining the shelfs, torches filled with waning fire hung from the walls—it was all so intimidating.

Homura was shaking with fear beside her daughter, clinging onto her arm tightly. She hadn’t been to her home country since the talk of her daughter’s conception, choosing to reside in the North rather than face the shame of her deed.

Y/N squeeze her mother’s hand, sensing the nerves that were radiating off of her body like the plague. She looked straight ahead, showing Homura that confidence was the only way to handle the situation.

Despite being the age of six, Y/N had more courage than the average man. She was truly an enigma of her people, of both the Fire Nation and the Northern Water Tribe.

“It’s going to be alright, mother.” The young girl’s face went stoic, all emotion disappearing from her features. Homura would’ve been concerned had it not been for the little finger taps on her palm.

The guards that had been leading them into the palace opened the doors to the grand throne room, leading to the Fire Lord. The mother and daughter pair walked side by side, stepping in synchrony. 

They stopped their strut at the large throne, bowing deeply in respect to their new leader, knowing that his policies were to be far different from those of Arnook’s.

Azulon was seated far above the rest of the room’s inhabitants, that being of a woman and a stern man, a girl around Y/N’s age, and a bearded general who was sitting respectively in the corner.

“Fire Lord Azulon,” Homura’s eyes rose from the floor to Azulon. Her lip quivered in anticipation for whatever it was that he would throw at her. “We are honored to be in your presence.”

The older man laughed maniacally, his placid expression turning into a sneer. Y/N noticed the coldness behind his amber irises and the apathetic look in his steely glare. 

“Homura.” He looked down his nose, disgusted at the sight of her pleading face. “How humbling it must’ve been for you, a Lady of my nation, to become nothing but a mistress for a water tribe savage.”

Y/N’s head shot up in anger as she noticed her mother flinching in retaliation to his comments. She opened her mouth to speak, thankfully being interrupted by sparse giggles coming from the other child in the room.

The waterbender’s eyes narrowed at the girl, noticing how she presented herself. She was obviously important, the vanity that she expressed was evident of itself. Y/N could only assume that she must be the infamous Princess Azula.

While Y/N found frustration in Azula’s amusement, her father, Ozai, was entertained. He seemed to be used to his daughter’s sociopathic tendencies. He waved his hand aimlessly at her, causing her to quickly quiet down.

“Calm now, Azula.” Ozai gestured to the woman sitting next to him, causing her to stand obediently and approach Y/N with ease. “We have some more terms to discuss, without any children present.”

Homura let go of Y/N’s hand, her daughter hanging on as long as she possibly could to show her support and love. She frowned, leaving the throne room, wishing that she could stay and comfort her frightened mother.

However, there was an unspoken comfort in Ursa’s presence. Something that Y/N had failed to feel in all of her brief time in the Fire Nation thus far. It was obvious that Ursa was unlike any of her companions.

They swiftly made their way past the various guards and tapestries in the interior of the palace, entering a sunlit garden filled with a vast array of fire lilies and turtle ducks.

“Come sit, my dear.” Ursa took a seat on the ledge of the fountain, patting the spot next to her. The long sleeves of her robes dipped into the water as she welcomed Y/N with ease.

The waterbender happily obliged, already feeling comfortable with the woman that she could now call a friend—her first friend that she’d made in the Fire Nation.

As she sat, Y/N took Ursa’s hands in hers, noticing the sopping fabric dripping onto her lap. The girl slowly began to separate the water from her soaked clothing, the beads of dew landing in the streaming fountain.

Ursa watched in awe, admiring the natural skill and passion Y/N displayed in her bending. She’d never seen waterbending in person, but she could only assume that it was a beautiful art by the way Y/N was delicately performing it.

“Thank you,” Ursa whispered, the warmth in her heart growing solemn as she realized what would become of Y/N’s skill and purpose. “You have a kind soul, Princess Y/N.”

“But as long as you remain in this palace, the future will not treat you kindly.” Her brows furrowed, sympathizing with the struggles Y/N would come to face. “My husband expects you to be an opponent that matches Azula’s skill.”

The light behind Ursa’s eyes went dull as she recalled all of the horrible and dishonorable things her husband had done throughout their marriage. “I only wish that I could protect you from the pain that he’ll cause.”

Y/N shook her head in retaliation, a hardened look dawning her face. She’d grown up hearing stories about Azulon and his dangerous son. She knew what they were capable of, yet she wasn’t afraid. She couldn’t afford to be afraid.

Her stoney gaze locked with Ursa’s one of sadness. They held their stare for a moment, a mutual understanding spoken between them. A grim smile eventually rose on the woman’s lips, before taking notice of Y/N’s eyes.

On the left laid a beautiful dark blue iris, similar to the depths of the dark ocean and the strength that it represented—and on the right, was a dim white in comparison to the stunning blue. 

The waterbender’s mismatched sight was a direct result from her illness as an infant. A direct result from the borrowed power of the ocean spirit, La, that was still inhabiting her body.

It was infatuating, the allure of Y/N’s eyes was of nothing that she had ever seen before. A spark of hope rose in Ursa from her new knowledge, a belief was born that perhaps this girl could help this world become good again.

Perhaps Y/N could help her own children become good, truly good despite the influence of their father. Azula was already nearing evil, but Zuko—Ursa knew that her son was better than that.

“Mother?” A faint voice rang through the courtyard, startling Ursa and Y/N and causing them to jump apart. The princess’ gaze searched her surroundings for the owner of the voice, landing on a small boy.

He looked to be her age, perhaps a year or so older than her. She knew he had to be Prince Zuko, there was no other explanation to the way he was carrying around a woven basket full of bread like he owned the place.

“I asked the servants if they had any leftovers for the turtle ducks, and they gave me this whole stack!” Zuko exclaimed, the excitement was noticeable in his voice as he watched where he stepped.

He opened his mouth in preparation to express his happiness to his mother, before his eyes met Y/N’s. Zuko froze in place, analyzing the girl and her appearance.

It was well known that the arrival of Lady Homura and her daughter was earlier that morning. Zuko had skipped out on the first meeting, having dreamt up a million other things to do than meet another snobby princess.

But as he saw her for the first time, Zuko felt somewhat of a connection. It was unexplainable in words, the feelings so intricate and immense. There was just something about her that Zuko couldn’t put his finger on.

Y/N herself was having a similar realization at the sight of the prince. Rather than noticing his entire appearance, she settled on the color of his eyes and how different they were to that of his father’s.

The amber in them reflected off of the water in the fountain, shimmering in the sunlight that bounced off of the cherry blossom trees. She could tell that he was the black sheep of the royal family as his eyes held something that no others did—they were kind.

“You must be Princess Y/N.” Zuko calmly said, setting down his basket in front of her and offering her one of the loafs. “I’m Zuko. Would you like to feed the turtle ducks with me?”

Y/N smiled, her first genuine smile in the entirety of her time in the Fire Nation, and nodded, taking it in her palm. She moved aside so he had a seat on the ledge, feeling complete in his presence.

“I’d love to.”

NEXT: CHAPTER ONE [UNEDITED]

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[ferrariwrites]

WTW MARCH MADNESS - DAY 6: CHALLENGES 1 - 3

— challenge one:  summarize your wip badly

full send   —   a princess and an engineer try to figure out their lives and why they’re attracted to, frankly, subpar men (not you theo, you’re an angel and we’re thrilled you’re here)

ice dragon novel   —   faced with an impossible decision, a young princess grapples with destiny, divinity, and morality.

— challenge two: write a book jacket summary of your wip

Broken engagements, plastic surgery, designer drug habits - Princess Margherita of Monaco has never cared about the rumors the tabloids spread, as long as none of them are true. The same can't be said for the people of Monaco, who don't trust her, or her parents, who view her with contempt. Determined to prove herself a capable ruler, Margo sets her sights on a complete revolution of the jewel of the Formula One calendar, the Monaco Grand Prix. It's a big undertaking, but Margo has an ace up her sleeve: Theo Aster, F1 superstar and the biggest secret she's ever kept.

After a lifetime of being told how much potential she has, Henri Bazin is struggling to settle into her new job as an engineer for Proteus Racing Club. It's a position many would kill for, but Henri just feels as if it's killing her soul - and her dreams of building spaceships. The one bright spot is Luka Wollter. Talented, ambitious, and fast, he's one of the best drivers on the grid. Even better? He just so happens to drive for Proteus's biggest rival. In short, he's just the bad idea Henri's been looking for.

In the midst of high-velocity racing and the glitz and glamor of Monte-Carlo, Henri and Margo struggle to find their places at the top of the world - and when you're this high up, there's nowhere to go but down.

— challenge three: trace through the development of your wip over time

full send  came about very quickly! much more quickly than some of my other wips. it first started in december 2021, when i was spiraling after the resolution of the formula one season. i knew i wanted to set something in that world, but i wasn’t particularly interested in writing a driver, so i instead focused on two characters tangentially related to the sport. i spent most of december and january outlining, building the characters, and forming some truly unhinged pinterest boards -- and then i finally started writing! february was a bit dry as far as progress goes, but i’m feeling re-energized and eager to dig in through march and especially april, as part of camp wrimo!

ice dragon novel has been in and out of production since 2019, which i truly can’t even believe. it’s one of the first wips i’ve ever had that i’ve actually plotted and thought, i could actually write this. of course, over the past four years, i’ve hardly made that much progress, but it’s still a project i’m very passionate about and i’m feeling very motivated to work on it some more as of late!

[fanfictionsrookie]

Watch As I Overanalyze Cinder’s Fight Wit Penny...

I knew Cinder was one for dramatics, but good grief, what happened to being subtle XD

But considering the situation and the time they had left to stop Amity, this was the best course of action.

Can I tell you I screamed! Also, just a screenshot I liked. There will be a lot of them lol.

So Cinder is still holding onto her grudge with Ruby, but it was honestly for the best that she wasn’t there. Cinder would not have been able to take on Ruby and her team as well.

Now I wonder if this is Cinder projecting in some way. Not just because in terms of Salem’s plans, Cinder has been doing the heavy lifting, or at least been tasked to do so. Cinder likely sees this situation as an example. But because of the implications that Cinder as a child, was forces to so a lot of strenuous work on her own.

It’s possible that this might be more projecting, but the way Cinder says it, makes me think she sees herself more as that. Salem did tell her that she was more valuable, but she’s still just a piece in this game. Cinder might be trying to convince herself otherwise.

Have another bootiful screenshot.

Every time Neo does this... I feel things...

More screams.

So things like this suggest to me that Cinder is slowly but surely finding her way back into her comfort zone, trying to re-establish whatever sense of identity she had before volume 3. That and becoming more proficient in using her Maiden Powers, which has become a lot more personalized since volume 3/4 where she relied on fire alone.

Now I love this little reaction, because it is the moment where Cinder realises that Penny is simply distracting her from her main objective. So Cinder is starting to get a handle on her anger and is able to exploit it in a moment of clarity when she turns back. However, she still has quite a bit of growth to go through.

Just something I was wondering about. How does Penny know a person poses a threat? Does she log them into her memory so that they are much easier identifiable later on when they might be more difficult to spot?

And another thing. In this moment Cinder either priorities her mission to stop Amity, or she realises that she would have more success in stopping Penny with Emerald and Neo around.

Maria is having a field day, and I would feel bad if it wasn’t lowkey funny lol. But it’s nice to know Maria still got it. Neo was due a hit to her winning streak as well.

Sexy smirk.

But more alarmingly, that arm. Like that thing has progressed past her shoulder completely and I’m willing to bet that it is making it’s way across her back and side. Now, gauging from the shadows around the Grimm strands, we can conclude that it is not as invasive as we thought, merely anchoring itself at the edges. However, I do hope something are done about them soon, even if Cinder does not seem particularly worries about it... yet.

I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this question. As for the answer...

I. Was. Floored.

Mostly because I didn’t expect that answer at all. You could do a whole post just about those three lines. But I’ll try to be concise.

So first, Cinder does not see herself as serving Salem. This can be interpreted in a few ways.

1.)  Cinder does not see herself as bellow Salem, not far at least. Linking back to Cinder ‘being more than a pawn’ it could be that Cinder sees her affiliation to Salem as more of a mutual agreement where both parties get something out of it. As for why Salem would let her think this? I think it plays into Cinder’s fear of being controlled and taken advantage of, as she has implied to have been in the past. Thus, in order to keep Cinder under her control, Salem makes her think that she isn’t under control but rather ‘guidance’.

Cinder might be using Salem as a means of gaining power for some other goal. A goal more specific than just wanting power, or an extension thereof. Which Salem could very much be aware of. But Salem’s control over Cinder goes far past what Cinder believes or would want to. And that is why she is trying to convince herself otherwise.

2.) Cinder does not see herself as serving Salem, because she sees herself as an extension, a ‘vessel’ of Salem’s will. Now this links back to Cinder seeing herself as more useful. But this version implies an even greater loss of her identify. Cinder wants power, not just because of her fear of being powerless, but a cultivated desire to be like Salem and carry out her will. Even if they disagree on how that should be carried out. In a sense, Cinder does not see herself as serving Salem, but rather ‘becoming’ her in some way.

Have an adorably happy murder child.

Linking back to Cinder’s tactical retreat to Amity. This is the clearest example of Cinder learning from her fight with Raven. Cinder used her environment to perfectly set up a situation where Penny is near defenseless and where Cinder can go after her Maiden Powers.

Now, I have talked about the possibility of Cinder having absorbed some of Raven’s Power. But that it might not be enough to open the vault, that the scenario was simply set up as a visual cue to show HOW syphoning those Powers would work.

But this time, not only is the visual cue clear and day-light, shown longer, but it’s also front and center. Do I think that this is enough for Cinder to open the Vault?

No.

But I do hope something comes from this. CRWBY can’t keep showing us Cinder visibly taking more and more of the Maiden’s power, even if just a little bit, and not have it pay off or come around in some way. 

With just one look, Cinder and Emerald had a plan ready to go. And I wish we got more of that in this episode. I wish we had more instances of Cinder working with others, because clearly they do know how to read each other and work together. At the very least, I hope it’s a build up to what can happen in the future, because I fully expect to see much more of Emerald’s semblance.

Yes, please and thank you.

Now this scene is very familiar. And I wished that Cinder and Co would have made more use of tactics like this, even if I explained in the beginning why that opportunity went up with Amity. I did feel bad for Penny though. The memories must’ve been awful.

I will be drawing the screencap.

BABY NOOOO!

Ugh, I felt so bad for Emerald during this scene.

And I really do hope that these two get to actually talk to one another. At the very least that Cinder realises that if it weren’t for Emerald, she’d be dead. In the same vein, it’s also high time that Emerald confronts Cinder about how wrongly she has been treated. Because even when Cinder took Emerald with her, you could see that Cinder was not paying attention to either Emerald or Neo, up until the time she needed them. Which is ironic because Cinder does not seem to take notice of the things Emerald or Neo has done for her, past what Cinder expected of them. And that needs to stop.

Because you people need an unhinged Penny.

And I wonder if Penny realised it too...

That this scene is eerily similar to the one she had when she had to protect Winter.

I’ve been holding off on saying it but... gods does Cinder look sad and adorable. poor baby.

As for Neo, not only is she probably pissed that Emerald is giving her orders but that they would have to return to Salem after Cinder’s bad idea got her, and them all by extension, in an even worse position. I wouldn’t be surprised if Neo starts looking for an out soon after this.

Looks like Salem is back to petting her favourite XD

Now, how is Salem going to react to this? Because from this shot it seems like she wanted the world to know about her. If that was the case, it makes sense to tell Cinder to stay put, but then WHY NOT TELL CINDER? Salem probably does not feel the need to explain herself to others, but this whole detour could be avoided if she had just given her some kind of reasoning.

So not only will Cinder be punished for disobeying orders and failing at her task, but for setting out and doing something that goes completely against Salem’s goals. The only thing I can give for these events, is that it is continuing to drive a wedge between Cinder and Salem, whilst also demonstrating that Cinder does have her own goals and ways of thinking.

But narratively? Does it hold a lot of weight? I don’t know.

We don’t know the full extent of the message, so we don’t know if Cinder’s actions stopped another point of key information going through. Penny would have been hacked by Watts regardless. And I really did hope that Cinder would succeed, that they would have made more use of Neo and Emerald’s semblance, even if subtlety wasn’t a viable tactic. Considering that Cinder mostly relied on her own abilities, and assuming her arc is realising power does not guarantee victory, this makes sense.

But if that was CRWBY’s intent, why not demonstrate this by forcing Cinder to rely more on Emerald and Neo, past just having them to take her to safety, even if that is a big deal. Look this scene revealed a lot of not only Cinder’s way of thinking, but Penny’s as well. I just wish everything didn’t play out as straight as it felt. As for narrative outcomes, I hope we get to see more of that, and it’s not just me wanting to see Cinder taking some of Penny’s Powers, have actual consequences.

Because in terms of consequences, there could be a LOT.

Emerald finally standing up to Cinder, defecting with Neo even, Cinder getting some appreciation for Neo and Emerald, Salem punishing Cinder in a way that makes her want to break away, Cinder reliving more of her past memories, (although I feel like this will be more crumbs, leading up until the third altercation which might be the final push, because I do not feel like this is quite it), Cinder confronting Salem about her goals and why they were kept hidden from her, only for Cinder to realise that Salem does not hold her in as high regard as she thinks.

Whatever happens, I want the fall out of this to drastically change the very views Cinder established in this episode. 

I want Cinder’s disobedience in pursuit of her own goals to have drastic effects and propel her character development forward, even if Cinder is thinks that she is just taking one step back after another.

Whatever the fallout is, I am here for it.

[whitehotharlots]

Previewing the 2024 Democrat Primary

Within a couple weeks of his being sworn in, just about every person on earth will wish Joe Biden was no longer president. Sure, the few surviving John B. Anderson voters will be thrilled to see 4 years of crushing austerity and half-assed attempts at Keynesian stimulus. But most people will begin dreaming about a brighter future.

Good news! The 2024 Democratic primary field is going to contain dozens of options. Bad news! They are all going to be disgusting piles of shit. 

The “top tier”

While it’s too early to do any handicapping, these are the candidates the media will treat as having the most realistic chances of securing the nomination. 

Kamala Harris

Kamala did not win a single primary delegate in 2020. This is because she dropped out before the first primary, and that was because no one likes her. She has no base beyond a few thousand of twitter’s most violent psychos. Her disingenuousness approaches John Edwards levels: any halfway incredulous person can see immediately beyond her bullshit. She has no principles whatsoever, and while that may be par for the course for Democrats, she lacks even the basic politician’s ability to intuit anything that might, hypothetically, constitute a principle. 

Even better: she is an awful public speaker. She sounds like how a talking dog would speak if he were just caught stealing people food off the kitchen table. She communicates in weird grunts and faux sassy squeaks, which is how she imagines real black women sound like, but something about her is unable to sell the bit. She begins her sentences in halfhearted AAVE, stops and panics halfway through as she realizes that maybe this sounds fake and offensive, and then reminds herself oh wait, no, this is okay since I’m black. This doesn’t happen once or twice per speech. This is how every single sentence sounds. 

Kamala is like Nancy Pelosi in that no sketch show will ever impersonate her correctly, because anything that came close to authenticity would be considered far too cruel. This might benefit her in the primaries, as she exists in the minds of Democrats as someone and something she absolutely is not in reality. Nominating her would be like allowing your child’s imaginary friend to attempt to drive you to the store. 

Andrew Cuomo

Easily one of the 50 worst people alive, Cuomo has a solid chance because Democrats, same as Republicans, are unable to differentiate between electability and self-serving ruthlessness. Cuomo used the deadliest public health crisis in American history as a pretext for cutting Medicaid and firing 5,000 MTA workers, and his approval rating increased. New York Dems are little piggies who love eating shit. If we assume that the political media will continue their habit of refusing to discuss the legislative history of right wing Democrats, Cuomo might well cruise to the nomination and then lose to literally any human being the GOP nominates by an historic margin. 

Joe Biden

The party loves him because he is a right wing racist. “Progressives” tolerate him because black primary voters over 40 supported him, and their opinion is supposedly a magic window into god’s truth. Everyone else can tell he is manifestly senile. I don’t put it above the DNC to pick a candidate who is in horrible health, dying, or even dead--whatever the financial sector wants, they’ll get. But I would be shocked if his approval rating is above 39% by mid-2023, and by that point deep fake technology will be advanced enough they’ll put out a very lifelike video in which the Max Headroom version of Joe explains he’s proud of his accomplishments--that budget’s almost balanced already--but, man, I gotta abd--I gotta abdica--, uhh, I gotta, I, uhh, I gotta move down, man. 

Wild Cards

These candidates would have all have a chance if they ran, but they could all much more easily retire to Little Saint James off of kickbacks they’ve gotten from Citibank and I.G. Farben. 

Rahm Emanuel

Rahm is going to receive some hugely influential post in the Biden administration. Let’s say he becomes Secretary of Education. His signature achievement will be replacing all elementary school teachers with Amazon’s Alexa, which saved the taxpayers so much money we were able to quadruple the number of armed police officers we put into high schools. This will give him several thousand positive profiles on network news programs and the near-universal support of the Silicon Valley vampires who will own 99% of the country by the time Biden’s term ends. They will use their fancy mind control devices to convince geriatic primary voters that Rahm’s the one who will bring Decency back to the white house. His candidacy will be the paragon of wokeness, as expressing concern toward the fact that he covered up the police murder of a black guy will get you called a racist. 

Rahm has a bonus in that Jewish men are now Schrodeniger’s PoC. When they are decent human beings, they are basic, cis white men who are stealing attention from disabled trans candidates of color. When they love austerity and apartheid, they become the most vulnerable people of color on earth and criticizing them in any way is genocide. No one will be able to mention a single thing Rahm has ever done or said without opening themselves to accusations of antisemitism, and that gives him a strong edge against the rest of the field. The good news is that an Emmanuel candidacy would result in over 50% of black voters choosing the GOP candidate--which, I guess that’s not really good but it would certainly be funny. 

Gavin Newsom

Newsom is every bit as feckless as Cuomo, but he doesn’t put off the same “bad guy in an early Steven Segal movie” vibes. He will mention climate change 50 times per speech and no one will bother to mention how he keeps signing fracking contracts even though his state is now on fire 11 months of the year. If anything, this will be spun into an argument about how he’s actually the candidate best suited to handle all the water refugees gathering on the southern border. Look for his plan to curb emissions by 10% by the year 2150 to get high marks from Sierra Club nerds. He’s also a celebate librarian’s idea of what constitutes a handsome man, so he’ll have some support from the type of women who claim to hate all men. 

Larry Summers

I mean, why not? Larry, like most members of the Obama administration, has politics that are eerily similar to those of Jordan Peterson. In normal circumstances, this makes a person a dangerous fascist who should not be platformed. But if that person has a D next to their name this makes them a realistic pragmatist who has what it takes to bring suburban bankers into our tent. If current trends in Woke Phrenology continue apace, Larry’s belief that women are inherently bad at STEM will be liberal orthodoxy by 2023, and his dedication to the Laffer Curve could see him rake in massive donations. Seriously, I’m not kidding: cultural liberalism is now fully dedicated to identity essentialism and balanced budgets. Larry is their ideal candidate. If he were black and/or a woman, I’d put him in the very top tier. 

Jay Inslee

Unlike Newsom, Inslee’s attempt to crown himself the King of Global Warming won’t be immediately derailed, since his state is only on fire because of protestors. This, however, poses a different problem. He’s going to be a good test case for the Democrat’s uneasy peace with the ever increasing share of the electorate who become catatonic upon hearing a pronoun. On the one hand, you need to take their votes for granted. On the other hand, they’re not like black people or regular gays: most voters actively, consciously despise wokies, and associating yourself with them will ruin a campaign even in deep blue areas. There’s still gonna be riots in a year. Biden’s gonna announce the sale of all our nation’s potable water to the good folks at Nestle and some trans freak named Sasha-Malia DeBalzac is going to use that as an opportunity to sell their new pamphlet about how it’s fascist to not burn down small businesses. No matter what Inslee does in response, it’ll end his career. 

AOC

I’m not one of those “AOC is a secret conservative” weirdos, but I am aware enough of basic reality to know she has zero chance of coming close to the nomination. The right and the center both regard her as a literal demon. The party is already blaming her for the fact that a handful of faceless Reagan acolytes failed to flip their suburban districts even though they ran on sensible pragmatic proposals like euthanizing the homeless. The recriminations will only get more unhinged when the Dems eat shit in the 2022 midterms. She will be a Russian, she will be white male, she will be a communist, she will be a homophobe: any insult or conspiracy theory you can name, MSNBC will spend hours discussing. Her house seat challenger will receive a record amount of support from the DNC in 2024 and it’ll be all she can do to remain in congress.

Larry Hogan

Don’t be dissuaded by the fact that he’s a Republican. Larry is the DNC’s ideal candidate: a physically repulsive conservative who owes his entire career to appealing to the most spiteful desires of suburban white people. He’s an open racist in a material sense--if you’re old-school enough to think racism is a matter of beliefs and actions, rather than the presence of cultural signifiers--but his is the beloved “never Trump” style of racism that Dems covet. He’s also a Proven Leader who thinks the role of government should be to finance the construction of investment property and give police the resources they need to run successful drug trafficking operations. Few people embody the Democrat worldview more than Larry. 

The Losers Bracket

These people will have at least a small chance due solely to the fact that the Democrats love losing. They have lost in the past, and in the Democrat Mind that makes them especially qualified.

Joe Kennedy

The man looks like a mushroom-human hybrid from a JRPG. Trump proved that physical hideousness need not doom a presidential bid, but a candidate still needs some kind of charm or oratorical abilities or, god forbid, a decent platform. Joe aggressively lacks all of these things. A vanity campaign would be a good way to raise money and perhaps secure an MSNBC gig, so Joe might still run. 

Mayor Pete 

I am 100% convinced that Pete’s 2020 run was a CIA plot meant to prevent working class Americans from ever having a chance of living decent lives. I am also 100% aware that Democrats are dumb enough to enthusiastically support a CIA plot meant to prevent working class Americans from ever having a chance of living decent lives. If we have some sort of military or terror disaster between now and 2023 the Dems are sure to want a TROOP, and wait wait wait you’re telling me this one is a gay troop? Holy hell there’s no way that could lose!

Stacy Abrams

Never underestimate the power of white guilt. She lost the gubernatorial race to Gomer Pyle’s grandson, and her spiritual guidance of the Dems saw the party lose black voters in Georgia in 2020. Nonetheless, she is regarded as a magic font of fierceness within the DNC. She might stand a chance if she can establish herself as the most conservative non-white candidate in the field, but there’s going to be stiff competition for that honor.

Elizabeth Warren

Liz is probably angry that the party so shamelessly sold her out even after she was a good little girl and sabatoged Bernie’s campaign for them--yet another example of high ranking US government officials reneging on their promises to the Native American community. Smdh. The fact that this woman hasn’t been bankrupted a dozen times over by various Wallet Inspectors genuinely astounds me. So Liz is probably going to run again, and her campaign will be even sadder the second time around. 

It might surprise you to hear this if you don’t work at a college or NGO, but Liz diehards actually do exist. She’ll get even less support this time because there will be no viable leftist in the field for her to spoil, but she’ll still hang in long enough to make sure the very worst possible candidate beats out the second worst possible candidate. Maybe she’ll fabricate a rape accusation against Sherrod Brown. Maybe she’ll spend her entire allotted debate time doing a land acknowledgment. With Liz, anything is possible--so long as it ends in failure. 

Amy Klobuchar 

Amy was the most bloodthirsty of the 2020 also rans. She will double down on the unpopular failures of the Biden administration, explaining that if you weren’t such a selfish idiot you’d love the higher social security retirement age and oh my god are so such a moron you think you shouldn’t go bankrupt to get a COVID vaccine? There’s a non-unsubstantial segment of the Democratic base that’s self-hating enough to find this appealing, but it won’t be enough to make her viable. 

Martha Coakley

She lost Ted Kennedy’s senate seat to a retarded man who was pretending to be even more retarded than he actually was. Then she lost a gubernatorial race to a guy who openly promised Massachusetts voters that he would punish them for electing him. Her record of failure is unparalleled, making her perhaps the ideal Democrat standard bearer for the twenty twenties. 

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

Witches, Chapter 9: snippets of a day at the WAA, except the day is April 20, and nobody’s making weed jokes because all of them but Athena have something else to associate with this particular day.

Actually Clay’s making weed jokes but he doesn’t work here. You don’t even go here!

[Seelie of Kurain Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

[Witches Chapter Masterlist] [ao3]

----

Apollo wakes in the morning, before his alarm, to the refrain of “I’m Clay Terran and I’m fine!”, which means that he isn’t fine, at all, and also that Apollo isn’t going back to sleep even if he had time. 

He rolls out of bed and pads into the kitchen in time to watch Clay, considering the coffee maker on the counter, turn away from it and grab an energy drink out of the fridge. “Rough work week so far?” he asks.

“Not your level yet,” Clay replies, “but pretty damn close.” He cracks the can open and drinks from it for four entire consecutive seconds. “The director’s been getting progressively more unhinged since Monday morning, and then that gets Mr Starbuck anxious, and then there’s a feedback loop, and then yesterday I was around to get to hear the director and one of the robotics engineers yelling at each other and she told him to go fuck himself - which, honestly iconic, you go, Aura, do it for all of us—” He pauses for breath and another sip of caffeine. “But it’s. Y’know. Not good, all considered.”

“Sometimes I feel like you shouldn’t be telling me all this,” Apollo says with a laugh.

Clay shrugs. “Whatever, dude - you know the director and Mr Starbuck, and I’ve only signed NDAs for tech stuff and the like. Nothing about fun personnel, uh—” He waves a hand and nearly knocks over a glass that was left on the counter by the sink. “Eccentricities. Anyway I hope you didn’t want to eat before work, because we have caffeine, and that is it.”

Apollo nods. He was supposed to do the grocery shopping on Sunday. Then Trucy dragged him out and it turned into three exhausting days of chasing yokai.

And the chase isn’t over, either. He’s relieved, the part of him that isn’t hypocritical and dead; ease his conscience for the low low price of tramping through the woods to find an actual giant bird monster and being forever afraid of how Blackquill managed to eavesdrop on that conversation. (He would swear Taka wasn’t there until it was.) That, and the higher price of knowing that it took the chief prosecutor to get them to move, that without him, and Blackquill, Apollo would’ve just stayed laying in the dirt. Athena might’ve gone mad, though.

“Maybe I’ll just get brunch at Eldoon’s,” Apollo says.

Clay feigns gagging, which turns into a real cough when he tries to stop too quickly. “It’s what you’d deserve.”

Apollo flips him off as he leaves the kitchen to shower and do his hair; Clay remains there to get caffeinated and scream. He has migrated to the living room when Apollo returns with dried and gelled spikes. “You know what day today is?” Clay asks.

All month, Apollo watched the calendar, watching the date come closer and closer. The twentieth of April, and a year ago, something. “The anniversary of me getting my boss arrested and starting down a path that ends with me working at the world’s worst law office, and you driving us on a road trip to pull a soul out of a tree stump?”

Clay blinks. “Dude,” he says. “No. It’s the day that we’re obligated to make stoner jokes even if you’ve never snorted a weed in your lives. Four-twenty bl—”

“Fuck you,” Apollo interrupts, very solemnly. Clay cackles. “‘Snorted a weed’, are you serious—”

Clay throws his empty can at him. Apollo catches it and hurls it back, missing Clay entirely and bouncing it off the coffee table. “Trying to give you something to think about that isn’t how fucked your life got this time last year! You’re welcome, dude!” Apollo snorts. “Or I’d try to regale you with more stories about the Center imploding but we’d be here for the rest of our lives.”

“Oh.” It’s not the route that Apollo would go for distraction, but that’s because he isn’t Clay, and that’s how they manage to be both best friends and a mostly-functioning household. “I’m gonna pass on that when I see Trucy, though. Not sure the thought counts when it’s weed jokes but her biological dad’s death was the thing happening last year.”

“Hard pass,” Clay agrees. “Just scream for a while.” He snaps his fingers. “It worked for us!” 

It wasn’t the twentieth, though, Zak’s death. It was a few days before: a weekend interim, and Apollo notified late Sunday night that Phoenix Wright wanted him to head up his defense. He slept for about four and a half hours. And if he remembers correctly, the actual date of Zak Gramarye’s death, in the early hours of the morning, was the seventeenth. 

And surely Trucy remembers that. A few days ago she would’ve started thinking of that. A few days ago - the seventeenth, Sunday, she called him up and told him he had a job and that job was coming with her to Nine-Tails Vale. Was that her choice of distraction - which makes him her choice of company. Because Jinxie was working, and Athena wasn’t here yet and Phoenix was picking her up. But surely Trucy has other friends?

(But Apollo’s the one who knows. Just like with Klavier; coincidentally, someone else Apollo needs to check in with on this particular day.)

“When does screaming not work?” Apollo asks, going to get the grocery list from the kitchen so that he can deal with it after work, try to set his life back to a normal schedule.

-

Trucy lies on the couch, her feet dangling over the arm, already there in the office under the dimmed lights when Apollo walks in. “Hey,” she says, without moving, without looking up, and most worryingly, without the mask of a smile forced onto her face.

Apollo drops his briefcase next to the other couch, unwilling to bother getting to his desk right now. “Hey,” he replies, sinking down into the cushions. The lights flicker like a blink and have a warmer tone to them on their return. 

Trucy’s hands unclasp and the blue mitamah falls onto her chest. “We met a year ago today, remember?” As if Apollo could forget. She handed him a playing card and he stepped out of one world into the next. 

“I didn’t know who you were that day, though,” Apollo says. A girl in a top hat handing him suspicious evidence; that’s the way Phoenix fell, too. 

“Yeah, Daddy didn’t tell me your name either,” Trucy says. Of course he didn’t. It stings more than it should. “Said to give it to the red guy with the hair and the bracelet.”

So those are his most prominent characteristics - those and his voice. “I see,” Apollo says, spinning his bracelet around his wrist. Trucy watches with big staring eyes, the mitamah back cradled in her hands. So damn complicated for both of them. “This bracelet was my mother’s,” he says. Clay knows this, Clay and no one else in this hemisphere. “It’s the only thing I have from her or know about her.”

Trucy blinks. She raises her head up an inch and falls back. “Not even her name?” Apollo shakes his head. “My mother’s name was Thalassa.” This, Apollo knows. Phoenix told him. “Everything I know about her, someone had to tell me. Daddy, my other daddy, didn’t like to talk about her, but Uncle Valant said that she had the most beautiful singing voice and that’s why I’m so good at it too.” Pause. Looks away from Apollo, again opening her hands to ponder the mitamah. “I can sometimes hear this - humming, kind of? Like some faint echo voice. Like she’s still trying to sing to me.”

Apollo can only remember how unnerving he found the sound. Unnerving, and more unnerving for the way he wanted to keep listening. A siren’s song, reeling him in. Better not to say that. Better to let Trucy just have any comfort she can take from it. 

She closes her eyes, faced turned to the ceiling. “I want to be a stage magician,” she says. “Like Uncle Valant. Do tricks that entertain people, not trick them to hurt them and be selfish. He made a career out of it alone for seven years. Sort of. Somewhat.” Her eyes open, remaining fixed above her. “But I bet I could. I just have to find my audience here. My Youtube audience is good but not really enough, but I bet I can make a niche. Like you have a niche, all the most impossible and complicated cases.”

Her tone is that of talking to herself, of talking without wanting response. Apollo leans against the arm of the couch. Not even 8:30 in the morning and they’re both exhausted and sad. What a week, and only half done. “Like we generalize that people in LA don’t trust magic but that’s just a generalization, you know? I want a spotlight. Disappearing acts, escape the coffin before the sword goes through - all that. Not just like Uncle Valant did, working in the wings for Lamiroir and Prosecutor Gavin.” She finally props herself up on her elbow. “I wondered if Prosecutor Gavin brought Uncle Valant on to try and ask him about Daddy’s last case, when Daddy disappeared. But that would be a really sneaky thing to do and Prosecutor Gavin is too pretty to be that sneaky.”

“You think so?” Apollo asks. “I think he knows he can get away with it because he’s pretty and everyone’s too distracted by that.” In a literal magic way. He’s pretty because he’s sneaky, and sneaky because he’s pretty, all because he’s glamourous. And all it cost him was his birthright. 

“Are you texting him?” Trucy pushes herself up the whole way, her eyes narrowed and assessing whether she can leap the coffee table between them to rip the phone from his hands. “Don’t tell him I said that!”

“I’m not telling him you said that!” Apollo is too complicit in that to be able to mention it. “You just reminded me that I was going to tell him about this last case.”

“That’s gonna be a really long text,” Trucy says. 

“It’s not like I’m gonna put the entire trial transcription in it!”

You would not believe the case I just went through.  Also, have you ever met prosecutor Blackquill?

“It’d be simpler to ask him on a date and just tell him about it.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?” Trucy leans forward and Apollo instinctively presses his back into the couch and pulls his phone close. He can only begin to imagine what she would do if she got her hands on it. “You’d be able to see how he’s doing with…” She swallows and slumps backwards. “Y’know.”

He does, and speaks past a lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

All three of them, inextricably linked. And Apollo should be the one who has it together, at least relatively speaking, in this regard. It wasn’t his family. 

(Just reminds him of it. Take solace in the fact that Nahyuta and I look nothing alike. Don’t think about the fact that Dhurke looked nothing like Nahyuta, either.)

-

Athena whirls into the office at 9:05 am with what Apollo now understands is her base-level excitability. He and Trucy cleaned up the residual evidence of their feelings before she arrived, anticipating her arrival. Lock it all away; Athena doesn’t need to know what they’ve been through. Trucy reattaches her smile; Apollo shoves his phone back into his pocket. “Am I late?” Athena asks, stumbling straight into the couch. “I’m sorry! It won’t happen again!” 

“You’re not late unless Daddy’s here before you,” Trucy says. “No need to apologize! We’re all friends here!”

Athena, beaming now, ventures further into the room, her eyes casting around with the same attentiveness she used for a crime scene. Her gaze lingers on the portrait of Zak above the piano, and then the piano itself, table as it is for Trucy’s smallest stage-magic props and a small half-finished canvas that Vera left the last time she came to visit and they ended up playing blackjack instead of Trucy doing her homework and Vera her painting. That was two weeks ago. Not much gets done promptly if it isn’t for a case. “Do we have desks or do we just work from the couches?” Athena asks. “Because I mean, I totally—”

“Next room,” Apollo says. 

“Oh,” Trucy says, suddenly downcast. “That means I don’t have a desk anymore.”

“You never use a desk,” Apollo says. “You just work on the floor.”

“Oh,” Trucy says again, brighter now, and she follows Athena back to the desks to point her to the right one. “Yeah. I do. Anyway!” Athena dumps her bag on what is now her desk. “Welcome to the Wright Anything Agency, Athena! I was planning a speech over the weekend and then the case happened and you weren’t even at the office, so I’ve forgotten it by now. But that’s the WAA way! That’s Daddy and Polly’s court style, make it up as they go!”

“I resent that statement,” Apollo says. 

“Yeah, I saw it right from the bench these past two days!” Athena doesn’t sit down in the chair and instead hops up onto her desk, kicking her heels off the side of it. “I kept thinking we didn’t know anything and we were gonna sink, and then bam! Apollo’s turned it all around again!”

“That’s what he does best!”

“Ah,” Apollo says. The girls both grin at him, this once, alarmingly sincere. “Th-thanks.” He’d rather be properly equipped for a major case, the way he’s occasionally fortunate to get a client not accused of murder, and so not have a worrying number of adrenaline spikes per court session - but he’ll take what he can get.

“Speaking of court,” Trucy adds, crossing the room and flinging herself into Phoenix’s desk chair, the momentum rolling her back into the wall, “Daddy said that we’ve got to track down the real Tenma Taro now, too?”

“He mentioned that?” Apollo’s heart leaps back up to his throat. And just after he had his confidence bolstered, too. 

(Phoenix came back from the Prosecutors Office and called it “an unfortunate necessity”, but none of them could argue that it wasn’t a necessity. For their consciences; for the proper administration of justice; for the safety of the entire town of Nine-Tails Vale. Mayor Tenma might be its guardian wrestler-yokai, but he’s also the mayor of Tenma Town, and herding a yokai back to its prison is not a one-man job. Phoenix and his fae friends have the plan, or will at some point; depending on how much demonic activity they see out of the Vale, the timetable will move up or down. “Ideally, we deal with it in June, wait for the summer solstice,” he had said. “Fae powers fluctuate some with the seasons; yokai shouldn’t be much different. Hit it when it’s weakest, if we’re lucky.”)

“A little bit.” Trucy shrugs. “But I can help too! I’ve never known anything to get out of my panties if I didn’t want it too, so if we need a more secure place than the Forbidden Chamber—”

“Why did they have to be magic panties?” Apollo asks. “Why couldn’t it be magic literally anything else?”

“Don’t look a pair of gift panties in the waistband—”

“Enough!”

-

Phoenix arrives some time after 11, bleary-eyed though he has coffee in hand. “‘Morning, everyone,” he says, sounding as dead as he looks. He blinks a few times. “Athena. Truce. Apollo, how’re you doing?”

Is that question just for him or all of them, and Apollo the last to be listed? He wouldn’t know how to answer that question today were it anyone else asking, either. “Uh, fine,” he says. Phoenix’s eyes narrow slightly and drift around Apollo, assessing him in some way. “Except for the part where Athena’s making us up a workout regime to prepare for yokai-fighting.”

There is a moment's delay, Phoenix still pondering him, and then the words must finally hit and he laughs. “Athena,” he says, “are you really trying to get everyone in on punching Tenma Taro?”

“No!” she says indignantly. “It’s a couch-to-5k plan, basically. So that everyone’s got enough stamina to run away from yokai when we have to bait it out, and then you can run a race with me after!”

“We’re not using people as bait,” Phoenix says. “Overruled.” Athena raises her hand like they’re in a classroom and Phoenix is their teacher and not a lenient boss and absent mentor. “No, not even if you’re volunteering to be the bait.”

Athena lowers her hand. 

-

3:43 pm, Apollo’s phone buzzes, removing him from the outskirts of Trucy and Athena’s discussion, continued from the prior afternoon, about how one actually manages to purchase a vehicle (they don’t know) and heckling Phoenix for not having a driver’s license. At this point Apollo realizes he doesn’t know how or if Athena is driving legally in America and decides that he’s rather glad for any distraction.

-heard some unfortunates had to face him -you and fraulein??

Something about the messages bothers him, something he can’t put his finger on. 

Not Trucy. Agency has a new girl who just passed the Bar and she and I had to deal with the crazy magic murder samurai. Everything about it felt like an unplanned hazing ritual

He expects an answer right away; once Klavier starts talking, he usually keeps going. A minute ticks past, then another. Apollo figures out what isn’t right. Fraülein isn’t properly accented. Klavier usually takes more care than that. Appearances are too important to him, even - or maybe especially - when Apollo can’t see him.

Another minute. Apollo doesn’t look at the calendar. He looks at Phoenix, hunched over some books to study for the Bar, as Athena recalls as much as she can about taking it earlier in the year, in Europe. Her, speeding along in her career, and him, trying to make up for seven years of lost time that never should have been.

Apollo sends another text.

Are you all right?

(It’s not too presumptuous a question to ask off of one typo, not today, and not when they both know full well that through text, Klavier can lie to him.)

-

Phoenix leaves not long after four, telling the girls now that he’s actually trying to read, they are far too loud and distracting and he’s going somewhere quieter. Apollo assumes he must mean his apartment, except Phoenix doesn’t take any books with him, and Trucy shouts, “Say hi to Mr Edgeworth for me!” so she obviously knows or guessed something more than Apollo could.

“And me!” Athena adds. “Wait, what happens if we get a client in the next hour and you’re not here?”

“You were emailing Edgeworth this morning,” Phoenix says to her. “Didn’t you include ‘hi’ anywhere in there? Anyway, you’ve got Apollo. Unless you think there’s magic involved, I’m not the one to ask for help.”

He waves over his shoulder and closes the door, leaving Trucy plunking away without rhythm at the piano and Athena wincing at each new out-of-tune note. And Apollo, waiting.

-

“I’m co-opting your office for study space, since you’re the one who’s pushed me into this,” Phoenix says. 

“All right,” Edgeworth says, which is the lack of reaction that disappoints Phoenix even though he expects it because they’re adults now and Edgeworth keeps himself so much more tightly guarded, except where his ability to fold paper cranes is concerned, still. Then he meets Phoenix’s eyes and a shadow crosses his face, left over from their conversation yesterday. Should I bring it up again, this matter of trust? that expressions asks, and then the decision, no, and the lines between Edgeworth’s brows smooth out some. “How’s Trucy doing?”

He had asked the other day, too, and the answer is still the same. “She’s been pretending that nothing happened, that there’s no significance to these past few days, even to me.” Phoenix sighs and slumps deeper into the couch. “I know she always opens up to me when she’s ready, but…” She might not. She hasn’t let him in to her thoughts about Zak beyond that one night after she and Apollo found Thalassa’s soul. He doesn’t know if there’s more than love and grief, if her feelings are turning conflicted. 

(Phoenix’s opinion of Zak isn’t conflicted. Neither is Edgeworth’s.)

“And Apollo’s hung up on it all too,” Phoenix adds. It was written plain on his face, if the Psyche-Locks when he said he was fine weren’t indication enough. (Though the one of the three did break when he talked about Athena’s hoped-for running regime.) “And I’m pretty sure I’m the worst person to talk to him about anything, and if I try I’ll dig myself deeper in his opinion.” Hell, forget saying anything. Existing around Apollo is probably a jackhammer to the bedrock at the bottom of the grave Phoenix has dug. Best to stay out of his way, let him and Athena now do their thing. He’s a smart kid. He’ll be fine. 

Phoenix doesn’t like the expression that Edgeworth is making again and pivots quickly to something he meant to ask at some point anyway. “And how’s this side of things holding up?”

“You don’t need to be so obtuse in asking,” Edgeworth says. “Gavin’s seemed fine. I lightened his case load last week and this, anyway, to give him room to breathe if he needs it.”

“That’s kind of you,” Phoenix says. Edgeworth’s frown returns, deeper than before, as though the implication is that he usually isn’t. “I’m glad you’re not holding a grudge.” 

(“Anymore” is the word they both know fits silently at the end of that sentence.)

“With the information I was given, you understand why I drew such a conclusion,” Edgeworth says. 

(And “if you had let me in, I would have acted differently” hangs in the air, a ghost over them both.)

Phoenix picks himself up to go investigate the law tomes on Edgeworth’s shelves. “I know.”

(The punchline: “And I’m not sorry because I’m afraid Kristoph would have killed you if you tried to get involved.” And then the words he won’t ever say, “I’d spend seven more lifetimes disbarred and disgraced than risk losing you again.”)

Behind him, Edgeworth sighs. And all he says is, “Though Gavin did call out today. I’m not sure that’s a good sign.”

“No,” Phoenix agrees. “I’m not either.” His hand twitches to move toward his phone instead the books in front of him. Give Apollo a call, tell him to check in on that. 

But he’s pretty sure Apollo wouldn’t appreciate him micromanaging his personal relationships, either. (Any more than he’s already given him nudges regarding Klavier. The way he wishes someone had nudged him to reach out to Edgeworth, not that he’s sure if Edgeworth back then would have accepted the offered hand.)

You can’t save everyone, whispers the bitter voice of his hard heart, calcified from years of drowning. Pick a priority, it sneers. Stop bleeding for every sad sorry soul that comes your way. Athena. Klavier. Vera. Blackquill’s blacked-out case file on his desk, not so much for him but for Edgeworth, who hopes they can piece the legal system back together if they just keep digging. 

And for once, he tells that voice to shut up, because if he can bleed he’s still alive. That’s how he can even know he is - not that he’s necessarily still human, but that he’s anything at all. 

-

“Do we have food at home?” Athena asks.

“We did,” Trucy says. “And it was enough for Daddy and me for a week. And you ate it all the past three days.”

It’s like in high school, in the last class of the day, with just a few minutes left on the clock and everyone getting antsy. Except it’s a law office, even if Athena is the age to still be in high school, and Trucy is still in high school. And yeah, maybe at the end of the day sometimes in the Gavin Law Office, some of them would be itching to go home. But they’d never dare show it. And Apollo still feels culture shock, sometimes, both from the memory of working for Kristoph, and from his concept of what he’s pretty sure a law office should be like.

He’s mostly used to it, mostly. It’s just odd, to have Athena here - another actual lawyer here. Like she’s part of an attempt to make this into a respectable business, but nothing else has changed.

“So what you’re saying is that as soon as we’re out of here I need to go buy more chicken,” Athena says.

“You want to do my grocery shopping too?” Apollo asks. “You’ve got the car for transporting it all.”

“If you give me your credit card, sure.” Athena’s grin says, in bold type, that she should absolutely not be trusted with anyone’s credit card.

“No.”

She blinks at him with poorly feigned innocence. “But that’s the fair way to do it, if some of your groceries are gonna be taking up the trunk space that I need to use for chicken.”

“How much chicken are you buying?” Apollo asks.

“I need protein for my workouts!”

“I can’t believe you got a gym membership here before you even looked for an apartment.” Trucy raises her eyebrow at him. Apollo considers what he just said and lays it against everything he knows of his new coworker. “Actually, I can,” he amends, and he has to laugh with her at her obvious pride in this fact.

She’ll be nice to have around. Good company. It gets quiet when Trucy isn’t around, and when it’s quiet he has even more time to wonder, to ask questions of people who he’ll never again see to answer them. And sometimes in the quiet he finds himself talking out loud, knowing there’s someone listening and not knowing how much capacity she has to repeat what he’s said. She can flicker lights and shatter mirrors; can she use a keyboard? An ouija board?

He likes the prospect of always having someone around who can talk back, even if he won’t be saying to Athena anything like the ponderings he’s put to Mia. 

“We’re heading out,” Trucy says. “It’s not quite five but I’m the boss here.”

“Okay,” Apollo says. “I’m trying to finish writing up what happened this case.”

“How’s that going?” Trucy asks. 

Apollo frowns at his journal and the ink that’s smudging in his haste to write. “It makes even less sense to me this way.”

“Oh, I’m glad I’m not the only one getting more confused trying to remember what all we just did,” Athena says. “What a needlessly convoluted murder plan.” She lingers with her foot propping the door open after Trucy has already gone out. “See you tomorrow! Good luck with your grocery shopping! Just remember I offered!”

“You offered to commit credit card fraud!”

The door closing doesn’t fully muffle her laughter. Apollo returns to his desk, finds that he’d left his phone there and in the fifteen minutes he had slowly migrated up to the front room with the girls, he missed several strings of messages, all from one particular person.

-have you ever been to kitaskis bakery -pretty sure its not even a money laundering fromt -but if it is its the best front I’ve eaten at -love to say it wins by being the only but - :| -lets not talk about that

He’s pretty sure that between the lines, all these read “not all right”. He keeps scrolling. The next set are timestamped just five minutes later.

-Vongole was mad I wouldnt give her muffin -so she ate salt packets -threw up the salt pakcets -now sticking her head in every trash can in the park -will update you if she finds panties -if she does I think this parkr is cursed -even if she doesn’t

Apollo closes his eyes and leans his head back until the ceiling lights bleed bright through his eyelids. He did ask, and here, the answer. Tossing his journal and pen in a drawer and deciding he’ll deal with the write-up tomorrow, he grabs his bag and heads for the door. If Athena isn’t arriving late unless she gets there after Phoenix, then Apollo isn’t leaving early if he’s the last to leave. 

The lights in the room blink out before he hits the switch, but when he looks back, they spring back on and again flicker off, like a question. “Yeah, I’m done for the day,” Apollo says. The blinds drop down over the windows and hit the sills with a loud clattering sound that makes him jump. Whether she meant to startle him or not, he has the urge to explain to her, justify himself. Better to be safe. Better to be sure. “Gavin’s finally lost his mind, I think.” 

He waves his phone screen at the ceiling. He has no idea how she knows what’s happening in the office, whether she can see everything or hear or something else, but he’s found himself imitating Phoenix, orienting himself toward the ceiling to address her. Their office, a shrine, and she, their patron god. The Holy Mother of the Wright Anything Agency.

The front door swings open for him, and the rest of the office darkens behind him.

[booksbookandmorebooks]

Hello my lovelies, I hope you’ve had a fab week! Today I’m starting off by jumping on the band wagon of the crazy popular Netflix show “YOU”. Now this show was one I had been anticipating for so long after seeing the teaser trailers and it looked so up my alley, a little creepy and intense but still stylised. A real thriller you can sink your teeth into and it did not disappoint. This show was everything I expected and more which is why when I went to my local book store and saw it sitting there, I couldn’t ignore it. I just had to pick it up.

So here I am today to talk about the differences between the Netflix adaptation and the book. I know a lot of my posts tend to be actual book reviews but due to the popularity and hype around this book and show I thought it would be time wasted as there are so so many posts about it recently. So, I thought I’d compile a quick list of differences between the two platforms for the quick readers. I hope you enjoy this blog post and if so make sure to come back and check out my other book reviews!

                                                                              SPOILERS AHEAD.

Time line differences:

The progression of Joe and Bec’s relationship is a lot slower in the book, while the show is almost shot for shot when showing events in the book, their relationship is always an almost. For example, at the time of the Ikea visit they aren’t together in the book, this was a ploy Bec used to manipulate Joe into taking her places and putting her furniture together, while in the show they had already been established for a while and even engaged in some physical activities while there.

At the Dicken’s fair Bec visits with her estranged family, Joe and Bec again, are not together. A lot of the book hinges on the fact that Bec plays and toys with Joe through almost the entirety of the story. It’s cruel really, she spends weeks with him staying over, engaging in relationship-like activities, making him feel special and loved and then will ghost him and flake on him for no reason which in turn intensifies his creepy/ obsessive behaviour.

Character traits:

Bec plays Joe around a lot more in the book as I state above. She constantly cancels plans for Peach, Chyna or Lynn as they ‘need’ her more or because she’s sick. Without fail, there is always something wrong, or something she can’t get out of. She lies about plans and takes days sometimes weeks to reply to him, which is especially cruel in my eyes as she tends to do this after playing the perfect doting girlfriend. Bec in the show is depicted as a bit of a lost and confused soul, someone we are made to feel empathy for yet In the book she is extremely manipulative, a user and a cheat. A very unlikable character towards the end. 

Suspicions:

When in the show we are introduced to peach initially it is very obvious she is not only overly protective of Bec but also highly suspicious of Joe and this suspicion we only see intensify as she becomes paranoid of things that seem ‘too good to be true’ regarding their run ins and ‘fated meetings’. Establishing her as the villain/enemy of Joe quite early on. While in the book peach never catches wind of Joe's stalker-ish and violent tendencies, her irritation towards Joe (hatred if you will) simply stems from an over bearing and protective friendship.

Joe’s childhood:

Joe’s childhood is kept very hush hush and yes, in the book it’s not talked about in explicit detail but we do read in the form of a few throw away comments about how he had no mother figure growing up and was left with a drunk abusive father who had no time or care for his son.

We are only provided with one example in the book about the neglect Joe faced while growing up. He talks about the time when he was locked in the cage as punishment by Mr. Mooney, the shop owner, for three days and upon returning home Joe’s father was completely unaware his child had been missing at all and expressed no concern for his well being

Confrontation:

The Dicken’s fair is where we are introduced to Bec’s estranged and dysfunctional family, yet Bec is fully aware Joe has followed her and she spots him. Instead of the fire filled confrontation we see in the show, she doesn’t confront him and he flees from the scene in a fit of panic and drives back to his home where Bec bombards him with calls and texts desperate to talk to him. He is sure it’s to confront him about his behaviour and we see through his inner dialogue he is certain the jig is up and she will brand him a loser when in actual fact she ignores the fact he followed her across the country and just wants him to keep her company and listen to her moan about her hard life. Another reason I find Bec insanely irritating.

The reveal:

The box that Bec finds at the end of the book that results in her learning about Joe’s true identity contains her belongings but he had kept no keepsakes of his other victims like it shows in the Netflix adaptation. No teeth or phones or anything tying him to the other deaths. Only the stuff he has stolen from Bec’s apartment over the passing months. including the most disturbing item in my eyes, a used tampon, that Joe justifies as normal because it’s a plastic one. (I just can’t even)

Deaths:

When we finally see Joe's intense and violent side come out with unsuspecting Benji we were all shocked. The show seemed to go from 0 to a 100 real fast. Which if you felt was a little out of the blue, there’s a reason. The show clearly changed the interaction between Joe and Benji for artistic licence. We know this because in the book Joe only sedated Benji with a drink and then drags him into the cage in his comatose state. He never strikes him in a fit of panic or rage. We never really see an overly unhinged Joe, he is always calm and collected which I personally preferred because when he does start to unravel at the end of the book it makes it a little more exciting gives the scene more of a shocking impact.

Peach’s death is quite similar in both book and show, but there are some important differences. In the show we see it set up by a panicked Joe to look like a suicide which even includes a note (a clever foreshadowing of Bec’s grisly end). After an attempted drug fuelled threesome initiated by Peach and her unsuccessful male lover (a scene we see nothing of in the book) while in the book Joe secretly stalks the girls vacation home and sees Peach spike Bec’s drink and try to seduce her through an intimate massage that results in Peach’s total dismissal of Bec once she has been rejected. He then waits for Peach to go on a run along the beach and suffocates her in the sand and finally ends it all by hitting her over the head repeatedly with a rock.

We also find out through a series of throw away comments and one scene for scene recollection in the book how Candace died, or better yet, was murdered. Confirming suspicion, it was at Joe’s hand and it was death by drowning. Joe even admits to manipulating her suspicious brother into believing she died in a body surfing accident. We hear this through his own personal narrative while conversing with Bec about lies and secrets they both keep.

Initially at the very end of both book and show we see Joe lose his temper with Bec and strangle her. Once he has calmed down and the deed is done, he shows extreme remorse and guilt. We see a whole page where he expresses a mass amount of regret and begins to break down over what he’s done and how he’s lost her. Unknowingly Bec has tricked him and surprises him by attacking him when his guard is down. This in itself annoys Joe to breaking point and through a series of mental thoughts he explains how he was wrong about her, how she could never love him and how now she has proven to him she is everything he hoped she wasn’t, he then strangles her whole heartedly and even more sickening, he seems to enjoy it.

The ending:

In the show we see in the last episode a girl walk into the shop and the narration he shared when encountering Bec for the first time begins again, insinuating it’s all come full circle and is about to repeat itself. It proves that Joe is a creature of habit and this is his vicious circle and sadly is one he is unable/ unwilling to break. But as we see this girl is Candace (a shock to us all yes) yet in the book it’s already established she was murdered at Joe's hand many years ago. In the book it is a thief we encounter briefly a few chapters back who was using a fake name and a stolen credit card,  a girl who has named herself Amy Adams. While inquiring for a job it is hinted at that she is Joe’s next victim and someone he has chosen to become his new obsession.

This ending is what particularly interested me, as we see the book has a clear end and has given Candace a grisly death thus, eliminating the possibility of her return. Yet in the show, we hear nothing about her death it is just left to hearsay and suspicion. We are then thrown a curve ball by her entrance into the shop in the very last episode which leads us to believe that the show is now going off on a completely new and unknown path, something that both excites and worries fans of the books.

I am also aware a second follow on book has been written and I will be jumping on that very soon!

I hope you enjoyed this post and have a great day. Thanks for reading!

[webcricket]

Looking Glass

Chapter 3 - The Quote Unquote Situation

Pairing: CastielXAU!Reader

Word Count: 1914

Summary: A summer hiatus series. The reader is a refugee from the apocalypse AU where angels pursue humans with righteous wrath under the rule of the archangel Michael. Against all odds, the reader awakens in a world where the apocalypse never happened and not everyone is who they seem to be. Does her heart truly long to save her world, or does it belong now to the last person she ever expected to give it to?

A/N: I know everyone is eager for the reader and Cas to properly meet and greet - it’s happening next chapter! Until next week, feel that slow summer simmer...

Miss a chapter? Have a Masterlist Link!

Sam’s gaze locks on his brother’s mouth flexing wide; hazel horror enlarging in the suspense, his own mandible gapes and aches with a pang of physical sympathy at viewing the freakish yawn of square jawline. A cringe creeps across his shoulders, constricting the muscles there so that his neck recoils into itself. Unable to tear his aghast gawp from the impending massacre, he rubs the phantom pain afflicting his chin with a thumb and watches.

Jaw unhinged and snake-like, Dean’s teeth and lips warp in seeming docudrama slow motion to engulf a full corner of a meat-stuffed soggy sesame seed bedecked bun swimming in red sauce. A piece of saturated bread sheers away under the stress, carrying with it a rubbery appendage of artificial orange cheese that extends from his grease glistening fingers to the plate.

Sam can almost hear a melodramatic British narration of the scene in the dull background din of the diner: ‘Witness the fervor of the squirrel – that eager huntsman of epicurean delights – consuming what may be his final meal in single-minded preparation for the coming wintery apocalypse.’ If it were farther from the truth, it might be funny. Despite this grave thought, Sam tries a relaxed smile on for size so as not to dampen his brother’s glad mood.

The elder Winchester lets out a long, low, and borderline sinful groan of decadent approval; a stupid gooey-gummed grin stretches his stuffed cheeks. Freckled lids flutter to drape across greens glittering with wanton gluttony. “Ohmygod,” he moans around the mouthful of chili cheeseburger ecstasy. With no room for spoken words to escape, gobs of chili dribble from the corner of his overfull mouth and ooze down his shirt with every muffled syllable. “You have to try one of these!”

Staggered to silence by the sloppy show, Sam’s slim smile curls up and twitches on one side in a patent blend of outward revulsion and amusement as Dean devours another bite before bothering to swallow the first.

For the Winchesters – Dean in particular – it’s often like this on the other side of a whopping failure sandwiched by a win. Food, drink, and a frivolous attitude abound to celebrate a turnaround in their favor. It’s Dean’s version of having room to breathe after having a portion of the weight of the world lifted from their chests; Sam generally obliges to play the role of hapless bystander.

For the moment, anyway, the knockout punch of losing Gabriel and their source of rift-revealing archangel grace to use to journey to the Armageddon-devastated universe to rescue their mom, Jack, and – if they’re feeling magnanimous – maybe even Ketch, is semi-superseded by Rowena’s redemption; after all, she’s a powerful ally. Sam allows himself to crack a compact authentic smile about that witchy bit of progress. Perhaps the situation finally is turning around for them.

Dean’s cell phone, discarded on the tabletop in front of him beside an as yet unused napkin, jumps to life; it vibrates and blasts out the opening instrumental of Stairway to Heaven. Gastronomic orgasm denied mid-chew, the hunter drops the dripping burger on his plate with a juicy slosh. He smacks his sticky hands together; and in lieu of the obvious choice of using the readily available napkin, he swipes his messy fingers across his pants. “It’s Cas,” he mumbles.

“Ya think?” Sam sasses, spiking a brow as if he didn’t already know by the not-so-subtle ringtone.

Dean scowls at his brother. Wiping his face with the back of a sleeve, he snatches up the phone. “Hey Cas! You’re not dead!” He punctuates the proclamation with a smirk even though Cas can’t see the facial quirk to appreciate it; not that he isn’t happy their angelic ally is alive – he’s thrilled – it’s just that this ‘Hail Mary!’ notion of his to ask Heaven for help was an idiotic gambit in a long line of rash ideas using the angel’s own life as collateral again.

Castiel’s blues spin upward in their sockets to regard the drab grey ceiling of the bunker hallway. He can hear both the conflict of condescension and relief fringing in Dean’s tone. He’ll never admit it aloud to his friend, but in instants like this a simple ‘Hey man, I knew you’d get through this one!’ would go a long way toward bolstering his ever-floundering morale. Instead, he finds Dean’s default setting of shocked sounding jocular jabs when wrong about stuff – stuff like the wisdom of Heaven’s arguably second least favorite fallen son trying to crash the pearly gates to implore aid and the peril of undertaking such a task – pointless and demeaning redirection.

He’s a billion-odd-year-old being capable of making his own decisions – poorly informed, plotted, or otherwise – and taking responsibility for the outcomes. He asked Dean once to show him some respect; he’s still waiting on it. And anyhow, if they’re keeping tabs on who has died or almost died more times in desperate dim-witted self-sacrificing plots to save the day, Dean’s the one with the winning score. The angel offers a snarky rejoinder instead of pointing out this fact. “While I appreciate your unwavering confidence in my ability to not get dead again, this isn’t about the angels.”

“It isn’t?” Dean laughs in nervy anticipation of the update’s evidently non-angelic punchline even though he knows odds are the joke won’t be remotely funny and invariably involves worse news; Cas is just about the least hilarious – on purpose – person he knows.

“What’s going on?” Sam prods from across the table. He recognizes his brother’s uncomfortable chuckle. “Is it about Gabriel?”

Dean catches the angel’s slow nasal inhalation of breath happening through the speaker. Shaking his head, he holds up an admonitory finger at his brother to beg silence.

After a pregnant pause and a quick glance at the locked door of the bunker sleeping quarters room designated by the number 15 – which also happens to be the angel’s chosen room – as he paces by it on hallway patrol, Cas states, “I’m in the bunker and we have a . . . situation.”

“What kind of situation? Did you drink the last beer?” In Dean’s mind this is both the best and worst case scenario defining a situation at the bunker.

“Situation?” Forehead corkscrewing into a knot in the middle, Sam ignores Dean’s warning digit.

Peeling the phone from his ear, Cas halts in the hall to grudgingly glower at it; and via it, Dean. Snorting sharp through his nose, his frustration flecked blues again roll skyward at the Winchester taking nothing about this call seriously. He regrets not choosing to call Sam instead. Pinching the bridge of his nose, jamming the device back to his ear, he grumbles, “Dean, this is serious.”

Air of good humor precipitously threatening to plummet, Dean gripes in retort, “It’s you, of course it’s serious. Once, just once, maybe you could lighten up a little bit.”

“Need I remind you that Michael is maneuvering as we speak to breech the walls of his world to crossover and destroy this one, and you’re suggesting that I lighten up?” Cas doesn’t bother to repress the gravel of a reproachful rumble grating his voice.

“Just a little bit,” Dean answers in smug satisfaction at successfully riling the angel who ruined his lunch.

“Perhaps that would be a viable option if your apocalyptically traumatized houseguest hadn’t attempted to murder me a few minutes ago with a meat cleaver in the kitchen and then barricade herself in my bedroom after she fled.” And here his friends had conveyed worry about homicidal angels – all the extant nine or ten of them currently keeping Heaven from flickering out of existence forever; not that anyone’s going to ask him about that concerning development.

It sounds too much like a rousing game of Clue for Dean not to snicker. “She tried to off you . . . with a meat cleaver?”

“What’s going on?” Sam asks, making a mental note to request that Cas call him first in the future – if only for the sake of efficiency.

Cas huffs a longsuffering sigh, “Well, Dean. Evidently she thought the bag of flour and variety of canned goods hurled at my face weren’t sufficient to subdue me although I offered no protest. Suffice to say, she’s not a big fan of angels. Though, along with the physical violence, she used much more colorful phrasing to make the point.”

Dean scoffs, “Why the hell did you tell her you’re an angel? You know where she’s from angels are public enemy number one.”

“That’s the problem – I didn’t say anything; I didn’t have to. Somehow, she knows me; knows my name. And she’s absolutely terrified of me. I don’t know what to-”

“Alright,” Dean interrupts, gathering the gist that he and Sam need to hoof it back to the bunker before their rescued apocalyptic butterfly takes flight and flaps her wings to cause chaos somewhere in their world. “We’re a half day’s drive out. Hang tight.” He shoves his plate aside with a frown, muttering, “And maybe in the meantime, try apologizing or something to smooth things over.”

The angel’s brow furrows at the proposal insinuating he wronged you. “Apologize for what?” Apologize for healing you? For being courteous? For being . . . himself?

“Figure it out.”

“Dean? Dean!” Call disconnected, the angel clamps his fingers across the black screen and drops his arm limply to his side. When it comes to the number of times a pair of angelic eyes can ascend to their heavenly zenith as a result of a solitary phone call, Castiel holds the record encompassing all of creation. Glaring at a cobweb strung across a corner of the ceiling, the confused notion he should be sorry nonetheless niggles him. In healing you, he remembers the rejuvenating touch of his grace brushing the outskirts of the charred wasteland of your mind – a swath of still smoking cauterized devastation where he did not dare venture without permission. He remembers the broken vow necessity of what he did to Donatello. He wonders if he – the other him – did that to you.

You lift your earlobe from where it’s been compressed to numbness listening to the conversation happening outside the wooden door. Looking at floor, in the trickle of light streaming through the space at the bottom of the doorframe into the darkened room, you see the shadow of the seraph shift, hesitate, then disappear. The words he spoke to this Dean character echo in your mind and wobble your legs: ‘Need I remind you that Michael is maneuvering as we speak to breech the walls of his world to crossover and destroy this one . . .’

Sinking to sit, you wrap your arms around your knees and continue to anxiously watch the gap of uninterrupted light for any sign of his return. Your body rocks in a reflex of comfort. Michael’s world, you think, your world. And . . . this one. It would explain why Castiel, this Castiel, appeared so genuinely startled when you lashed out at him. Why he didn’t attack. Why he mustered only enough movement to shield himself and clear a path for you to escape. And also why he hasn’t broken down the door to finish his fiery interrogation.

You shiver and hug your limbs tighter. Or maybe this is all a part of his sadistic endgame – a trick of the mind meant to confuse you, to dupe you into letting down your guard – smoke, and now mirrors.

Next: Ch. 4 - Somewhere Under the Rainbow

[pengychan]

[Coco] The Bedside Ghost, Ch. 3

Title: The Bedside Ghost Summary: The bell falls but, instead of waking up in the Land of the Dead, Ernesto de la Cruz finds himself with a broken spine - and an unwanted guest at his bedside who claims he can let him have the sweet release of death, if he gives back what he took from him… Characters: Ernesto de la Cruz, Coco Rivera, Héctor Rivera, Julio Rivera, Imelda Rivera. Rating: T Status: in progress [This is the fic’s tag for all chapters up.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: Ernesto is salty, Héctor's 'ghost' is made of pure salt, and Coco is mostly confused.

ALSO THERE IS ART by @eurazba​ look guys look.

***

Ernesto knew that the bell was about to fall moments before it did, and ran away from beneath it as though he had the devil at his heels.

If that surprised the public, the dancers and the stagehand that had just taken-- Héctor’s -- his guitar from him, he couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. He was aware of nothing but the sense of impending doom, his own pounding heart as he struggled to get away. It wasn’t easy, the escalator was working against him and trying to bring him back under that accursed bell, but he was faster, already halfway down the steps.

The bell would fall, but he wouldn’t be beneath it. All would be well. He’d talk about how close it had been, laugh about it, joke that he was never going to have bell props on stage ever again. Maybe it would become a running joke, and years down the road he would still be telling that funny story of how a bell had almost turned him into a tortilla.

The thought made him laugh even now, but it died in his throat when something suddenly seized his shoulder and pulled him back, when a familiar voice rang out and caused him to still as though blood had turned to ice in his veins.

“Hola, amigo,” Héctor said somewhere behind him, just as his arm latched around his throat. His voice was impossibly cheerful. “Remember me?”

All strength went out of his legs, and Ernesto was unable to take another step. Héctor’s grip tightened, but not enough to strangle him as Ernesto had half-expected him to. He had a split second to feel relieved before he realized that something much, much worse was going on: the escalator was still moving, and them with it. Back up to the top.

Back up towards the bell.

“No, no, no, no! Héctor, stop! Por favor! Por favor!”

Ernesto tried to struggle, to break free, but it felt like he was moving underwater and Héctor’s grip was impossibly strong, keeping him still as the escalator brought them further up, where the bell awaited. It was swinging slowly back and forth, ringing in a funeral toll, ready to fall down on him the moment he found himself beneath it. And it would fall, he knew it, as he knew what kind of hell would follow.

“Trying to get away from me, mi hermano? Trying to leave me behind? That won’t do, it won’t do at all,” Héctor said, clicking his tongue as though disappointed. His voice was gravelly, and he could smell earth and alcohol in his breath, and something else he dared not name.  “I didn’t get to go anywhere, and neither will you.”

“No! Let me go! Someone help me!” Ernesto cried out, trying to stretch out an arm towards the public, the dancers, security, anyone. He couldn’t move it at all. Héctor’s fingers dug into his shoulder like knives, cold as ice.

“I tried so hard to go home, but I fell and you didn’t help me up. Now it’s your turn.”

“Ayúdenme!”

No one lifted a finger, no one said anything. The dancers were still and silent, looking at him with expressionless, identical faces. Because they all had the same face, now, God, they all looked like… like…

“Imelda! Please! Put to stop to this! I beg of you! I--”

Too little, too late, and Imelda didn’t take a single step to help. She didn’t even change expression: she just turned away - all of them turned away - and then Héctor laughed, and the bell came crashing down on him. That final toll covered his old friend’s laugh, but not his own scream.

That kept ringing in his ears even after he woke up.

***

By the time the train stopped at Mexico City, Coco had had enough time to regret leaving without making up with her mother, regret leaving at all, convince herself all over again she was doing the right thing, think up at least seventeen things she should have told Julio to do, and feed everyone in the coach she was in with the lunch Rosita had insisted to pack for her.

Even if she hadn’t been feeling slightly nauseous - had she eaten something that had gone bad recently? She didn’t think so - the sheer amount of food Rosita had dropped on her went well beyond what she could reasonably eat on her own during the journey.

“Nonsense, nonsense! You never know when your next chance to have a good meal is going to be!” she’d said, waving off her protests. To be fair, her tamales were absolutely delicious, so Coco hadn’t complained too much. She was nowhere as good at cooking as her sister-in-law; sometimes Julio joked that his sister’s cooking was the greatest asset he’d brought into the family with their wedding. Coco didn’t quite agree, but she had the distinct sensation that her uncles sort of did.

Tío Óscar and Tíó Felipe were the only ones among them who had been to Mexico City before, too. They had tried to give her suggestions on how to navigate it, but they had only been there for a couple of days and nearly two decades earlier; in the end, all that they could suggest was that she got into a cab as soon as she left the station, gave the driver the address, and let him do the rest. It was exactly what she’d done, and it had been easy; the cab driver seemed more than slightly unhinged when it came to driving, but he was up for a chat and that helped her ignore the stabs of nervousness in her stomach.

“So, Ernesto de la Cruz’s mansion! You know him?”

“Sort of. He used to be a family friend.”

“I see. Dreadful accident he had, huh? Never seen him in public after that. A shame, I loved his songs. Well, who doesn’t-- watch where you’re going, hijo de la mil putas! Er… sorry about that, señorita.”

Coco, who had stopped being a señorita about six years earlier, smiled a bit. “Mexico City is far busier than my hometown. A car is still a sight to behold, there.”

“Hah! This might sound funny coming from a guy who drives for a living, but lucky you,” the man laughed, then glanced into the mirror. “Hey, are you all right?”

Truth be told, she was still feeling a bit nauseous and the man’s driving was not helping matters, but dismissed it as her nerves playing tricks on her.

He has something to tell me about papá. His best friend - there must be so much he can tell me, all the things my mother won’t say. I remember so little. I remember a song, and smiles and warmth and being picked up, but not much else.

“I am fine, yes. Only a bit nervous. I haven’t met Tío Ne-- de la Cruz in a long time.”

In the mirror, she could see the man making a face. “Before the accident?”

“Long before then, yes. I was a child last time I saw him.”

Him, and my papá. They left together. Neither came back, but only Ernesto is accounted for.

“Then get ready for some unpleasantness, señorita. I know a guy who knows a guy whose brother worked in the mansion, and he says he’d be better off dead.”

The notion caused something in Coco’s stomach to clench. Through the journey, she had done her best to dig up all memories she had of Ernesto de la Cruz, as well as those of her father. The man she remembered, ever so vaguely, looked well and healthy, often laughing, with a mustache she’d found almost as funny as her papá’s goatee. It seemed that she would find herself looking at a very different man, after all.

“Is it… that bad?”

“Oh, yes. Can’t move his legs, can’t move his arms, can’t move a thing except his head. Needs help with everything, and I do mean everything if you get what I mean. I’d prefer to die, too. He had a dog, I think - he always had dogs, but that one was the last. It died a couple of years ago. Word is that he almost went insane with grief over that thing. Being stuck in bed does funny things to one’s head, huh?”

There was that sense of nausea in the pit of Coco’s stomach again, and she knew that it had nothing to do with anything she may have eaten. Far from noticing, the driver kept going.

“I guess some folks get used to  being stuck in bed for the rest of their lives, but he never did. They say that he tried to bribe carers to… you know, speed things up.”

The thought was so awful it took Coco’s breath away for a moment. “Did he really...?”

“That’s what my friend’s friend swears by. A blasphemy against God, of course, but Hell can’t seem that scary when you’re living it already," he added, taking both hands off the wheel for a moment to quicky cross himself. "I for one can’t blame him.”

Neither could Coco, really. It was almost unbearably sad to think of, but not surprising, given what she’d heard so far. She felt yet another pang of pity for a man she hardly remembered.

“He used to have visitors, but not anymore,” the driver went on. “He gets gifts, sure enough, from fans all over Mexico, but I’m sure he would trade it all for just being able to get up and walk. Maybe getting a visit is going to help. Look, that’s the mansion - we’re almost there.”

Coco glanced through the windshield to the road ahead. The drive had taken them to the outskirts of the city; they were now going through a long path with fruit groves on both sides and, ahead of them, there was a massive gate.

Nervousness tried to make a comeback, but Coco forced herself to ignore it. Why should she be nervous? He had written, asking - pleading - for her mother to get in touch. She was not her mother, but she was the next best thing, surely. He had something to tell her, and no reason to turn her away.

Telling as much to the man who came at the gate, however, wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped.

“I am telling you, he wrote to us!”

“Señorita--”

“Señora Rivera-Martinez, if you will.”

“However you’re called. El señor de la Cruz doesn’t receive guests--”

“Which part of he wrote to us eludes you?” Coco snapped, holding up the letter. For a moment, he could almost hear her mother’s voice rather than her own. “If you can’t read, it’s not my problem. Find me someone who can and let me talk to them.”

“De la Cruz cannot write on his own--”

“So someone wrote it for him, doesn’t that seem likely to you?”

The man hesitated and Coco drew in a deep breath, trying to calm down. She rarely, if ever, snapped at anybody - but she was tired from the journey, eaten up by questions that wouldn’t let her rest and very close to losing her patience. She hadn’t come all the way from Santa Cecilia to be held up at a gate by someone too thick to understand plain Spanish.

“Listen. Ernesto de la Cruz is an old friend of my family. He asked for our visit, and urgently as well. I figure my godfather wouldn’t be pleased at all to learn you’ve kept me waiting here,” she added, and that finally got the man to recoil, the stubborn frown on his face turning into doubt. He opened his mouth to speak, but someone else got there first.

“Juan, what's going on?” The woman approaching looked about as formidable as Rosita, if at least a couple of decades older. Her graying hair was tied back in a bun, and she carried a small basket filled with tangerines. She looked at her somewhat warily.

Coco held out the letter through the bars of the gate. “I am here to see Ernesto de la Cruz.”

The woman stared at her for a moment, then held out her free hand to take the letter and read through it quickly, her eyebrows rising slightly. After what felt like a long time, she glanced back at her. “Are you Imelda?”

She shook her head. “No, she… she couldn't come. My name is Socorro. I’m her daughter.”

“I heard you saying that he is your godfather. Is that true?”

Truth be told, Coco wasn’t entirely sure; her memories were too few and distant… but she was almost certain of it, almost certain of having heard as much a long, long time ago.

“Ay, don’t you want to give a hug to your favorite goddaughter?” “She’s my only goddaughter, pendejo.” “Hey! Watch your language in front of my girl!”

“Yes,” she finally said. “He was… he is a family friend,” Coco said. “He’d known my father since childhood, in Santa Cecilia. There is something he needs to tell us about him.”

The woman nodded, staring down at the letter. “Héctor,” she muttered. “He does call out that name, sometimes. In his sleep,” she added, and that was when Coco knew she had been convinced that the letter had truly come from de la Cruz. She turned to the man called Juan. “Let her through. And carry her luggage inside, where are your manners?”

The gate was opened, and she stepped in. The woman, who introduced herself as Griselda Lopez, guided her through a large garden - there were groves of various fruit trees, shrubbery, flower beds, lawns, a fountain, and Coco was almost sure she could see a pool at the far end - and towards the main entrance of an impression mansion.

“This place is emptier than it used to be. We have the gardener and his helper, then Juan, myself and a couple more carers. We do have security, too, but there isn’t much for them to do nowadays,” Griselda explained. “We got crazed fans trying to get in, the first year or two after the accident, but not in a long time. The ‘security’ is off somewhere, I suppose, drinking lemonade. Absolutely useless, but señor de la Cruz’s manager insists to pay for them.”

A few minutes were spent talking about her journey from Santa Lucia, what time she had left, how long it took; Coco asked a few polite questions about the fruit groves and the mansion. It was only as they stepped through the front door that the conversation turned to the reason for her visit. “He is not well,” Griselda said, and her feature twisted in a sorrowful expression. “God only knows what plagued him last night - it was a difficult one. He’s sleeping now, and peacefully. I’d rather not disturb him yet. I am sure you understand.”

Despite the need to know gnawing at her, Coco understood perfectly. “Of course.”

“I’ll make sure he knows you’re arrived as soon as he’s awake and aware. Meanwhile, do get some rest. We always keep a few guest rooms ready, just in case. I trust you’ll be staying at least for the night.”

“Oh, I… I wouldn’t want to impose,” Coco said, feeling more than slightly uncomfortable. Truth be told, she had been fully prepared to check into a hotel; the main reason why she’d gone straight to the address on the envelope, suitcase at all, was simple impatience. She wanted to know, and she wanted to know right away. Now, however, it looked like there would be some waiting to do regardless.

“You’re not imposing at all,” Griselda was replying, waving her hand. She put the basked with the tangerines down on a table, took Coco’s suitcase from Juan’s hands - if she noticed her stretching out her hand to take it herself, she pretended not to - and guided her up a huge staircase. “This place feels dreadfully empty, and a change is more than welcome.”

As far as Coco was concerned, that place didn’t feel just dreadfully empty: he it felt dreadful, full stop. It was spotless and luxurious beyond anything she had seen, but it made her think of an empty carcass, like bones picked clean of flesh. Still, she had been offered hospitality and that was a kindness she had no logical reason to refuse. “Thank you,” she said, then, “you said that he mentioned my father’s name before.”

“Never when awake,” Griselda replied, preceding her through a long corridor. There was a sudden defensive note to her voice, and Coco regretted bringing it up. “I never pried. It is not what I’m here for. El señor de la Cruz has little left in the way of privacy, you understand. At least what goes on in his mind should remain his business, unless he decides otherwise.”

“Of course. I apologize for asking. I didn’t mean to--” Coco began, only to fall quiet when Griselda waved a hand and stopped in front of a door.

“It is alright, dear. I am certain he will answer your questions in due time. After all, this is why he wrote to your mother,” she said, and sighed. “I do hope that telling you whatever is troubling him will ease his mind as well as yours.”

“Is he restless?”

“Oh, he has always been since the incident. We all bear our cross in life, but some are heavier than most. And, God forgive me for even thinking this, even His son’s path to Golgotha did not last years,” Griselda said with a shake of her head, and pushed the door open, setting down Coco’s suitcase. “Here, do make yourself comfortable. If there is anything more you need, don’t hesitate to let me know. You’ll have word as soon as Señor de la Cruz is ready to see you.”

Despite the sense of dread that had taken hold of her, Coco managed a smile. “Thank you,” she said, taking suitcase - only to stagger back when her head spun and her stomach turned, as though she’d just made a terrible effort rather than just picking up a relatively light suitcase. There was an arm behind her back steadying her, and she didn’t fall.

“Oh my, this may not have been the best time to undertake a journey,” Griselda said, some sternness in her voice. Head still spinning a bit, Coco blinked at her.

“I supposed it would be a good time as any. I must be more tired than I thought. Thanks for--”

“How far along are you, dear?”

Coco blinked at her. “... Qué?” she asked, causing the woman to pause and shrug.

“My apologies, I assumed… oh, never mind. Do lie down for a bit, though,” she said, and left before Coco could say anything - leaving her to stare at her retreating back in silence, a hand reaching to rest on her stomach.

***

“Oh, you’re awake, finally. I was starting to get bored here. Stop keeping your eyes closed, I know you’re not asleep. Hey, want to hear something funny?”

Ernesto clenched his teeth, refusing to answer, and kept his eyes screwed shut. Of course, his ghost kept going regardless. He always did. There was nothing Ernesto could do to shut him up, to stop hearing him.

“If you hadn’t killed me to become famous, chances are you would have never found yourself under that bell. I figured it would be a nice thought to start they day with. Sort of. You know it’s probably afternoon, right? Whatever they gave you to put you back to sleep when you so rudely woke up screaming must have been some powerful stuff. Knocked you off your feet, so to speak.”

He did remember screaming, but very vaguely. With the nightmare still clinging to him, so dreadfully real, everything else had seemed very far away. He had screamed, and someone had come in. He’d heard a voice - Griselda’s? - and felt a hand brushing back his hair, pressing on his forehead to keep his head down on the pillow. He hadn’t felt the prick of a needle, but of course she must have injected something because he’d fallen into unconsciousness moments later. It had been a deep, dreamless sleep. For a time, he’d been dead to the world. But he was still alive, and all too soon the illusion was gone.

“Señor de la Cruz?”

Ernesto opened his eyes and turned to the door. There was someone standing there, some handyman who usually worked in the garden called Juan. Or was it José? Hell if he knew and hell if he cared. It was some nobody who probably didn’t even know how to read, but he could still walk, scratch his own nose and wipe his own ass, and Ernesto hated him for it.

“What do you want?” he asked, pointedly ignoring Héctor, who was grinning at him while sitting at the end of the bed. He looked, once again, like a corpse just out of its grave. If he had been able to turn in his dream, Ernesto had no doubt that was the face he’d have seen.

The man took a step inside, not sparing a single glance in Héctor’s direction. Seeing him was the one thing Ernesto could do that no one else could; a privilege he would gladly trade for death, really. “A lady has come to see you, earlier this afternoon.”

Ernesto blinked, his heart seemingly leaping into his throat. He was aware, distantly, of the fact Héctor’s grin had faded into an expressionless mask. “A lady,” he repeated slowly. Could it be that Imelda had come, after all? That she had decided against settling the matter by letter or phone, and had come there in person instead?

Ernesto found himself hoping so more than he’d ever hoped for anything, or almost. He almost felt like he could cry if it turned out to be her. Maybe he would: if that would be enough to sate Héctor’s ghost, enough to finally allow it all to end, then he’d weep with joy.

“Yes,” Juan, or José, was saying. “She said her name is Socorro Rivera-Martinez, and that you wrote to her family.

For a split second, not hearing the name he’d been hoping for made his heart sink - but then his memory caught up and he knew that not all was lost. “Socorro, you said?” Ernesto asked slowly. So Imelda had never written back, but her daughter had come. Héctor’s daughter. He remembered a child; she must be a woman now, older than her father got to be before he-- was murdered you murdered me and left me to rot and now you will rot too -- died.

Ernesto’s eyes flickered to where the ghost - Héctor, or a very convincing hallucination - was sitting. He said nothing, did nothing; he only stared at the man with blank, milky-white eyes. And to think that those eyes would sparkle so much when he talked about his little girl; Ernesto had found it amusing, until he’d come to find it annoying and, by the end, plainly infuriating. Now, however, he was none of those things. He was just scared, hardly daring to let himself hope that the end may be within sight, out of fear that hope would be crushed.

Whatever you are, are you happy now? I will tell her, will it be enough to sate you? God, please, let it be enough.

“Sí,” Juan or José or whatever was saying, and Ernesto turned his gaze back on him. He was standing near the door, a hand still on the doorknob. “She says she received a letter from you, and has travelled here from Santa Cecilia. She had a letter to show, but none of us can recall assisting you write--”

“You’re not the only ones here who can write down what I say,” Ernesto cut him off.  “She’s telling the truth. I wrote to her family. Where is he? She better not have left! You should have come immediately!”

“No, no, she hasn’t left. She--”

“Good for you. She is my guest, so see that she’s treated as one.”

“Of course. Griselda gave her a room. Shall we tell her you can meet her once you’ve rest--”

“I have had enough bed rest to last me a lifetime,” Ernesto scoffed. A sense of dread threatened to choke him - how much would he need to tell her for Héctor to be sated? How much of it would the world know? Even now, he found that thought terrified him - but he forced himself to ignore it. “Let her in the living room--”

“Which living room?”

“Whichever is closest, whichever is cleanest, whichever you like the most, I don’t care. Send someone to get me on the wheelchair. I’ll see her right awa--"

“Juan! What did I say about letting him rest?”

Griselda’s voice caused José - no, wait, it was Juan - to wince, and turn back towards the hallway. “I was just checking… he was awake, Griselda, I didn’t wake him up!”

“I certainly hope so,” she huffed, pushing past him. Her expression was stony as she watched Juan leave, and immediately softened when she turned to the bed. She passed right by the spot there Héctor had been, and now had disappeared from. “Good afternoon, señor. How are you feeling?”

Ernesto ignored the question. After all, it was a stupid one to begin with when asked to someone who felt absolutely nothing from neck down. “He said Socorro Rivera is here. I have to see her at once.”

“Of course. I have brought you some tangerines, just picked.”

“I don’t want--”

“You need to eat something.”

“I want to see--”

“Not in these conditions, you don’t. You need to get cleaned up and dressed.”

Somehow, that statement made Ernesto laugh. He could taste bile. “Hah! Like anything you do is going to make me a better sight. She’s in for a shock. Or two,” he muttered, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Your back looks like Swiss cheese, for the record, Héctor has said. Smells worse, though.

Did it? Yes, he probably reeked of decaying flesh; the only reason why he couldn’t smell it, just like he couldn’t smell the ointments and disinfectant, was that he lived in it.

“How bad are the ulcers?”

“I will change the dressings in a minute. I think your hair needs some washing and--”

“That is not what I asked.”

There was a brief silence, and it was the only answer Ernesto needed.

You’re pretty much rotting alive. I would be amazed that you haven’t died of sepsis yet, antibiotics and all, if l didn’t know you’re just not allowed to die until...

Until. There was that, if anything. That until he could cling to, in hopes it would be now.

Move Heaven and Earth if you must, but give me what I want. And then you can die.

“Get on with it,” he finally heard himself saying, very quietly. “And then take me downstairs.”

“... Sí, señor.”

***

The living room she was accompanied into was large and immaculately clean, with white furniture and walls and even a very expensive-looking piano on the far side. A huge window let in sunlight, allowing a view of the garden outside as the sun began to set, setting the sky aflame. It was beautiful, and yet it felt all the world like she was sitting inside a tomb.

Sitting on an armchair so immaculate she was afraid of staining it by just touching it, Coco drew in a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, and kept her hands tightly folded on her lap. No matter how much she told herself that she had every right and reason to be there - he’d written to her mother, pleading for her to get in touch - she still couldn’t entirely shake off the feeling she was not where she was supposed to be.

Home, that’s where I should be. With my family, Julio and Victoria, not here chasing ghosts.

Something I need to tell you about Héctor that you should have known many years ago.

I didn’t bother to read it and neither should you!

It cannot be worse than knowing nothing.

Get ready for some unpleasantness, señorita.

You’re coming back soon, mamá?

Is papá coming home soon?

How far along are you, dear?

Coco’s stomach clenched, and she had to fight back another wave of nausea. Maybe it was all her nerves. It had to be, she had plenty to be nervous about. She didn’t want to think that Griselda may have guessed right - she wanted another child, she and Julio had been trying for a couple of years, but now that she was so far away from her family the thought scared her. And if it was true it felt so wrong, being unable to share it with Julio right awa--

The sound of a door opening snapped her from her thoughts. Coco looked up without thinking - only to recoil when her eyes fell on the man who was being wheeled in on a wheelchair by a silent, somber Griselda.

She had expected to see a ruin, but nothing could have prepared her for it. Her memories, few and vague as they were, were of a broad-shouldered man, younger than she was now, who looked fit enough to lift a grown man over his shoulders and take him for stroll. Actually, she was almost positive he’d done as much with her papá once, causing him to protest while wheezing with laughter. She had laughed, too, while her mother watched on with a half-smile on her face as Coco sat on her knees.

What she saw now was a world away from the man she remembered. He was thin in a way that the house vest on him and the blanket on his lap couldn’t hide, all muscle in his limbs having wasted away. The hands on the armrests of the wheelchair looked like a bird’s talons, and she could have easily closed her fingers around his wrist with room to spare.

There was a strap across his chest, holding him upright against the armchair’s backrest, but she hardly noticed that: what her gaze paused on was his face. It was gaunt and of an unhealthy ashen color, but she still recognized those features; even the mustache had stayed the same, and his hair didn’t look that different. And the eyes - those hadn’t changed at all, perfectly clear and alert. They fickered somewhere over her shoulder for a moment, and he seemed to clench his jaw before he turned his gaze back on her, saying nothing.

Coco opened her mouth to speak, but she found herself speechless, and it didn’t seem to come as a surprise; Ernesto de la Cruz’s lips twitched for a moment in what could have been a sneer. Griselda stopped, leaving the wheelchair in front of her across a small table. That was when Coco smelled it: the scent of iodine and ointments and, beneath it all, the sickly sweet smell of corruption. She knew, there and then, that she was looking at a dying man - and that she had made the right choice by visiting, seizing what could be her only chance to know what had become of her father.

“I will leave you alone. If you need me, you only need to call,” Griselda said before turning and leaving the room, closing the door behind herself. It did feel like being locked inside a tomb, too, but this time it didn’t unnerve her.

Right there and then, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.

***

Héctor was there because of course he was, standing silently right behind the woman, looking just as he had the night he had died. She was older now than he’d been then; it was a jarring sight, a reminder that more than a quarter of a century had passed.

He remembered, distantly, how she’d looked at him back when she’d call him tío, laughing and reaching up for his face - his mustache specifically, she seemed really keen to find out if she could rip it off - whenever Héctor decided to put her in his arms for whatever reason. She certainly wasn’t laughing now, her horror at seeing him plain as day, her pity barely concealed. It would have bothered him if his mind hadn’t been taken by something else that he could see so very clearly, with the two of them right next to each other across time.

“You look like Héctor.”

He only realized he’d spoken as much aloud when the words reached his own ears, and from behind her Héctor’s ghost gave the closest thing to a real smile Ernesto had seen on him in a long time, if ever. “She does! Muy guapa, eh?”

“... Thank God Imelda was able to spare you his nose,” Ernesto added, causing her to blink and Héctor’s grin to turn into an unimpressed glare. It gave him no small amount of childish satisfaction, to be entirely honest.

“Oh, I see what you’re doing! You get one chance to roast me back, so of course you had grab it with both hands and run with-- ooh wait, no you can’t,” the ghost muttered, but Ernesto ignored him. Unaware of her father’s presence, if he was indeed present, Socorro Rivera brought a hand to her mouth and gave a small laugh, some of the tension in her frame melting away.

“Haha! I suppose… I’m sorry, I must have come across so rude, just staring and saying nothing,” she said, and pulled her hand away from her face, the smile still lingering. Ernesto half-dreaded to hear her say it was good to see him, or any other equally fake nicety he’d heard far too many times, but she did not. “I’m sorry it took so long for any of us to get here. Your letter was… misplaced.”

“Bet you fifty pesos that Imelda tried to burn it,” Héctor muttered from behind her. Again, Ernesto ignored him and gave her a wry smile.

“I’m happy enough that you made it here, Socorro,” he said, like each single day hadn’t been torture. But she was there, and speak out was all he needed to do, or so he hoped. She would know, Héctor would be sated, and he’d be allowed to die. It’d only take a few words; he could speak them now, and be done with it… yet something in him balked at the prospect.

Maybe I won’t have to tell her everything. Maybe she doesn’t need to know. Maybe the world won’t need to know.

“Please, call me Coco,” she was saying, entirely unaware of his thoughts. “Everyone does.”

“Of course. Coco. Is your mother well?”

“She is, thank you. She’s sorry she couldn’t come - she was needed to run the business.”

Héctor snorted. “So sorry she couldn’t come, sure. You don’t believe that, do you, Ernestito?”

No, not for one second, but it wasn’t important. “She runs a business?”

“Yes. We make shoes - she started it on her own when I was little, with my uncles helping.”

“The Bobos?”

“What?” Coco blinked at him in clear confusion, and the laugh that left Ernesto sounded somewhat genuine. He thought back of two young boys looking at him with identical frowns.

“Your uncles. When they were kids, they used to pull this trick on everyone - pretending to be each other. I solved the problem by just calling them both ‘Bobo’. They were not very amused,” he added, and her confusion melted into a smile.

“Oh! They did that to me, too, when I was little. And my husband fell for it the first few times.”

“You’re married?”

“And with a daughter,” Coco replied, and suddenly her face lit up. She looked even more like Héctor now, nose or not, and there was a pang of something painful somewhere in his head, making him suddenly think that he would have rather faced Imelda and all of her grudge. As Coco reached for the locket around her neck to show him a picture, Ernesto glanced over her shoulder. Héctor was looking back at him, his expression somber.

“A granddaughter,” he said, flatly. “Imagine how much I would have loved her.”

I don’t want to, Ernesto almost said, but he kept his mouth shut and turned his gaze on Coco’s locket instead. There was a small picture inside, that of a man he did not know looking at the camera with a smile, a solemn-eyed little girl on his knees. He stared at her for a few moments. “... She looks like Imelda,” he found himself saying, and Coco laughed.

“She does! More than I ever did. She’s a lot like her, all serious and proper. And she can always tell her uncles apart. They could never trick her,” she said, and closed the locket, putting it back around her neck. “Her name is Victoria.”

“It’s a beautiful name.”

“How many Victorias did you bed back when everything downstairs was still functioning?” the ghost wondered aloud.

“Four,” Ernesto said without thinking, causing Coco to blink in confusion and Héctor to guwaff. “I mean-- she looks like she might be four?”

“Oh! Yes, she’s almost five,” she said, and paused. There were a few moments of silence, and he broke it before it became uncomfortable.

“It must have been a long journey. I trust the staff has treated you well.”

“Oh, yes. Griselda was very helpful.”

“You were offered something to eat, I hope. I should have asked before dismissing her - would you like a drink, or…?”

“Hey! HEY! No tricks with her, pendejo! Mija, don’t drink anything he-- oh wait, you can’t actually pour the drinks yourself. Never mind. False alarm. Do carry on.”

Ernesto kept ignoring the ghost’s antics, though he could have sworn he had felt his left eye twitching a little. If so, she didn’t notice.

“I am fine, no worries. Thank you for letting me stay, señor de la Cruz.”

“Ernesto.”

“Right. I… used to call you Tío Neto, didn’t I?”

She did. He was amazed she even remembered. “Yes. Your father used to call me that as well, when we were children and he couldn’t pronounce my name properly.”

“I see. You... grew up together, didn’t you?” Coco was asking, but before Ernesto could answer, Héctor’s ghost smiled. It wasn’t one of his usual grins. It was a small, wistful smile.

“I wasn’t even three years old yet, and your name was a mouthful. You liked it better than when your mother called you Tito, though. You said you’d always wanted a little brother. I wished I had a big brother. I thought I was so lucky to have found you.”

You were, Ernesto thought, and something in his skull hurt. We were lucky. We could have had it all but then you had to go and decide that I wasn’t enough, we weren’t enough, everything we’d always wanted and dreamed about suddenly meant nothing.

Héctor shook his head. “Oh, no, mi hermano, don’t you get it? I told you, it was your dream.”

“Seño-- Ernesto?” Coco’s voice caused Ernesto to recoil and turn back to her. She looked concerned now, the earlier smile gone from her face.

“I… my apologies. Yes, we… we grew up together. He was my best friend.”

“... I’m picking up a past tense,” Coco said, and drew in a deep breath, as though to brace herself. “He died, didn’t he?”

Ernesto nodded. “Yes. I am sorry,” he said, fully expecting the ghost to say something scathing, but he remained silent. He kept her eyes fixed on Coco, who nodded.

There was a faraway cast to her gaze, but no tears just yet. “Years ago?”

“Sí,” Ernesto said, bracing himself for the next question he ought to expect - namely when, precisely, had he died. He should have dreaded it, but he found he didn’t. If she asked, he would tell her he’d died only months after leaving Santa Cecilia. If she asked why hadn’t he told them then, he would admit to taking his songs. Perhaps she would rage and then, well, she may very well guess the entire truth. Or maybe he would tell her first, anything to sate her. Anything to sate Héctor, and make him go away when she did.

But she didn’t ask. She closed her eyes, drawing in another deep breath, and brought her hands up to her face. She stayed still only for a few moments before she breathed out, and and pulled her hands away. Again, no tears; only that distant gaze again. “Why tell us now?”

“I’m not long for this world,” Ernesto found himself saying, fervently hoping that was the truth. He half-expected a remark from the ghost, but again he said nothing. He remained still and silent, his own gaze fixed on the floor. “It was now or never, I suppose.”

“I see,” Coco said, and looked down at her hands. They were folded tightly on her lap. “I remember so little. I have… good memories of him, but few. And I was so young, I am not even sure I can trust them. My mother never speaks of him - no one in the family does. She hasn’t been anything but amazing, but...”

“It was a sore spot, being left behind,” he said, his voice dull to his own ears. “I understand.”

“No,” Héctor snarled, suddenly looking up. “You don’t. I wanted to go home and you wrote me off musical history, wrote me off my own family. Take your pity party somewhere else.”

Coco was nodding, and suddenly she looked up from her hands to glance at him. “You knew him well. Will you tell me about him?”

For a moment, Ernesto wasn’t sure he had heard right. “What?”

“Tell me about him. You must have so many stories to share,” she replied, and for the first time her voice shook, like that of a pleading child. “It’s the only way I can have him back, I suppose. I want to know about him. So that I can actually be sad that he’s gone. Or angry. Or both,” she added, and gave a painfully forced laugh. “I know it makes no sense, but--”

“It makes perfect sense,” Ernesto cut her off, looking down at his own motionless hands. Having no feeling whatsoever below his neck had been the hardest thing to get used to - so hard, in fact, that he didn’t think he ever truly had. He would welcome the most excruciating pain over that horrifying nothingness.

“Tell her.” Héctor’s voice rang out suddenly, quieter than before, sadder, younger, pleading. Ernesto glanced down to see the young boy he’d been standing by the armchair Coco was on, a small hand with fingernails bitten to the quick resting on her arm. She gave no sign of being aware of that. “Please, Neto. Tell her about me.”

“Yes,” Ernesto said, not knowing who he was talking to anymore. “I’ll tell all I remember.”

If this is what you want, I will. And then allow me to die. For the love of God, let me go.

He looked back at Coco, who smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and then she fell quiet to listen,  hanging to his every word.

Ernesto couldn’t tell for how long she listened in silence: in a way, he wasn’t there at all. For the first time in over a quarter of a century he was back in Santa Cecilia, where the sun beat down mercilessly and two laughing boys ran amok through fruit groves, splashed in the stream and made music with whatever they could find, dreaming of the wide world outside.

***

A/N: Coco will, eventually, know when Héctor died. But at the moment she wants more than anything to know about her missing father's life rather than his death, and she has no reason to suspect foul play. Yet.

***

[Back to Chapter 2]

[On to Chapter 4]

[hypermega-bummerboy]

If Florida cities were siblings...

Miami is the famous sister. She presents herself as glamorous and fashionable and does a great job covering up her drug addiction.

Ft. Lauderdale is her backup singer.

Tampa is the ratchet sister. Completely unhinged and is constantly ending up in the news, embarrassing the whole family. She can be a real sweetheart when she wants to be, though.

St. Pete is Tampa's twin brother and the only boy. He hates being called by his full name. He lives at the beach, bleaches his hair, and invests in crypto. Everyone forgets about him but he's got more money than most of them combined.

Tallahassee is the pretentious sister that's married to a man she hates with two kids and a white picket fence and pretends everything in her life is perfect and thinks the rest of the family is going to hell.

Jacksonville is the laid back, down to earth, country girl/tomboy sister. She drives a pickup truck and isn't like other girls. She would kill for her friends and family.

Orlando is the snotty younger sister who's a theater major and thinks she's better than the rest of her sisters because she's "woke" and "progressive" by comparison. She's a terrible tipper though and won't give to the homeless because "they're just going to use it for drugs."

They all smoke weed.

[notbang]

43. undone

Congratulations, you’ve won this cracktastic AU to 3.09.

Rebecca Bunch has unhinged him.

Poked, prodded, reshaped, redefined and then ultimately unraveled and undone him—it’s the only explanation for his idiotic, unprofessional and decidedly dangerously-skirting-the-lines-of-illegal behaviour. Rebecca Bunch dumped him and he’s losing his goddamn mind.

It’s the only explanation Nathaniel can come up with for how he finds himself in the back of an Uber in the early hours of Saturday morning, drunkenly making out with the office administrative assistant on their way back to her apartment.

*

He’s well on his way to seeing double by the time he bumps into her at the bar, so it takes him a second. There’s something naggingly familiar about the mousy girl that slides into the seat next to him, struggling to get a leg up on the slightly too-high stool, her phone gripped tightly in one hand.

Nathaniel does a double-take, then groans.

“Ugh, what are you doing here? And don’t you wear glasses?”

He gestures with a splayed palm at her face, and Maya’s hand goes instinctively up to her nose then stops when she realises there’s nothing there. She has to comically raise her minuscule voice for him to hear her above the music.

“I’m trying out contacts. And binge drinking. My self-esteem is currently at an uncharacteristic low and I caved to peer pressure and crushing societal expectations regarding beauty standards and how girls should just wanna have fun. Do you eat comfort carbs now?”

He looks down at the bowl of fries in front of him and then back up at her face. If he squints a little it’s definitely the same girl that leaves her weird arm-shaped backscratcher lying around the office in a questionable show of hygiene but if he doesn’t then she doesn’t and that almost, concerningly, works for him.

Maya looks down at her phone for a moment then huffs, shoving it aggressively into her purse.

In an unexpected twist she kisses him first, taking him by surprise so that all he can do is stare at her for a moment, her eyes impossibly close as she presses her mouth firmly against his. She makes to pull back when she realises he isn’t reciprocating but then he shuts off his brain and stumbles into her, hands grabbing blindly at whatever they can find.

He’s just a guy who’s been dumped, after all. He can’t be held responsible for his actions.

*

Maya is as impossibly tiny as he is tall, and the absurdity of the height difference doesn’t make it easy on either of them. He guesses she knows what he’s thinking as he trails his eyes over the surfaces of her apartment, calculating.

“My housemate has a swing,” she offers helpfully. “Clips right over the door.”

He’d be lying if he said his curiosity wasn’t piqued but he’s not sure either of them is currently coordinated enough to pull that off, and the bed is still looking like the easiest option. He steers them in what he hopes is the appropriate direction, helping her shed his shirt along the way. She’s less efficient in dealing with her dress and the confusing arrangement of undergarments beneath it, so he sits down on the end of her comforter and waits. She disappears into her walk-in robe.

“So even though this is just a one-night stand, I want you to know this bedroom is a safe space, and I don’t kink shame.”

She re-emerges wearing a pair of black Minnie Mouse ears, the pink sequinned bow fastened between them flopping down over her flushed forehead. She pushes it up in lieu of her glasses.

“It’s the best I could do on short notice. So anyway, what’s your fursona?”

He opens his mouth but no words come out because has no idea what the hell she’s talking about but he doesn’t get a chance to answer anyway because she’s on him again, launching herself into his lap with more energy than he thinks he’s ever seen her exhibit. He lets himself lean back into the mattress—she seems surprisingly happy to drive whatever the hell it is they’re doing and he figures her on top is probably the best way for them to go about this, anyway—and pats absently at his side pockets for his wallet, trying to remember if he still has a condom on hand.

Maya draws back suddenly, breathless.

“What are your feelings on three-ways? Would you participate in an MMF or no? As a loud and proud bisexual woman I definitely enjoy the MFF dynamic and feel like the alternative could be a bit much to deal with but I try to keep an open mind.”

He scrunches his face up and twists his head back on the pillows, heaving a heavy sigh.

“I don’t…” He shakes his head. “Do you always talk this much?”

“My friends tell me I’m a rambling drunk, which is why I normally stick to Shirley Temples. Sorry. Sometimes I lack boundaries and alcohol destroys the very delicate filter that holds back some of my more progressive thoughts. It’s okay, though—like I said, my apartment is a judgement free zone, so feel free to unload about whatever.”

“You need to take those off,” he says, jerking his chin up at the ears. “You barely look twelve on a good day so this is hard enough for me as it is. How old are you, anyway? You know what—never mind. As long as you’re above the age of consent, I don’t want to know.”

She slides off him, knees curling into her side.

“We ran into each other in a bar, remember?” she says, wringing the mouse ears in her hands. Then, “I think I’m having a quarter-life crisis.”

Something about the despondent look on her face reminds him briefly but agonisingly of Rebecca and he groans, scrubbing his hand over his eyes. He can’t deal with this right now.

There’s a chirrup from the nightstand and she reaches across him, narrowly avoiding elbowing him in the nose. After a minute Maya looks up from where her fist is clenching around her phone, jaw set defiantly.

“Have you ever tried cocaine?”

*

Nathaniel can’t get through to his guy so they settle for her bottle of peach schnapps instead, drinking out of coffee mugs, cross-legged on her living room carpet.

“You’re not missing out on much,” he assures her. “It was probably a bad idea anyway. We can not and say we did. Just tell your friends it was underwhelming. First times usually are.”

Maya downs the rest of her drink and rises to her feet. She’s pulled on his chambray shirt and she’s swimming in it, the soft blue-grey swamping her insignificant frame.

“So,” she says with renewed confidence. “Enough talking. Enough drinking. Let’s Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone this thing. Hashtag Crazy Stupid Love. Hashtag you raise me up. Hashtag the lion and the mouse. Hashtag… I’m all out of hashtags but let’s do it. Let’s go.”

“I don’t know if you know this,” Nathaniel says wryly, gazing up at her from the floor, “but you’re literally speaking another language right now.”

“You’ve never seen Crazy Stupid Love?” When he continues to stare at her blankly she tries again. “How about its seminal precursor, Dirty Dancing?”

“Ohh,” he says, pointing at her as understanding dawns on him. He pulls himself to his feet. “You want me to do the whole lift thing, right? Chicks dig that for some reason. Yeah, okay. What do you weigh, like ninety pounds? I could bench press you in my sleep. Let’s do it.”

She gauges the appropriate run-up and he catches her by the waist and hoists her over his head, surprising himself with the smoothness with which he manages to carry off the manoeuvre despite his inebriated state.

Maya lets out a tiny squeak, her small frame tensing in his hands.

He tries to peer up at her and stumbles backwards slightly, earning himself another yelp. Her eyes are scrunched tightly shut.

“Okay up there?”

“Perfect,” she insists, the high-pitch of her voice suggesting otherwise.

She doesn’t seem sure what to do with her legs and he readjusts his grip as she squirms, shifting the delicate illusion of balance he’s barely able to maintain. He realises she’s veering dangerously close to the overhead lamp and sidesteps out of its path.

“So now what?”

“Now you put me down. Only sexy.” The words come out garbled, in a tense and nervous rush. “It’s a tried and true romcom staple.”

He’s not sure he nails the brief but he manages to fumble her back to her feet without dropping her, setting her in front of him, only slightly unsteady.

“Was that seductive? Are you feeling seduced?” she asks, tugging on the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up over her thighs.

“Sure,” he says, noncommittal. “Consider me seduced.”

When she shoves him back on the bed and crawls over him and he can’t get it up it’s absolutely only because Maya talks too much and he’s drunk too much and nothing to do with the fact that once he started earlier he now can’t stop thinking about Rebecca and the stubborn sting of her rejection, the fog of the alcohol no longer doing any good at keeping that particular hollow ache at bay. 

He grits his teeth and ignores the pricking sensation in his already bloodshot eyes. This has already been an embarrassing enough hit to his ego. He’s not going to cry as well.

*

Maya falls asleep halfway through administering the world’s most ineffectual hand-job and Nathaniel slips quietly from the bed, oddly relieved.

He passes out on her couch and when he wakes in the morning it’s to Maya looming over him in a fluffy robe—impressive, given her stature—her arms crossed haughtily over her chest.

She’s wearing her glasses again, and it’s oddly comforting despite the circumstances.

“There’s a bunch of rolled up bills on my coffee table. Did we do cocaine in my living room last night?”

“No,” Nathaniel says, waving his hand dismissively and trying to ignore the pounding in his temples as he sits up. “I mean, we thought about it. You wanted to practice rolling twenties just in case. But that’s as far as we got. Drank a lot of schnapps, though.”

She tugs her robe tighter around her with one hand, holding up his dress shirt in the other.

“Did we…?”

“Also no,” he supplies flatly. “Not for lack of trying, but it was probably for the best.”

She gingerly hands him back his shirt and he takes it, avoiding her eyes as he slides it over his shoulders and diffidently does up the buttons.

He realises he never asked her what exactly she had going on that had sent her off on her own personal spiral in the first place. He’s satisfied he didn’t, and still doesn’t want to.

He clears his throat.

“So if we could just never talk about this whole thing ever—and I do mean ever—again, that would be great.”

*

He pats her awkwardly on the head as he leaves.