#but fuck if id rather be unconscious than deal with this

[nightiingaled]

Gives seizures to two of my characters bc i fucking can

[scarlivings]

three years has never felt so fucking long. id rather get kidnapped and knocked unconscious for that time than have to deal with any of my relatives

[mizunetzu]

haha it's me again! could i get iida dating a delinquent male reader? (stuff like he smokes and breaks rules) like iidas trying to get the reader to follow the rules and he's like "i'll do that if you go on a date with me" so he does and the readers actually a really chill guy and they have a fun time, some fluff please?

IIDA DUDE MY GOD. MY RELIGION. MY SAVIOR. ok. Okok so. You said fluff and I delivered. But like-I mayyyyybe sprinkled in some angst. No worries. Fluff ending guaranteed. Also you know I enjoyed writing something when I broke my 1000 words rule. Like sheesh this is 3000 pLUS WORDS-

Also if iidareaders reblogs I’ll eat my shirt in joy

——————

Iida x reader - Selfish Promise

⚠️warnings - delinquent reader? Selfish-y Iida? Idk. None lmao

Pronouns - male, he/him

——————

(Y/n) wasn’t going to lie. Iida really got on his nerves. He’s always up his ass about sagging his pants down low, or running in the hallways. It’s not like it was his business. He was in class 1-B, for god sakes.

Everyone in 1-A knew him as that “1-B boy” who always liked fucking with Iida. And he did, it was fun to see him get all pissy and red when he unbuttoned his dress shirt to the point you could easily flash him if you tugged hard enough. Iida was pretty, but even more pretty when he’s flustered. He wasn’t going to deny the fluttery feeling in his chest when he sees an opportunity to interact with Iida.

Which is how (y/n) found himself smoking outside the UA dorms, sitting outside on the steps and staring up at the sky. He didn’t smoke much, only when he really needed to destress, but something felt compelling to just pull one out today.

He already heard the engine boosted footsteps hurling his way, a smile growing on his lips. Once the blue haired boy was in sight however, he wiped it off and replaced it with a neutral expression.

“You shouldn’t be smoking on school property, (L/n)-kun!”

“Mm? And you shouldn’t be on 1-Bs dorms. Wait til Vlad or Monoma finds out.”

Iida stumbled back, biting back the scowl forming on his face. He took the cigarette out from (y/n’s) fingers, and stomped on it. (Y/n) clicked his tongue as Iida hiked his glasses up his nose further.

“Stop acting like such a ruffian!”

“Then go on a date with me.”

Iida choked on his own spit. He knew that (y/n) joked around a lot, but this was just excessive.

“(L-L/n), you shouldn’t joke about such intimate matters like that with someone you barely kn-“

“I’m not joking.” (Y/n) stood up from his step, and stood infront of the taller boy. “I’m dead serious.”

Iida opened his mouth, then closed it. “(L/n) it is highly inappropriate for two students, let alone boys, to go on a romantic outing! This is a place for learning!”

“How bout we make a promise then? A deal if you must.” (Y/n) seemed completely calm, but inside he was sweating like a clam. He had said it on impulse, and there was no going back. Either sell it till he declines or hell, he has a date.

“If you be my boyfriend and go out with me for one full day, I’ll stop acting like a ‘ruffian’ or something. I’ll follow the rules and whatnot.”

“B-boyf...” Iidas words got caught in his mouth. “W-WHY?”

“I’m not going to try anything...! It’s..it’s just for my own...reasons...! If...that makes sense...”

Iida ran a hand through his hair. Did (L/n), a delinquent, like-like him? A proper former man from the Iida family? He wasn’t romantically attracted to the shorter boy at all, but this was a good chance! He could finally be set on the right path if he agreed to be his significant other for one day! Easy enough!

Iida pushed up his glasses once more. “Fine. I will do it. But afterwards you better keep your end of the bargain.”

(Y/n) held the tiniest smile and extended his pinky. Iida looked at him confused, before hesitantly interlocking their fingers and shaking it.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Gimme your number. I’ll text you the info later.” They exchanged phone numbers, and Iida bid him goodbye.

(Y/n) felt like he was on top of the world.

—————

“Oi Iida! Over here!” (Y/n) waved his arms around frantically, trying to get the boys attention. Iida spotted him, and made a beeline towards him. He gave a smile and bowed slightly.

“Good morning, (L/n)-kun.”

“Morning! Haha, I’m glad you came! I didn’t think you’d actually show...and you’re on time aswell! As expected of uptight iida.”

(Y/n) was in a pink, slightly oversized hoodie and black sweatpants. Iida was expecting him to be in full black, ripped clothing with skulls on it. He wasn’t expecting him to look so...soft? If you looked at him, you wouldn’t think he was the same person smoking on the steps of a prestigious school.

“Oh well, what time did you get here?”

“An hour ago.”

Iida deadpanned. Even he wasn’t that extra. “Why...”

(Y/n) rubbed the back of his neck shyly and chuckled. “I was so happy I couldn’t wait, ahaha!”

(Y/n’s) probably smiled more times today then the whole time he’s been enrolled into UA. It was an odd sight, but Iida felt a sort of proudness that he was probably the only one who got to see this side of him. He glanced at his face one more time, this time, looking at his red eyes and cheeks.

“...are your eyes swollen..?”

“Oh I...I couldn’t sleep...”

(Y/n) awkwardly chuckled for the 100th time that morning. Iida was about to go on a tangent about how sleep is important to you, but (y/n) suddenly grabbed his wrist, and pulled him forwards. He was practically dragging the poor boy.

“Is there anything specific you wanna do, Iida?” (Y/n) mused, looking around the plaza.

Iida shrugged.

“No, not really. Today’s more of your day, so I’m fine with anything.”

A bright red painted itself onto (y/n’s) cheeks, as he turned back around to hide it. It was usually iida getting all red and flustered, (y/n) wasn’t used to it. Still, it felt kinda nice.

“Awesome dude!”

(Y/n) went on rambling about places they could go to or eat at, but Iidas ears drowned out the noice as he looked at his smiling face. He didn’t know someone so...rude, could look so sweet. (Y/n) tugged at Iidas shoulder.

“...though I suppose, we could just go to a field and train, right?”

—————

(Y/n) got back up to his feet for the 5th time, and charged at Iida. He knew he couldn’t beat him with speed, so he’d have to rely on his quirk as much as he could. They were sparring in a little patch of grass near a small clearing, with a big tree providing the two boys shade. Iida swerved out of the way, making the smaller boy tumble onto the ground face first.

“Ah! (Y/n)! Are you okay?”

Iida rushed to the boys side and tangled his fingers in his hair. “It’s a little swollen but it’s not bleedi...(L/n)-kun...?”

(Y/n) hid his blush with the back of his hands and tensed up. “You..called me...(y/n)...dude..”

It was Iidas turn to tense up. His glasses fogged up as he swung his arms around madly. “IM TERRIBLY SORRY! IT WAS AN ACCIDENT, I SWEAR! IJUSTGOTWORRIEDANDSAIDITONACCIDEN-“

“Dude it’s fine! I-I dont mind..!” (Y/n) jabbed him lightly on the chest.

“L-let me treat you to some food! As apology for your head I mean!” Iida stood up, pulling (y/n) to his feet aswell.

—————

(Y/n) was rambling on nervously again, with chopsticks resting nimbly between his fingers. Iida couldn’t help but gaze at his face. His eyes were softer than he expected, softer than the mockingly hardened eyes he pointed like a sword towards people at UA. His gentle clad smile could raise the heavens, with one crinkle near his left eye and a dimple dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. He had unusually long eyelashes for a guy, but it made him look even more pretty for a bad boy.

“Why are you a delinquent at school when you’re such a sweet and funny person?” The words dripped out of Iidas mouth unconsciously, quickly covering his mouth too late.

(Y/n) flushed bright red, squeezing his chopsticks a little too tightly. “W-well...I don’t know. It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose. People just think I am because i don’t like socializing with everyone I meet? Like-id rather hang out with someone I know and like than go out of my my way to befriend all of class B, y’know? Does that make sense? Ahaha sorry I’m rambling again. I don’t get to talk much with my few friends. And they’ve pretty much heard everything I have to say so it’s refreshingtotalktoa-“

Iida cut him off before he talked his tongue off. “If you don’t talk to people you don’t know well, then why are you talking to me so openly?”

“Because I like you.”

(Y/n) said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He wasn’t tripping over his words, or laughing nervously. He looked at Iida and said it like saying “the sky is blue” with so much certainty, it made a knot tighten in iidas throat.

Iidas question was, why though? Why did his heart thump along the buttery smooth rhythm of (y/n’s) voice? Why did his head reel every time he saw (y/n’s) eyes light up talking about something he found interesting? Why was he at such a loss for words when his gaze fell on him so attentively?

Iida cleared his throat. Maybe he was just excited to have a new friend. He didn’t see him in a romantic light! How could he? He’s just worked up on the fact that this hardass delinquent boy wasn’t who he thought he was.

“Shall we go, then?”

————

The date went by like a dream. Technically it wasn’t over yet, as the promise was for a full “day”, but window shopping and dicking around while Iida chops aggressively really tires you out. They both ended the day by sparring at the same clearing, before taking refuge on a bus stop bench. The sun was completely gone. Leaving behind the pasty purple and blue sky, washing over and killing the clouds.

“Ahhh, time flies by so fast! Damn, well, the days still not yet over soooo.”

“Yes, yes I know.” Iida chuckled. He thought he was going to have to bear through this day, but it was actually quite splendid. He definitely feels like he’s made a new friend.

“Well, is there anything you wish to do before the day is over?”

“Yeah um, so,” (y/n) cast his eyes down, fiddling with his fingers. “C-can we hold hands..?”

Iida wordlessly set his hand on top of (y/n’s) smaller one, waiting as he interlocked their fingers together. His hand was warm, way warmer than (y/n) was expected. He didn’t know, Iida seemed like a cold hands guy.

They sat quietly under the ambient streetlight, occasionally rubbing a thumb over the others hand, feeling it’s warmth and staring off into the distance. Iida didn’t notice his eyes drooping lower and lower until they were finally closed.

Iida let his thoughts roam. It was something he did when he was going to bed, or simply just resting his eyes for a bit. He thought of his family, what he would do for class on Monday, and finally, (y/n). It was the most prominent thing on his mind, and not because he was unconsciously resting his head on his shoulder, softly but firmly gripping the warm hand underneath his own.

The idea of (y/n) so soft and vulnerable in front of anyone else didn’t sit right with him. He wanted that sweet, kind side all to himself. It was selfish, and even wrong if he thought about it. (Y/n) was so sweet and respectable during this “date” of theirs. Perfect manners for when inside the classroom. If anything, he should be more than glad to have the world share this side of him.

So why was he feeling this way?

He felt a shoulder nudge from under his head, before a hand started vigorously poking at his cheek. He initially ignored it, but once he registered the current situation he jerked up and

“Iida. Iida wake up. It’s 11:40. We should be heading back before midnight. A-at least I want to so we can um...we can still technically legally hold hands by promise-“

Iida rubbed at his eyes in embarrassment. “My sincerest apologies for falling asleep! It was not my intention-“

”oh no it’s all good! I-I kinda fell asleep too. It’s been like...2 hours.”

Iida checked his watch. (Y/n) was right. 11:45 pm. He knocked his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose and stood up. He extended a hand to (y/n) who tiredly accepted it and pulled himself off the bench.

They spedwalked towards the train station to catch a train back to UA, when (y/n) tugged on his sleeve, halting temporarily.

“Iida.”

Iida turned around with a hum. (Y/n) kept his eyes fixated on the ground, but held on to the sleeve of Iidas jacket like a lifeline.

“Today...is almost over.”

“Yes, um, it’s about 11:57 so we should hurry back-“

“Before the day officially ends,...can you kiss me?”

Iida focused on (y/n’s) downcast face. It wasn’t an expression of nervousness or any sort of flustered emotion. Instead it held a look of unreadable shame.

“If you do, then I would have no regrets. My feelings for you will also end here. I’ll try my best to end it. My feelings grow stronger for you everyday when we bicker or when I simply just see you, so I want to end this with a grand fina-“

“I refuse.”

(Y/n) looked up. Iida glasses glared white, preventing him from seeing his cerulean eyes. But he got his answer from the frown Iida was sporting on his face. Even he could agree, it was a silly request, but he couldn’t help by feeling just a tad bit hurt by how quickly he was shut down.

“I understand.”

(Y/n) averted his eyes, flushing with embarrassment. He scanned the area for something other than Iida to look at, before his eyes landed on the parks clock.

12 am.

Midnight.

The date was officially over.

(Y/n) was quick to let go of the sleeve he’d been clutching for a while now. “A-ah! The day has ended. The dates over.”

He stepped back and ducked his head into a 90 degree bow. “Thank you so so much for coming with me today.”

“I’m really happy.”

His expression betrayed his words. If there was one word to describe it, Iida would say it looked dead. Hollow, even. It looked hollow, like the sinking feeling harboring itself in his chest. He knocked against his ribcage multiple times to shake the achy feeling in his chest, but it never went away.

“Well, let’s head back now. It’s late.”

(Y/n) silently walked past Iida. It wasn’t until seeing his watery face drenched in silent hot tears walk by that Iida realized,

He was in love with (L/n) (Y/n).

He was in love with the sweet delinquent boy who smokes and sits on desks, but also has the most hypnotizing laugh. He was in love with the boy who wore saggy pants to school, but also wore an oversized pink hoodie that made Iida reluctantly imagine him wearing one of his own jackets. Oh, how cute he would look.

He was hopelessly, graciously, entirely in love with (L/n) (Y/n).

Iida ran up to (y/n), who had walked past him and kept going with the assumption that he was behind him. His breath crystallized in the form of fog when he ran, faster than he ever did without using his engines. There wasn’t enough time to hike the fabric of his pants up, and he’d rather not burn them to a crisp with the steam from his engine.

“(L-L/n)!”

He wasn’t sure if he heard him. He was still a great length away.

“(L/n)!”

He was closer now. Close enough for him to hear. He was either lost in his thoughts or outright ignoring him.

“(Y/N)!”

The boy whipped his head around so fast, his tears flung into the cold air and landed beside him on the ground. Iida didn’t think far ahead as to brace for landing, choosing instead to glomp (y/n) into a soul crushing hug. Though, it was more of a tackle with the the way they both tumbled over and hit the ground with a thud.

(Y/n) was able to soften the blow with his quirk, but the impact of Iida landing on his chest still knocked the wind out of him. He was waiting for Iida to start swinging his hands and start apologizing profusely, but instead got pulled up to his knees and encased in a more gentle hug.

He was buried in the crook of Iida neck, who in return nuzzled himself into (y/n’s) hair. They stood, or rather kneeled, in a stiff silence, rocking back and forth ever so gently.

“Sorry.”

“Wah! Don’t apologize! You did nothing wrong, you had the full right to deny my request-“

“No, not for that.” Iida untangled himself from the warmth of (y/n’s) body to look at him seriously. “I’m sorry for breaking our promise. Our deal.”

(Y/n) wiped his stray tears away, all bitterness turning itself into lighthearted confusion. “But you didnt-“

(Y/n’s) words fizzled out in his throat when a pair of lips shut him up. His eyes fluttered closed as he wrapped his arms shakily around Iidas neck, drawing him closer than he already his. After what seemed like forever, Iida suddenly jumped back with fogged up glasses and heavy blush on his face.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking! Forgive me!”

“You know, all you’ve done was apologize all day. Is this what you normally do in class?”

“NO!” Iida fell back on his ass, a yelp escaping from his throat. (Y/n) chuckled ironically, pushing himself up to his feet and extending a hand towards the blue haired boy.

“I still don’t see how you broke our deal.”

Iida dusted himself off and adjusted his glasses. “Well-listen I-“ For once in his life, he was at a loss for words.

“I...want to e-extent it. O-Our date, I mean.”

Iida stood rigid as a board as (y/n) blinked.

“Wait-so like, you’ll go out with me tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“And the day after that.”

“Yes I suppose so.”

“A-and how bout a week from now-“

Iida grabbed (y/n’s) shoulders and shook him roughly. And by rough, I mean rough. This boy has enough beef to throw (y/n) into the sun.

“I-I WANT TO GO OUT WITH YOU FOREVER! I WANT YOU TO BE MY BOYFRIEND! I...I WANT TO BE YOUR BOYFRIEND! I WANT YOUR KINDNESS AND SWEETNESS ALL TO MYSELF! SO BE IT YOU’RE UNINTENTIONALLY A NEGLIGENT BOY AT SCHOOL! I WANT THIS SPECIAL SIDE OF YOU RESERVED FOR MYSELF! IVE NEVER BEEN SELFISH IN MY WHOLE LIFE SO SURELY THIS IS FINE! I WANT TO BE SELFISH! I WANT TO HOLD YOU IN MY ARMS MORE! I WANT TO GO ON SOME MORE DATES WITH YOU! (Y/N)-KUN I LOVE YOU!”

Iida has never considered himself selfish. He wasn’t the type to want something all to himself. If his friends wanted to be friends with someone he disapproved of, so be it. If he bought food but a fellow classmate was starving, he’d be eating only half as his classmate would be happily munching on their portion. If it was reasonable, he’d be willing to give up anything. It was the right thing to do.

Surely all of those good deeds would permit him to be selfish just this once. He’d never known the feeling of wanting something so bad to the point you felt like you were boiling. Of wanting no one else to have someone look at them the same way they looked at him. And how utterly satisfying it felt to have someone to claim as your own. Just this once couldn’t hurt anyone.

And by god, the impossibly wide smile (y/n) held was one thousand percent worth it.

————

“Halt! No running in the hallways, (L/n)-Kun!”

(Y/n) slowed down to a stop and sighed. “Dude, get off my dick.”

“Still pestering (L/n) huh? As expected of Iida!” Mina and Uraraka giggled, as they both disappeared inside the 1-A classroom. The hallway was empty now, making both Iida and (y/n) relax. (Y/n’s) pissed off expression softened, a smile now growing on his face. Iida swears it’s like talking to two different people. It’s kind of scary.

“Good morning, Tenya-Chan~”

“Uh-uh. Don’t ‘Tenya-Chan’ me. You know the rules. You owe me a kiss for breaking a rule. Gimme.”

Iida made grabby hands at (y/n), puckering his lips jokingly. God, he didn’t want to admit it but (y/n’s) sense of humor was rubbing off on him.

(Y/n) snorted at his boyfriends antics, pressing a gentle kiss onto his mouth. “Well-I gotta go, bye bye, Tenya! See you later. Call me, you sexy lamppost.”

(Y/n) timpered off to his classroom, his bad boy attitude returning once he stepped inside. Iida stood there, in utter confusion, before turning around and walking inside his own class.

“Ne ne, Iida, I’ve noticed you’re kinda like...less strict with that 1-B baddie. What’s up?”

Mina followed behind Iida with a curious, shit eating smile on her face.

“Ah. We...became good friends. He’s not as bad as I thought, I suppose.”

Mina looked at Iida unconvinced.

“You know, I saw you and bad boy kissing out there. My god. Iida. You gay liar.”

Iida, along with probably everyone else in class 1-A, collectively choked on air.

——————

[dcforts]

[ring for an angel]

11k, half au, ao3.

Dean speeds up as soon as he spots the blinking Rooms Available sign half a mile away. The tires squeal on the wet asphalt as he makes a rapid turn and enters the parking lot.

It’s not a big place. Ten rooms or less, all ground floor. The blue neon sign on top of the short building says Feathers in a friendly font and has a pair of little wings and a halo to blink with it.

Pretty tacky, if you were to ask Dean in another moment. But right now, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass how the place is called. Right now, he’s got Sam slumped in the passenger seat, wet like a fish and shaking with cold.

They had an unplanned encounter with two vetalas they were hunting a couple of towns back. In the last few weeks the vetalas had lurked on a hiking trail, casually bumping into tourists to steal something valuable from them, only to attack them once they returned on their steps to search for it. Being the middle of winter, they’d been feasting undisturbed, favoured by the small numbers of people that braved the paths and by the sun setting early.

Dean and Sam waited the early hours of the morning to cross the police tapes and track them, but the trail was long, it was dark and cold and the vetalas had the advantage of being familiar with the grounds.

They hadn’t seen them coming.

They would have still managed to overpower them if only one of them hadn’t pushed Sam into a lake and fled and Dean had been too worried getting him out of the freezing water, to worry about the other one fleeing as well.

He got him quickly to the car, but all the motels they passed by were full, and every mile Dean had driven had seemed a mile too far and every second a second too long to have Sam paling and shivering and half unconscious in the Impala.

He had stripped him of his heavy jacket and shirt, draped his own jacket and flannel over him, trying to dry him as best as he could, and cranked the heating at its max, but Baby could only do so much. Outside the windows, it looked like it was about to snow.

Dean increasingly worried about the way Sam seems to slip more and more into unconsciousness. He tried to keep him talking, slapping his chest and asking him questions but for the last ten minutes or so, Sam had his head lolling on one side and his replies had become only barely coherent mumbles.

But they are here now. Dean stops the car and shakes him awake one more time; he touches his face, tries to meet his eyes.

“Hey, Sammy, look at me,” he says and Sam seems to make an effort to focus on him, “we are here. We’re gonna get you inside now, you hear me?” he says. “You just gotta hold on for one more minute. I’m gonna check us in and you’ll be warm in no time.”

Sam’s nod is weak and his pale face is not at all reassuring, but Dean knows it will do no good to stay in the car. He needs to get him inside.

So he braves the cold in only his t-shirt for the short jog it takes to get to the lobby. It’s a little inviting square of bright light. Mostly glass doors, which is an unusual choice for a motel, and especially not in a place of the country where it gets this cold. But the glass turns out to be thicker than it looks and the room, surprisingly warm. Dean finds himself exhaling relieved, as the door closes behind him.

The place is definitely new, all furniture is shiny clean and modern. In a corner, a few tables make up the breakfast area with a brand new model of coffee machine. Everything is in white, except the light wood counter right in front of Dean, that has engraved on it a replica of the blue sign that is outside. Dean only now notices that everything is angel and heaven themed. There are little white wings on blue wallpapers all around him that make the place look like a nursery. Behind the counter, there’s an open door that gives into a dimly lit backroom. But as far as humans, no one.

“Hello?” Dean calls, frowning and craning his neck to try and spot someone moving inside.

He turns towards the parking lot again and sure enough, it started snowing. Irritated by the delay, he approaches the counter and spots a little desk bell. It’s painted light blue and it says Ring For An Angel to match the theme of the place.

Dean hits the bell a couple of times but nothing happens. “Hello?” he calls, and he hits the bell again and again, nervously tapping on the wood with his other hand. He spots an open book next to keyboard of the main computer. Someone is there then. Dean doesn’t stop hitting the damn bell.

Come on.

How long a piss break can take?

He is about to shout “Hello?” again when, finally, someone emerges from the backroom.

It’s a guy about his height, dark hair and striking blue eyes. He is wearing just a white shirt and a blue vest with a tag that reads Steve and he’s carrying a steaming mug in his left hand. He lingers on the threshold, between dark and light and stands there, just watching him.

“Yes?” he says then, in a wary tone. His voice is deep and husky, as if he just woke up, and if you were to ask Dean in another moment, it was like the bow on an already rather attractive package, but right now Dean is too irked by his attitude to pay him that kind of attention.

What does he think he could he possibly want?

Okay, maybe aggressively hitting their desk bell and coming in from the snow with his arms bare and probably dirt smeared across his face, it’s not exactly the best first impression Dean’s ever given to someone. But who cares? He just wants him to do his job.

“I need a double for tonight. If you could make it fast,” he says, hastily. He ignores the way the guy just keeps standing there, watching him – he can be weird, but honestly, he’s seen worse – and fishes out his wallet to grab a credit card. He slams it on the counter.

“Make it two nights.”

Finally, the guy moves.

“I need to see some identification,” he says, placing aside his mug and exchanging it in his hand with Dean’s card. He studies it meticulously, looking at each side and everything.

Crap.

Usually at this time of night nobody even bothers with this. Dean has no idea whose name’s on the card he just gave him and he can’t really deal with this when Sam’s in those conditions back in the car. He pulls out one of his fake IDs and hopes for the best.

But of course the guy – Steve – does the opposite of giving it a once over, like anybody else would. In fact, the asshole holds the ID next to the credit card and, upon inspection, clicks his tongue.

He looks at Dean with a raised eyebrow.

“And how would you like me to register you, as Mr. Houdini or as Mr. Plant?” he says. He doesn’t look even a little bit amused.

Dean isn’t either. He clenches his fist and his jaw. He tries to keep calm but he just doesn’t have time to waste with this guy.

“Either works.”

“Not for me.”

“Alright, Poirot,” he bites out, “it’s my uncle’s card. Do you wanna call him in the middle of the night to check?”

Steve levels him with a hard stare.

“No, but I can ask you to leave.”

Dean pales. He feels the ground giving in underneath him.

“Jesus. Look, I don’t need this right now. I got a medical emergency. The card works, just give me the room.”

He knows he sounds distressed and as he hardens his tone and raises his voice, possibly a little scary, but he is just out of options. This is it. He doesn’t know what he can possibly do if the guy actually kicks him out of there.

The guy stays impossibly calm and that just adds to Dean’s anger.

“If you refuse to leave, I can call the police.”

“Damn it! I don’t have time for this.” he says making eye contact to try and get through to him. What is he, some kind of robot? Does he even blink? “You don’t understand. My brother is sick -”

“I could recommend another establishment three miles ahead. They are less selective with their guests. I’m sure they’ll be happy to welcome you.”

Fuck. Dean hits the counter with a fist so hard that the little bell shakes and a handful of business cards slide down from their pile. Steve doesn’t even flinch. Dean exhales heavily and tries to calm down. This isn’t doing any good.

“I can’t go any farther. Believe me, I would,” he says, matching his cold stare and trying to keep the volume of his voice in check. “My brother is outside in my car and he’s freezing to death,” he says, enunciating every word. Steve impassive façade crumbles a little. He looks suspicious, frowns and titls his head a little to the side. Dean keeps going, sensing an opening. “He can’t possibly go another mile in this snow. I can’t take him anywhere else. You gotta let me take him in.”

Steve blinks at him like he’s trying to understand if he is in fact out of his mind as he seems. “What?”

“My brother,” he repeats, still firm but now pleading, “he is soaking wet and unresponsive and I need to warm him up before he dies of hypothermia. I’m not lying, I’m begging here. I need you to do me this solid, man. And it’s gotta be now. Please,” he says, almost out of breath.

Steve searches his face with an inquisitive look for a long moment in which Dean can feel his heartbeat speed up. Then Dean sees him reach under the counter and he holds his breath. He may have a shotgun or one of those buttons that calls security or something. Instead what he holds up and slides over the counter is a room key.

“3 B” he says.

Dean exhales in relief, looks at the key, then up at him. In a second he’s grabbed it and he ran out again. The cold bites his bare arms but he’s almost at the Impala and he doesn’t care.

He opens the passenger door and lets Sam up, slinging one of his arms over his shoulders to carry him more easily.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy, come on, I need you to walk now, can you do that? We’re almost there.”

But Sam barely moves. “Sammy?” he calls again, more urgent now. “You gotta help here.”

Sam tries to take a step but his legs give out under him. “I can’t do it.” he says. “It’s too cold.”

“Course you can. The door’s just there,” Dean says, struggling to keep himself upright too.

Then he hears footsteps behind them and suddenly the weight becomes more bearable as Steve is holding Sam up from the other side.

“Come on,” he simply says, in response to Dean’s silent question. Dean sees that he doesn’t have his coat on either, he must have been right behind him. Dean nods and accepts his help.

Together they can easily lift him and get him inside. Dean leaves Steve to lower him on the bed closest to the door as he turns on the lights, checks the heater and starts a warm bath.

Then he is over Sam again, untying his boots and taking off his socks and addressing him gently but urgently to keep him talking. He feels Steve’s eyes on him the whole time, boring the side of his face. He has taken a step back and he’s watching them from the door with a thoughtful expression. Dean looks up at him and not unkindly he says: “I got it from here”.

Steve nods, catching the drift. He says “I’ll be in the office,” and slips out of the room, clicking the door shut behind his back.

*

Three hours later, Dean can’t sleep. He is sitting at a little table against one of the walls and he is watching over Sam, finally asleep on his stomach, clutching his pillow. He promised him he wouldn’t do that, but he can’t help it.

It took a warm bath, dry clothes, a long sesh with the hairdryer (and a half-fight about hair length), all the blankets in the room, a cup of tea – that Steve brought on his own initiative, knocking lightly on their door – two temperature check and a hundred or so questions about how he was feeling, but Dean is fairly certain that Sam is fine now.

Dean is also fine. He doesn’t feel his heart in his throat anymore. He is tired, but he can’t sleep. He will be able to really relax only when the sun will come out and Sam will wake up and he will be able to forget about all of this. If he goes to sleep now, he knows he’ll only have nightmares.

But his legs are feeling stiff and Sam’s snoring is not very entertaining, so he takes out some change from his jeans and heads out.

The jacket that he used on Sam is still hanging to dry so Dean has to make do with just an extra shirt. Thankfully the snow has let up and he is only planning on making a quick stop to the vending machine he saw outside earlier.

As he walks towards it though, his eyes are drawn to the bright light that comes from the main building across the parking lot. No one seems to be in sight but Dean now knows who’s there. And he also knows that he kinda owns him an apology.

So he pockets his change once again and takes off towards it.

As the glass door swings open and he lets a swirl of cold air inside, Steve looks up. He is sitting on a high stool behind the counter now, and has his book on his lap.

Dean greets him with a nod as the door closes behind him.

“Hey.”

“How is your brother?” Steve asks, same cold tone and deep voice.

Dean stops one foot short from the counter. “He’s gonna be fine,” he says. “Sleeping now.”

Steve nods and doesn’t offer anything else. “So,” Dean shrugs in the awkward silence, “just thought I’d come say ‘sorry’ about earlier. I’m not usually such a jerk. You really saved my ass though, so, thanks.”

Steve appraises him for a long moment and in the end he asks, “What happened to him?” again sounding a little suspicious.

“Slipped into a lake. Just an accident” Dean gets closer to the counter, and clumps his hands together on the wood, trying to make it sound like it’s not a big deal. "He’s a little clumsy."

Steve’s frown deepens. “Why didn’t you bring him to an hospital?”

“It would be a little difficult to explain.”

“What would be?”

Dean tilts his head on one side and sighs. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you and you wouldn’t even wanna know, trust me.”

Steve doesn’t seem like he trusts him even one bit. In fact, he doesn’t seem to appreciate at all his evasive answers.

“If it makes you feel any better, we’re not bad guys.” Dean adds, going for charming, trying to melt the ice a little.

Steve still looks at him unimpressed. “That is exactly what a bad guy would say.”

And somehow the stark contrast between what he said and the way he said it makes it sound funny even if Steve didn’t intend to. Dean lets out a laugh and seeing him throwing his head back, one corner of Steve’s mouth tilts upwards ever so slightly.

The air around them lightens up a little and for the first time Dean takes in Steve’s mussed hair and broad shoulders, his strong arms, his tights trapped in his jeans. Dean realizes he may have checked him out a little too obviously when his eyes snap up and unsurprisingly he’s being stared at. He covers up his embarrassment asking: “So, whatcha reading?”

But Steve doesn’t seem in the mood to indulge his curiosity. He ignores his question and stands up to stop right in front of him. Despite the counter between them the guy is suddenly at a distance that Dean would deem a little too close for comfort for a stranger, and from where he finds himself now, he is forced to look up at him a little. But there’s a challenge in the way he confidently entered his personal space and Dean is not going to be the one who backs down.

Steve keeps eye contact as he takes something from under the counter and drops it in the space between his arms, right behind his clasped hands. Dean looks down: it’s his wallet.

“You forgot your personal effects.”

The wallet is closed and the credit card and ID have been put back inside, meaning that with every probability Steve has seen all the other stolen credit cards.

Dean is taken off guard but he’s determined to not give him the satisfaction of seeing him bothered, so he doesn’t move, says nothing and keeps challenging his gaze. Steve has an unreadable expression on his face, but judging from the lack of sirens swarming the place he hasn’t called the police. At least, not yet. He is staring at him as if he’s trying to see inside of him and from that distance, the intensity of his blue eyes make Dean’s skin tingle.

“I charged the room to your uncle,” Steve speaks again. "One of your many uncles apparently.”

Dean does his best not show how uneasy he feels.

He grins: "Guess you're not very familiar with the concept of privacy," he mutters, sliding his wallet in his back pocket.

"And you must be very familiar with the concept of theft."

"Hey, that's a very offensive assumption."

"Just an observation."

"Alright, then why haven't you called the police?"

He knows that he’s pushing his luck, this guy could make a phone call right away if Dean pisses him off. But there’s something that tells him that he won’t. He leans more heavily against the counter and the distance between them shortens still. He briefly licks his lips and grins cheekily up at him.

"You can say it's cause I'm handsome," he adds, teasing, breaking the silence.

Steve recedes of a few steps. "Your brother needed help," he says plainly, resuming his position on the stool, “I wanted to help.”

“And I appreciate that. Is there something I can do to repay you?”

Steve frowns. “I don’t want anything.”

“Oh, come on, we are friends now.”

Steve stays silent.

“Alright,” Dean grins. “Then allow me to give you a piece of advice. If you wanna be successful in this business, you really need to cut it out with the third degree. Cause, one,” he says, holding up a finger, “no one likes a busybody. And two,” he holds up another, “people coming to places like this expect the situation to be a little more chill when it comes to paperwork and whatnot. They aren’t gonna appreciate you playing the Spanish Inquisition with them, you know what I mean?”

“I just want the guests to be safe. I’m not going to endanger them letting just anyone walk in.”

“You made an exception for me,” Dean says, and it’s meant to be playful but it hangs heavy in the air.

Steve doesn’t break eye contact as he says “I did,” like he’s asking him not to make him regret his decision. If Dean had a collar now it would be a good time to tug at it. Man, the guy can be a scary son of a bitch with those eyes and all.

“Well, as I said, I’m not here to endanger anybody,” he says, rolling his eyes. "Alright, look, I can answer some more question if it’ll make you feel better.”

“And you’re going to answer truthfully?”

“Yeah.”

Dean starts to relax as he sees Steve’s face lights up with curiosity and for the first time since they met it’s the kind that it’s not suspicious, just genuinely interested. Then with a hint of saracasm, Steve asks, “Why are you here?”

“Working.”

“You and your brother are in the same line of business?”

“Yeah.”

“Which is?”

Dean stays silent, looks down at his hands, smirking slightly.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Let me guess. You’re not going to tell me because I wouldn’t understand nor wanna know.”

“Well, it’s true.” Dean shrugs in his defence. “But, it’s not what you think.”

Steve doesn’t press further but says, “He is your little brother, right?” Dean frowns a little and Steve adds, gentle: “You seemed very caring.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just us. We look out for each other.” He clears his throat. Steve must sense his uneasiness because he lets this one drop as well.

"Is your car stolen?" Steve asks then, out of the blue.

"What? No!” exclaims Dean, shifting on the spot. “That’s my baby. We’ve been together forever." He sounds outraged and Steve seems amused by it. “It’s a family car,” he grumbles, settling down.

“Do you carry a gun?”

Dean opens his mouth but no lie comes out of it. He gives him an apologetic look. "Generally, yeah."

Steve looks at him sternly. “Did you have one on you when came in the first time?”

“No, Jesus, who do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. You won’t tell me.”

Dean sighs and then plasters a big grin on his face. “My name is Dean Winchester, I’m from Lawrence, Kansas and I’m a Sagittarious. That’s it, really, it’s all there is to know.” 

“Somehow I doubt that.” Steve says but he has his lips stretched in a half smile and Dean is gonna take it as a win. “But it’s nice to finally know your name, Dean.”

Hearing him say his name makes Dean’s heart strangely flutter for a second. “So, you satisfied?”

Steve lifts a shoulder. He seems to have relaxed as well.

Silence falls then and fills up the space all around them. There’s only the tired whirring of the computer informing them that it’s still alive and kicking and the hands on the wall clock that ticks away the night.

Dean doesn’t like the bright light, it makes the place look like the reception of a corporate office but he likes the way it smells, sweet, sugary, almost like – candy? It’s nice and Dean doesn’t want to go back to his room just yet.

He looks over his shoulder at the rest of the space, the heavy carpet at his feet, the fake plant in a corner, and his eyes linger on the pamphlet rack on the far end of the counter, stacked with local spring events brochures and hiking trails maps. He picks one up and gives it a once over.

“I heard about the missing people. Pretty freaky, uh?” he says, casually. “Did you know any of them? Heard they were mostly locals.”

“No. I- I moved here recently.”

The hesitation catches Dean’s attention. “Hm.” he puts the map back on the rack and focuses on Steve again. “From where?”

“New York,” he replies, a little reluctantly, and that picks up Dean’s interest even more.

Dean whistles and settles once again with his elbows on the counter. “Must be one hell of a change.”

“It’s quieter.”

“Got family here?”

“Just my brother, Gabriel, that moved when I did. My other siblings stayed in New York.”

“So, how did you end up here, then?”

Steve sighs and shakes his head. “It’s a long story.”

“Got all night.” Dean shrugs, then still sensing resistance he insists. “Hey, I answered your questions. Seems only fair you do the same.”

“If you call those ‘answers’,” he retorts actually air quoting and it makes Dean huff a laugh. He is starting to really like the guy. He’s kind of dorky but he’s cute and Dean is not sure if he’s ever felt more at ease with someone he just met than he does with him right now.

After another moment, Steve speaks again. “When Gabriel and I left New York, we went on a road trip. We were passing through and had a room here. The place was in shambles; but for some reason, Gabriel fell in love with it and, just - bought it. I guess he saw the potential in it.” he recounts. A fond smile blossoms on his lips. “He can be – very impulsive.”

“So you got stuck.”

Steve shakes his head. “We invested in it together. I was happy to stay.”

“Well, from what I’ve seen, I think you did a bang up job with the place,” he says, “Might even see myself sticking around for a couple more days. If something interesting to do comes up,” he says and grins suggestively.

But Steve frowns. “I’m afraid there’s not much to do around here. They closed all the hiking trails because of the missing people,” he says thoughtfully, completely unreceptive of Dean’s flirtation.

Dean rolls his eyes a little. “Right.” 

“It’s better to visit during the summer. They even have concerts up on the mountains. They come from all over the world to see them.” he says and his voice gets a dreamy tone. “You get to meet all kinds of people.”

“Sounds nice.” he clicks is tongue and tries again. “So you brother is the owner, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is the place basically about you?”

Steve squints at him, confused. “How do you mean?”

“You know,” Dean grins and wiggles his eyebrows, “an angel.” Steve scoffs surprised and shakes his head as if he’s embarrassed to hear that, but Dean keeps going, “Helping me out even thought I didn’t deserve it. Trusting me. Giving me a chance when anyone else would have thrown me out,” he even throws in a wink.

“I would have never left someone to die out in the cold,” he says, but his cheeks are pinkier than they were a moment ago.

Dean gives him another of his patented dumb grins. “See? An angel in the flash right there,” he jokes and he even makes a show of ringing the little bell . “This must be the real deal. I mean, I rang for an angel and you showed up, didn’t you?”

Steve shakes his head again.

Dean leans over on the counter and lowers his voice. “Hey, you know what they say about freckles?”

“I don’t?” Steve says, surprised by the question. His gaze is drawn to the freckles all over his face and Dean feels his skin heat up.

“Well, you should look it up and let me know what you think then.”

They share a smile. The air gets charged and Dean gets a little dizzy. He bites his lower lip as his eyes follow the lines on Steve’s face, from his brow, his nose, his chin, along the line of his jaw covered in stubble and down his strong neck. Dean realizes he is shamelessly staring again.

With an almost involuntary intake of breath, he raps his knuckles on the wood. “Alright, uh, I should probably go check on my brother now.”

Steve nods, blinking rapidly, and he seems a little shaken too.

"And I should get ready to leave. My shift is almost over."

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Dean pulls back. “See you later, Steve,” he says, but all he receives is a confused look back.

“My name is not Steve.”

“Uh? Your vest says it is.”

“Oh,” he says, looking down at his clothes as if he only now remembers that he’s wearing them, “this isn’t mine. I’m just filling for someone else.”

Dean makes a pleasantly surprised sound. “Well, well, looks like I’m not the only one with a concealed identity after all.”

Not-Steve quirks his lips and says: “My name is Castiel.”

“Castiel." repeats Dean and he likes the way the name rings in his mouth new and unfamiliar. "Wait, so you’re saying you don’t work here?”

“No,” he says, “well, not usually. Only if they need me.”

“You know if they’ll need you tomorrow?” Cause I was kinda hoping to see you again, he doesn’t add, but Castiel must hear it anyway because he slighly blushes again.

“I have a shift at the library. Actually I should be opening in a couple of hours,” he pauses throwing a look at the wall clock, but then adds. “But maybe I can ask if Steve needs another night shift covered.”

Dean flashes his teeth. “Awesome.” then he eyes the clock above the counter too and sees that it’s five past seven already. He hasn’t notice because it’s still dark outside.

He makes a sympathetic face. “You are going straight to work after this? No hours of sleep?”

Castiel shrugs, “I’ll manage,” he says, but he hasn’t time to add anything else cause someone pushes open the glass door behind Dean and with a way too cheerful voice for that hour of the day exclaims: “I’ve got the kielbasa you ordered!”

A short blond guy comes in, carrying a big box that Dean instantly knows contains at least a dozen glazed donuts, and he can tell because his sense of smell when it comes to delicious food has never failed him. He feels his mouth watering and his stomach grumbles.

The guy says loudly and obnoxiously, “Good morning everyone!”

“Hello, Gabriel.” Castiel greets him.

“Cassie, what are you doing still here? I told you, you could leave early. You’re gonna be late for work.”

Castiel looks at Dean and then back at his brother, “I was with a guest.”

Gabriel follows the trajectory of his gaze and wiggles his eyebrows in an unsettling way, if you ask Dean.

“I see” he says, with a deep theatrical voice.

He rounds the counter and opens the box, angling it toward Castiel so that he can grab a napkin and a donut. Dean almost shouts “Ha!” as he discovers his predictions were correct. Those donuts look as delicious as they smell, and he can’t take his eyes off of them. He catches Castiel giving Gabriel an insistent look that prompts him to say, with a sight: “And does the gentlemen here have breakfast included, by any chance?”

“Yes,” Castiel says and Dean could kiss him right then if it wasn’t for the counter between them.

Gabriel rolls his eyes and open the big box to let Dean select a donut.

“And one for my brother,” he says, quickly snatching another before the lid closes on his fingers.

“Fine, two donuts! But now shoo Romeo, or Juliet here is gonna be late, and I’m the one they’re gonna blame,” he says, disappearing in the backroom.

Castiel wraps his donut in the napkin while Dean dives in unceremoniously on his. He watches as Castiel slips off his vest from his shoulders and starts gathering his things going in and out the backroom.

Then the glass door opens again and a petite dark haired woman walks in. She is dressed in all black and she’s sporting a pair of big dark sunglasses even if the sun is barely out.

She stops in her tracks as soon as she sees Dean. “Morning,” she drawls in a melodic voice, eyeing him up and down. Dean is on his second donut. Sam can’t miss what he never knew he had, after all.

He gives her a courteous quick nod, not bothering to cover his mouth full and the sugar all over his lips.

“Morning, Meg,” says Castiel behind him, and her attention shifts.

“Clarence, what are you doing still here?” she asks with the same phlegm, but Dean can sense a little exasperation as well, as if it’s something she often directs at him, “don’t tell me Gabriel is late again,” she is saying as she joins Castiel behind the counter.

“No, I was just about to go.”

She slides her sunglasses on her nose to look from Castiel to Dean and she keeps her eyes on him as she passes behind Castiel, making a show of trailing his shoulders with her fingertips. “Well, have a good day then, dear.” She says sweetly, disappearing in the backroom.

Castiel presses his lips together and gives Dean a somewhat apologetic look.

“She is a friend. And the bookkeeper,” he explains.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Yeah well, you know what they say about people who wear sunglasses inside.”

Castiel looks at him confused.

“I don’t.”

Dean stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Forget it, another time, looks like you’re late already.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, “Right,” he says, as if he’d forgotten again that he was supposed to leave.

Dean downs the last piece of donut and eyes the coffee machine in the corner.

“Hey, coffee is free, right?”

Castiel throws a “Yes,” over his shoulder as he disappears once again into the backroom.

He remerges a moment later wearing a tan winter jacket and a wool beanie while Dean is still trying to figure out which damn button to press. Shouldn’t latest models be simpler? He turns back to Castiel who’s shouldering his backpack.

“How the hell does this work?”

Castiel huffs a laugh, grabs his car keys and goes to stand next to him. He quickly flips a switch, puts in place a paper cup and fiddles with the commands on the touch screen; the machine starts whirring. Dean realizes that they’re on the same side of the room for the first time in the whole night, if they don’t count the rescue mission for Sam. They are both looking at the coffee that is now filling the cup but Dean can’t help sneaking a glance at his profile, his straight nose and pink lips. He smells of some kind of sweet herbal tea and fresh snow, and Dean is inexplicably drawn to it.

The machine whirrs to a stop and starts beeping.

“Here you go,” Steve says, his voice low, and their fingers brush on the warm cup as he hands it to Dean. “Sugar?” he asks, now almost in a whisper.

Dean just shakes his head as if enchanted, and he kind of feels like he is, especially when Castiel smiles at him. It’s a pressing of lips but it reaches his eyes.

“I have to go.”

“Yeah.”

They both take a step back from each other like something just dropped at their feet and Dean realizes they were standing far too close than he thought. Suddenly, unprotected by the counter, he feels a little weird and seems like Castiel is feeling awkward as well.

He walks around him maintaining the distance, almost advancing on the side like a grab.

“Bye then.”

Dean nods and gives him an embarrassed wave.

Castiel hesitates with a gloved hand on the handle. He looks back at him.

“I’ll see you later?”

“Not going anywhere,” smiles Dean.

Castiel quickly turns around once again, and this time he pushes open the door and exits but Dean’s pretty sure he saw a smile on his lips.

He drinks his coffee and watches him as he walks towards his car. Then he loses him from his sight as someone in the room calls his attention back.

It’s Meg. She’s glaring at him, pointing at what Dean assumes are the donut crumbs that he left all over the counter. “How would you call this?”

She looks at him with her eyebrows raised, as she expects him to apologize but Dean goes towards the door and cheekily says: “A five stars breakfast. Thank you.”

Meg mutters something after him but he’s already out of the door and he can’t hear her.

*

Sam is still sound asleep when he goes back to their room. As the sun rises all the worries of the night before have disappeared. His encounter with Castiel has filled him with a lightness he can’t explain. He thinks it’s mostly sleep deprivation.

He takes a shower and when he gets out, he’s still feeling it. When Sam gets up, and he’s got glassy eyes, a nasty cough and a runny nose, and Dean argues with him to make it stay in bed – uselessly – but after that, he’s still feeling it. He even catches a nap as Sam showers and resumes his restless tapping on his laptop. And when he wakes up, he’s still feeling it.

Sam notices that there’s something different with him, because he keeps calling him back to reality, snapping his fingers and looking at him all weird as they plan what to do with the vetalas.

Dean insists Sam takes it easy and stays in for the rest of the morning – he complies, not without putting up a fight - while he drives back to the hiking trail. They fear the vetalas might have attacked again while they’ve been away, but there are no signs of them anywhere.

Which is still bad. If the vetalas skipped town they’re back at square one, and can only wait for their next attack, which could be anywhere, in a day or in a month from now.

But maybe they’re just staying low for a few days, thinking Sam and Dean will move on. Sam is really bummed out when they talk about it but Dean doesn’t think it would be too bad to stay around a few days more.

He gets back around noon to pick Sam up and go get something to eat. As they drive around Dean gets a chance to take a look at the town, the little shops, the tidy sidewalks, the nice little houses with their nice little gardens. “Hey, this place’s not so bad, uh?” he says.

Sam looks up from his tablet. “What?” he asks, like he was not paying attention. He sneezes. “Dean, we need to decide what to do,” he says then, but Dean is distracted by the tall building with the stone step they’re passing by. Hanging on the wall outside there’s a brass plaque that says Library.

“Uh?”

“Dean, are you okay? Have you, like, slept enough?”

Dean finally turns towards him, flashes him a smile. “You know what I think? I think we should look at some books,” he says, like he’s had a revelation.

“What?” Sam seems even more confused.

“Yeah, you know, get to know more about the local history, see if we can spot a pattern. Maybe these vetalas have been around for years. We should check for robberies gone bad too. I’m just saying,” he raises his eyebrows. “books always served us good.”

Sam opens his mouth but Dean cuts him off before he can retort.

“Let’s do this way. I’m gonna go to the library, okay? Do some digging. And I’ll see you back at the motel tonight and we’ll see what we got.”

“What? Tonight? Are you out of your mind?”

“Yeah, man, you know I’m a slow reader.”

“Seriously? You’re a faster reader than I am.” Sam is one bitch face away from losing his temper. He exhales, then says: “Dean, what’s going on?”

Dean rolls his eyes, but then he can’t restrain a smile, especially with Sam’s eyes that nags him to talk.

“Alright,” he concedes. He feels a blush rising on his cheeks and he keeps his eyes on the road to avoid looking at Sam. “There’s this guy – you know, the one back at the motel that helped us out last night.”

“Yeah?”

“He works at the library. Just thought I’d pay him a visit, that’s all.”

“And why would you - ” Sam cuts himself off and silence falls upon them. Sam clicks his tongue. “Unbelievable.”

So they decide over lunch that Sam is gonna drop him off at the library so that Dean can check the archives to see if there’s been attacks on different hiking trails in the area, see if they’ve got another habitual spot they might have switched to. Dean is paying for their lunch when on a whim also pays for a coffee to go.

Sam raises his eyebrows when he sees the coffee in Dean’s hand but thankfully he doesn’t comment on it. He assures him that he will keep his distance from lakes and other body of waters as he carries his own research, asking questions in tourist points in the nearby towns where hiking trails start and end.

The library is a small edifice of just a couple of rooms one after the other and Dean sees Castiel right away, behind the circular desk at the entrance. He is wearing a thick blue sweater, with a zipper down the front and snowflakes across his chest. It looks soft and warm and Dean wonders would it would feel like to press his face against it and how it would smell like, most likely of candy, fresh snow and herbal tea. Then he tells himself to get a grip because he is feeling way too happy to see someone he met less than a day ago.

Castiel is turned mostly away from the door and he is busy with a visitor so he doesn’t spot him right away. Dean hovers around the entrance, takes a peek at the newspaper rack by the door, until he sees the visitor passing him by towards the exit.

Castiel looks his way as he’s approaching him. He freezes in spot and Dean gets to see his eyes widen and his lips parting in surprise.

“Dean,” he says in a breath.

Dean flashes him a big smile. “That’s me.” He gets closer and confidently slips the coffee towards him. “Brought you coffee. For helping with Sammy and �� not calling the police, I guess,” he says.

Castiel stares at the coffee and looks up at him again and Dean realizes. Castiel does look surprised – but not happily surprised. His gaze on him is intense and makes him shift on the spot.

Dean’s smile dims. Maybe he made a mistake, maybe he got it all wrong. Maybe it was all sleep deprived induced fantasy he entertained himself with? He tries to see it from Castiel’s perspective. He is a man who showed up in his motel in the middle of the night with a half dead brother offering no justifiable explanation, someone who then hanged around him till morning, flirted heavily with him and then followed him to his workplace. Okay, it sounds pretty bad put like that.

He tries to salvage his dignity, but he knows he looks as uneasy as he sounds when he says: “I’m not a stalker or anything,” he fakes a chuckle. “I didn’t come here just to hand you a coffee. That’d be crazy. Turns out I – I actually need some books.”

Castiel finally blinks and seems to deflate a little, looking relieved as he says “Oh,” and “of course. Right.” he even gives him a small smile. “You are in the right place,” he says awkwardly.

“Yeah” Dean takes a breath. Better cut this short. “So, can you point me to the local history section?”

Castiel doesn’t ask what he needs it for and gives him direction in a professional and practised voice. Dean’s got a knot in his stomach but still fakes a smile and says “Great. Thanks, Cas.”

He catches his eyes once again and he feels unable to move and unable to say anything and he suddenly feels like the heating is set on a little too high for him, still in his jacket.

Dean wonders how pathetic would be if he walked out of there saying “Let’s just pretend I never came in here.” Maybe it’s too late for that, but he needs to let him know that he’ll stay away, cause he caught the drift.

He says “Look - ” and at the same time he hears “Dean?”

Castiel precedes him in saying: “You first.”

“Uh, I was just gonna say that me and my brother are probably leaving town tonight, so – just – wanted to let you know in case you take that shift off of Steve.”

“And I wanted to tell you that I spoke to Steve and he needs the shift tonight, so – I wasn’t gonna make it either.”

“Yeah, okay,” it’s all Dean manages to say, already halfway turned to walk away.

“And thank you for the coffee. You didn’t have to,” adds Castiel quickly, as if only now remembering his manners.

“Yeah, no, sure Cas,” says Dean, and then ducks his head and makes his way to the local history section without looking back. He chooses the farthest table from the entrance and buries himself in old newspapers and doesn’t think at who’s only a couple of rooms away and the burning knot of disappointment in the middle of his chest.

*

A couple of hours later Dean has got absolutely nothing. Sam texted and he seems to have reached the same conclusion. A complete waste of time.

As he passes through the entrance to exit the library, his eyes dart to Castiel’s station but there’s someone else in his place. Dean doesn’t bother looking around to say goodbye, just takes the door.

The sun has already set and the temperatures have dropped significantly again. Dean is not in a great mood. He can’t wait to finish this job and get out of there and forget all about this town and this cold and those stupid vetalas.

More annoyed he is at the thing in his chest that since that afternoon has never dissolved. Whatever. He’ll never see him again and it’s not like it’s the first time that Dean’s been rejected.

Sam is waiting for him at the bottom of the stone steps. He is still wearing his FBI suit and his heavy coat and scarf but he’s got his hands buried in his pocket and his shoulder drawn together as if he’s still cold. As Dean approaches him he coughs a few time and Dean’s irritation for that case flares up again.

They talk again about how they don’t have jack squat.

Sam tells him in so many words that if the vetalas don’t show up soon they might as well move on. He says it tentatively and he seems taken aback when Dean agrees right away. “No reason to stay around,” he grumbles as they reach the Impala.

Sam opens his mouth to say something but he’s interrupted by a loud sound from an alley not far from where they are.

They stop, and stay alert, ears on. Another sound, then a muffled scream.

Sam draws out the gun from his inside pocket and moves quickly on the sidewalk towards the noise. Dean takes out the silver blades he got hidden in his right boot.

They move in synch and stealthily reach the alley. Just a look is enough to recognize the vetalas even with their back turned, the blonde woman that had thrown Sam into the lake and the young guy that had attacked Dean. They’ve got someone pinned against the wall and the man is whimpering and imploring them to let him go.

Sam shouts “Hey!” to catch their attention and as one of them turns around he shoots her in the chest. It does nothing to her except pissing her off, but Sam gets what he wanted, she hisses and lets go of the man to go after him.

That’s when Dean is able to see him clearly. That man is Castiel.

He sprints into action, white hot rage pumping in his veins and he wastes no time to grab the other vetala by the shoulders and rip him off of him.

Castiel’s eyes are wide and terrified. He looks in disbelief as the creature turns to growl and launch himself at Dean.

Dean shouts “Go! Run!” but he seems to be frozen in place, pressed against the wall.

Taking advantage of the distraction, the vetala hits him and he loses his balance, falls on the ground. He recovers quickly, rolls on his back and gets back up again just in time to tackle the vetala. They roll around punching and kicking each other until Dean finds himself pinned down, his knife trapped under his back.

He struggles to shake him off with one hand while with the other he tries to reach for the blade. The creature opens his mouth and he’s about to sink his fangs in his neck when Dean squeezing his eyes and pushing with everything he’s got, gets them to roll once again. The vetala is on his back, the blade now visible next to it. Dean quickly snatches it from the ground and buries it in his heart.

The vetala growls one last time as Dean twists the blade inside him and pushes himself up to watch the body whiter and crumble under his eyes.

He breathes heavily and looks back at Sam, who’s doing the same, catching his breath with a crumbled body at his feet. He meets his eyes and they nod briefly at each other, to let the other know that they’re alright.

Then Sam’s gaze flies somewhere behind his back and something twists in Dean’s stomach as he remembers that Castiel is still there, his body against the wall and his eyes frantically going from the crumpled bodies of the vetalas on the ground to Sam and Dean and back again.

“Hey, you alright?” Dean asks, shortening the distance.

“They had – fangs,” he says more to himself than to him, as if he’s still processing what he saw.

“You hear any ringing?” Dean asks, loud and worried, trying to catch his eyes.

Castiel lifts his gaze to look at him as he’s asking absurd questions.

“No.”

Only then Dean relaxes and looks back at Sam. “No venom.”

Castiel’s mouth is still hanging open: “Venom? Dean, what -?”

Hearing him speak his brother’s name, Sam’s gaze travels between the two of them and a look of understanding crosses his face. He takes a step towards him, and goes into his comfort-victim mode.

“It’s Cas, right?” he asks and Castiel’s wide eyes set on him as he nods. “Those were vetalas. They are creatures that poison humans and feed on them.”

Castiel scoffs. “Wha- how can there be such things?”

Sam shrugs. “There are all sorts of things.”

Castiel blinks as his world seems to be rearranging in front of his eyes.

“How did you - ” he looks between them. “How did you know they were here?”

“We didn’t. We were actually trying to track them; they must have followed us.” Sam says.

“You were tracking them?” he is in disbelief. “Why?”

“It’s our job,” chimes in Dean slipping the blade in his jacket. “We kill ‘em.”

Castiel looks at him and he’s silent for a long moment. Dean fights the urge of looking down, wondering what does he think of him now. Has this made his opinion of him even worse? In addition of being a stalker, does he now think he’s a killer and that he’s made a mistake trusting him with that key?

But Castiel just looks thoughful and in the end he just says, “You told me there were things I wouldn’t believe nor wanna know about. You were telling the truth.”

It’s not a question but Dean nods anyway and sighs in relief.

“You’re safe now.” he says and tries to lighten the mood. “So, can you stop going full Spanish Inquisition on us?”

Castiel seems to lose the last bit of tension he had left and exchanges it for a spark of annoyance and a challenging tone. “Well, I was about to die, the least you could give me is an explanation. What kind of job is that?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “That’s fair. Come on, we’ll give you a lift and fill you in. Where you headed?”

So they pile in the Impala while Sam gives their usual “hunters fighting monsters” speech. Castiel takes it fairly well. Or, at least, doesn’t start screaming or anything. He seems to have recovered from the attack fairly quickly too. Dean, on the other hand, feels weird with him in the backseat. Seeing him in the rear view mirror makes him nervous and smiley at the same time. Sam must sense that his unusual quietness means that something’s not right with him because he keeps sneaking glances his way.

But the whole thing at the library still burns and it’s made pretty clear what was what.

“It’s right up here.” Castiel says after not even five minutes on the road. “I told you there was no need to take the car.”

“Nonsense, you’ve just been attacked and it’s freezing.”

“Well, then. Thank you.” He says as the car rolls to a stop in front of a little house. It’s too dark to see it properly but under the snow, the front garden seems a little unkempt and there’s still a string of unlit Christmas lights with one end dangling from the gutter. Dean thinks it’s kinda cute.

Castiel pauses with one hand on the handle. “Are you leaving right away?”

Dean swallows. “I guess.”

“Oh,” Castiel hesitates, “so this is goodbye?”

Dean’s gaze darts towards Sam next to him. His brother shifts in his seat but doesn’t offer any lifelines.

“Yeah,” he breathes out.

Castiel meets Dean’s eyes in the rear view mirror and looks torn, like he’s about to say something. Then he seems to think better of it and just nods briefly. “Well, then, stay safe. And again: thank you. Both of you.” And with that, he gets out and walks away.

Dean doesn’t know what to do. He stares intensely at his hands on the steering wheel, with a sensation of wrong in his stomach. Every second is too long and not long enough to decide. Sam doesn’t ask what they’re still doing there, even if Dean killed the engine and it’s starting to get cold in the car.

But then quietly, with the corner of his mouth, he says: “He’s almost at the door.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, already reaching for the handle.

He walks quickly towards him, slipping a little on the snow covered grass.

“Cas,” Dean calls and he stops, looking curiously over his shoulder. Dean’s resolve falters, so he starts by saying, “Hey, mh, just wanna make sure you are okay.”

Castiel nods. “I’m fine, I guess I’ll need some time, but I’m fine.”

“Alright, well, I thought I’d give you my number, just in case uh -”

“Something else decides to attack me?”

Dean huffs a nervous laugh and looks at him. “Yeah. No. I mean, I don’t know, maybe you wanted to talk. Later.”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“Yeah, I was - I am. I am leaving. I mean unless…” Dean swallows, and just gives him a look that hopes it’s enough to finish his sentence for him.

But Castiel frowns and says “Dean?” and Dean doesn’t mean to be hopeful but he says it like he’s said it a million times before, like they’ve known each other for a lifetime and he only ever spoke this word to call him. Castiel squints and tilts his head to one side, “I don’t understand.”

Dean wants to laugh; they are so bad at this.

He steps closer. His fingertips are tingly with cold as he grabs the lapels of Castiel’s jacket and gently pulls him towards him. Castiel lets him. Lets Dean get so close that their lips touch. Dean kisses him slowly, sweetly. His lips are cold but soft and so close to him Dean can smell all the wonderful things he knew he smelled of. He pulls back to finally say: “I know I shouldn’t have shown up at the library today. I freaked you out, I didn’t mean to.”

Castiel seems windswept. His eyes are wide, his lips and cheeks bright pink. He cuts him off, shaking his head. “No, no, it was me. You took me by surprise and I wasn’t sure what to make of last night. This whole thing has been – weird.”

Dean smiles and leans closer once again to make their nose touch for a second.

“Am I making myself clear, now?” he whispers and Castiel smiles.

Dean feels ten pounds lighter all of the sudden. He lets him go, widens his arms, “Alright, then. Should we make it right? I can come pick you up in a couple of hours and we’ll go grab a bite or something.”

Castiel shifts on the spot, looks back at the dark windows of his house then turns again.

“Why don’t you just – come in now?” he asks hesitantly.

Dean’s mouth hangs open for a few seconds, then he beams up at him, nodding vigorously.

“Yeah. Or I could – do just that. Yeah. Sounds great. Just, uh, give me a sec.” he says and before Castiel can say anything else he goes back to the Impala to open the driver’s door.

“So, change of plans. You can go back to the motel, I’ll stay here.”

Sam’s eyebrows skyrocket on his forehead. “Are we staying another night?” he huffs a laugh.

Dean shrugs. “Sorry, Sammy. He is - ” he feels himself blushing, “I just gotta stay.”

Sam laughs again and slips in front of the steering wheel with an amused sigh. “Whatever. Don’t know what he did to you but as long as you’re sure he’s not a witch.”

“Nah, he’s an angel.” Dean says and that reminds him of something.

He ignores the way Sam rolls his eyes when he says Good night, Sammy and he goes back to Castiel who’s waiting for him.

“Hey” he says as they walk towards the door, “did you look up then, what I said about freckles?”

“Yes, and it was really cheesy. Like, very low level cheesy.”

“You liked it.” he teases, bumping his shoulder against Castiel’s. “I bet it made you blush and all.”

Castiel looks upwards in a matter than suggests annoyance, but he is pressing his lips together as if he’s keeping a smile at bay.

Dean’s heart makes a summersault. Man, whatever this is, must be powerful stuff.

+

 Dean comes back two weeks after they finally leave town and three weeks after that.

And then he just keeps coming back.

Suddenly it’s spring.

And Dean mows Castiel’ lawn and they go out with Meg and he gets so drunk that Castiel has to drive them home and Dean keeps nuzzling his neck and jaw, making it difficult for him to walk to the door and later in bed he whispers in his ear things he never thought he’d say to anyone like “I missed you” and “I think about you all the time” and the morning after he doesn’t even freak out cause Castiel said it back and it’s all fine.

So he keeps coming back.

And then comes the summer and Castiel takes a few days off from work and drags him up to a hiking trail but it takes them all day because Dean keeps stopping at all the perfect trees to snog against – and that’s every tree. And in the end they are sweaty and sticky and Dean’s body hurts all over and would take a nest of vamps any day over something like this, but the way Castiel smiles in the summer sunset makes it worth it. He snaps a selfie and sends it to Sam and Eileen and his brother writes back glad to see you happy. give cas my love.

And then Cas’ posh corporate dick sister Naomi shows up unexpectated one night and tries to convince Castiel to go back to New York with her. Dean hates her the moment she steps in with a face like she’s coming down from Heaven to set her rich foot on the smelly Earth, and she very clearly despises Dean’s everything, judging by the way her eyes slide over the room and stop on him when she tells Cas, “Look what you’ve become”. And Castiel throws her out shortly after that but Dean understands that even if he doesn’t regret it and Gabriel too calls to say, “So what? The witch is dead, good riddance!”, Castiel is still feeling like shit. So he curls up on the couch with him and when Castiel whispers “I’m sorry for that,” Dean holds him tighter and when he hears him sniffle quietly Dean says, “It’s okay. I’m here,” and strokes his back until he falls asleep.

And Dean keeps coming back.

Soon it’s fall and when Dean gets there he finds Castiel in the little garage attached to the house looking for the leaf blower among the clutter. It’s the first time he sees the space and he is assaulted by the thought that his Impala would easily fit in there, next to Castiel’s car. He doesn’t dare mention it but the thought nags at him all weekend.

And on his last morning, Castiel pretends he doesn’t hear the alarm going off, keeps his arm tight around him and looks sad when he hands him his cup of coffee for the road. Later he texts him it’s getting harder and Dean’s chest fills with rocks because he knows exactly what he means.

It’s getting harder.

One time when he’s walking to pick up Castiel from work to go out to dinner together, his phone pings and it’s a text from Sam saying Dean, you know I wouldn’t bother you if something something case something something we need you. can you?

He puts it back in his pocket right as Castiel comes out of the heavy doors and happily bounces down the stairs asking “How was your journey?”. He is about to lean in to peck his lips like he always does when he takes in his expression and pulls back, asks what’s wrong.

“I gotta go,” Dean says and he sounds miserable to his own ears.

Castiel face falls and Dean hates himself. But Castiel straightens up, presses his lips together and nods. He says “I understand.”

It’s getting harder.

One time, on the bathroom tiles of a smelly motel, Dean is grinding his teeth, trying not to scream as Sam sews a gash on his leg.

His brother looks up at him, his hands bloody, his forehead covered in sweat. They don’t have any booze left, and Sam was never the best of them in that kind of things.

“Don’t look this way, think of something else,” he pants.

And Dean closes his eyes and focuses very hard on the weight of Castiel’s hand in his, on the familiar smell of his couch and on his voice the last time he picked up the phone and said “Hello, Dean.” He focuses on the silhouette of his shoulder against the light of the sunrise when Dean wakes up before him. He focuses on the sound of Sam’s laugh that time he’d seen him wearing an apron at Castiel’s and then they all went down to that weird spring event and Sam had won a salt and pepper set with little bees on them and how it’s now sitting in Castiel’s cabinet. He tries to pretend to be in his kitchen, with Castiel in the other room calling his name and telling him to turn down the radio. He thinks about those things and soon a wound is closed but another is open.

It’s getting harder.

One time he calls Castiel after being tied to a chair and tortured for five hours. He is limping out of the warehouse, holding his phone against a bloodied ear and Castiel replies on the first ring. There’s music in the background and Castiel’s got a cheerful tone when he says, "Don’t tell me you’re here already. The potatoes still have fifteen minutes to go."

And Dean’s heart breaks as he tells him that he won’t be able to make it. On the other end, he hears just music for a while and when Castiel speaks again he just says “I understand.” But he sounds disappointed and Dean feels like shit.

It’s getting harder.

Still, he keeps coming back.

And it’s winter again and the front garden is covered in snow. Dean lets himself in with his spare key knowing that Castiel is still at work and toes off his boots at the entrance. He places the wrapped boxes he brought under the little Christmas tree that Castiel has left up for him even if the holidays have already come and gone. He turns on the radio and starts their dinner. A few hours later, as he hears the keys turning into the lock and he’s filled with anticipation, he realizes, not as a surprise but more as a confirmation, that he doesn’t want to leave anymore.

They eat on the couch in front of the tv, their plates balanced on their laps, one of Castiel socked feet bumping lightly against Dean’s calf.

The commercials start playing and Castiel is telling him a funny story about Gabriel when Dean puts his plate down.

“Cas,” he says, “I was thinking I could stay a little longer next time.”

Castiel gives his calf a little kick. “The whole week?” he asks, and sounds hopeful.

“Uh, was thinking, maybe more than that. I mean, if it’s all right with you, I -”

Castiel doesn’t let him finish. He puts his own plate down and surges forward to kiss him.

Dean pulls back because he starts laughing. “I still haven’t- ”

“You mean it?” Castiel cuts him off. He is serious now, stares at him, studies his face.

Dean throat is tight. He only nods.

Castiel kisses him again then smiles. “Dean, this is your home since the first time you came through that door. Of course it’s all right with me.”

Dean kisses him again and this time doesn’t let go.

 *

So, for the last time he leaves and for the last time he comes back.

He walks up to the door, carrying way too many bags with him.

He doesn’t take out his key, he rings the bell.

Castiel answers the door with a smile.

 ________

(* what they say about freckles: every freckle is a kiss from an angel.)

[jq37]

The Royal Report– A Crown of Candy Ep 4  The Grand Tournament

An Extremely Normal Tourney

It’s time for the royal tourney! A tourney that Brennan, who would never lie to us, has assured us will be all fun and games and only simulated danger! What could possibly go wrong?

For an exhaustive answer to what should be a rhetorical question, let’s join our PCs on the tourney grounds where they’re getting ready for their respective events. 

Just to give you guys a quick rundown of who’s doing what:

Theobald is in the Joust, facing off against Lady Plumbeline.  

Liam, Ruby, Lord Citron of Fructerra (Banana man), and Lady Freccia of Cerecia (Spaghetti Illithid woman) are in the archery competition. 

There are two melee bouts going on: 

One is a Vegetanian knight (Bonathan--french fries dude), Anabelle, Grissini, and Jet 

The other is Keradin (Bulbian paladin from last ep), a Ceresian Gladiator, Scravoya (wife of the meat dude Amethar called out last episode), and Amethar.  

The only person sitting out the festivities is old-man Lapin who is chilling in the high rollers box with the Pontifex, Alfredi, and some of the other important peeps we met last episode.  

Lord and Lady Cruller are watching Jet’s fight and also have taken Primsy under their wing to keep her away from Stilton who Theobald has warned everyone about.

While Brennan rolls initiative for a million NPCs, the PCs mess around with the Message cantrip and Jet worries that something bad might happen to her dad during the tournament. Ruby says that, if anyone tries anything, they’ll stop it.

On to the matches!

In the first round of the archery competition, Liam does well with a 23 (he’s only beaten by Citron who gets a 25) and Ruby (who’s not really equipped for bow shooting at this distance and can’t get a magic boost without putting herself in major danger) lags behind with a 10.

In the main melee battle, Scravoya (who is fully just a t-bone steak with eyes) outright threatens Amethar and he leans into it, saying they should take out their competition so they can 1v1 each other. A very good idea but with only an 8 Persuasion roll to back it up, it doesn’t work. Amethar tries to make the same deal with Keradin but, when he’s rebuffed, goes into a rage and goes for Scravoya, hitting her for 19 points of damage. On her turn, she returns the favor for 16 points.  

Jet decides to take a page from her dad’s book and tries to ally with Annabelle...by bringing up her ejection from the line of succession, her refusal to wed, and also declaring that she also won’t wed--each of those statements probably being enough to cause a scandal on its own. But even with disadvantage on Persuasion, Jet gets a 20 which means that while the crowd is scandalized, Annabelle is touched by the show of solidarity and salutes with her sabre. Then Jet hits Grissini for 21 points of damage, giving us insight into what his type is because his response is to instantly go full heart eyes for her. Doesn’t stop him from dealing a bunch of damage to Jet on his turn though.  

Meanwhile, Lapin--saying it’s a request from the king--has Lord and Lady Swirly (who are in the box with him) hold comically full glasses of wine for when Amethar’s match is done, something they don’t question at all. He foregoes a “real turn” so he can act when something actually happens.

In the joust, Theobald and Lady Plumbeline run at each other and Theo super hits with a 24. The joust is supposed to be three rounds long but on a 15 Athletics to her nat 1, Theo absolutely sends her flying off her meep and ends it--and the chance at getting to name herself as a candidate for the Emperor’s successor--right then and there. He hops down off his meep to help her up but she slaps his hand away, picks herself up, fully crying, and runs off the field.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Back in the main melee, Brennan asks for 3 Con saving throws from Amethar, activating both mine and Lou’s Fight or Flight. Brennan says that Amethar takes 8 piercing damage and then 22 points of damage that are not halved (even though he’s raging) which brings him down to 6 HP. And, on top of that, he’s suddenly having trouble breathing.

Zac decides that this is a good time for Lapin to take his turn but, on an 8, doesn’t notice anything is wrong. Like yeah, Amethar’s hurt but it would be weird if it wasn’t. It’s a melee. Amether also rolls Perception and, with an 8, though he knows that something sharp cut into his side when he bumped into Keradin and the gladiator (which is weird because they’re all fighting with blunted weapons) he thinks he could have just gotten scratched by their armor or something. 

Liam and Jet both fail their Perception checks on their turns to notice Amethar is in dire straits. 

Oh Amethar’s turn, having realized that something Weird and Bad is happening, he fully nopes out of there and Disengages so he can hop the fence to the pen where Jet’s fight is happening (the one Cruller is watching) and lie down to signal to everyone that he’s not fighting anymore and needs help.

Unfortunately for him, Scravoya fails her Wisdom save and jumps the fence to continue wailing on Amethar, knocking him unconscious.     

Lapin, paying off the Looney Tunes gag that he set up on his first turn, hip checks Lord and Lady Swirlie to make them throw the wine in Alfredi’s face. While she’s distracted, he does some sneaky healing on Amethar (13 pts) which no one clocks though Brennan doesn’t tell *them* that.  

Amethar, while unconscious, sees his sister Rococco in a field of wheat in the spot where she died, who tells him to get up. In the real world, he does. 

On Jet’s turn, she prepares to exit the fight to help her dad. Grissini notices that she’s distressed and asks if something’s wrong. When she says that someone is trying to kill her dad, he stops fighting, throws down his weapon, and tries to get the Pontifex’s attention. 

As soon as it’s his turn, Theo accesses the Speed Force, runs all the way to Amethar, and disarms Scravoya. Jet is suddenly more interested in learning a disarming blow.

Ruby runs over to Jet to help out if she needs to (and, mechanically, so their lockets are in play) and also sends Yak up to keep an eye on things.  

Cruller jumps down to help stop the fighting and check on Amethar, finding that Amethar can’t speak. He calls for a healer and Keradin comes over. Ruby makes him drop his mace as he passes her but he gets there and kneels next to him.

Liam casts Detect Poison and Disease since Amethar looks pretty sick (his deception roll to hide it is only a 10, yikes) and Brennan says there’s definitely poison happening. But oh no Brennan. You’re not getting away with just that. The language of that spell says you ID the type and location of poison in range. 

Brennan reads the card to confirm that his shit is thoroughly fucked and then narrates that Liam detects a poison cocktail in Amethar which delivered 22 points of poison damage (he saved so 22 was half), gives the Poisoned condition (which he also saved from), and also silences the person for an hour (which is why he can’t talk). And location? Liam smells the same poison that’s in Amethar’s body on two daggers on Keradin’s belt. Liam calls him out (without explaining what’s going on very well--luckily Theo starts yelling poison to make things more clear for the audience) and casts Hunter's Mark very openly without really disguising it.

Father in danger, Jet tries to attack Keradin but misses twice. Amethar, on his turn, gets up, goes into a rage, and hits Keradin (whose eyes go blank and soft) and then backs up from him.

Scravoya keeps fighting because she’s a woman in a rage and on a mission (rather than anything especially sinister, a previous check showed that she thinks Amethar is cheating or wussing out which is why she’s kept fighting).

Back in the box, Alfredi is still chewing out the Swirlies and not really paying attention to the other insanity going on. The Pontifex meanwhile is watching intensely and is so shocked she can’t really move or speak. Lapin yells for them to call off the fight (21 Persuasion) and, even though he probably shouldn’t be giving orders while sitting next to someone who outranks him so completely, the Pontifex ignores that and yells at Keradin to kneel and he does so immediately.   

The horns blow, the fight stops--even Scravoya stops. But we’re still in initiative. Anabelle jumps over and knocks Keradin further down. Grissini starts mobilizing guards to stop anyone running away. Theo tries to get the daggers from him and fails. Luckily Ruby is next and she casts Hex (giving Keradin disadvantage to Dex) and just barely grabs the poison daggers from Keradin’s belt with help from Yak, holding them up and loudly declaring their existence to the crowd like the performer she wants to be. The daggers are made of pure water which is super deadly to sugar people. And luckily, on a nat 1, no one notices her spell. Cruller goes after the fleeing Ceresian gladiator and we exit combat.

Keradin is grabbed by guards and is double arrested by the Pontifex and Grissini in a church/state tag team. Alfredi glances at Lapin and then comes down and heals the Poison condition from Amethar.

Liam tries to do a better job at disguising his magic as just non-magical ranger knowledge but doesn’t do a great job, even with help from Ruby.

Jet tries to see if Anabelle is on the level and her read on her is shaky because it’s been a crazy like minute and a half for her. She then apologizes for inadvertently embarrassing her. Anabelle says she needs to learn to be less quick to run off at the mouth outside of Candia but she doesn’t seem to have any hard feelings (especially since her scandal is like only the 9th craziest thing that’s happened at this point). 

Lapin’s Big Day

The security minded people start to arrange escorts and guards and all the stuff you do when an assassination attempt happens. Theo wants to be part of the investigation. Lapin sees Alfredi talking to the Pontifex and pointing to Liam. The Pontifex then comes over to Grissini and says that the church would see Keradin hanged for his actions. Grisinni tells her that the Candians want to talk to him first and she’s fine with that. She leaves, followed by the meat people. Before he leaves, Senator Ciabatta checks in with Amethar and, without explanation, says that he doesn’t believe Keradin acted alone. 

Liam is ready to just peace out into the woods before he’s tried as a witch but Theo tells him to stay. Cruller comes back and says that they arrested the dude he had been chasing down. They decide to split up with the kids and Tartgaurd going with Amethar to lay low--and to protect Liam--while the old dude squad--Theo, Lapin, and Cruller--go to supervise whatever’s going on with Keradin so he doesn’t just get disappeared before they can talk to him. Theo gives Jet Sprinkle (whose eyes he can see through) and they split up.   

Anabelle comes over and introduces herself to Amethar, calling it a great honor as her dad was good friends with him. Jet makes a comment about her thighs being weapons because she hasn’t learned anything from her talk with Anabelle (who, for the record, doesn’t disagree with the content of the statement, just the appropriateness).

Prince Cabbage also passes by and they get the sense that he was not paying attention to anything that was going on and just had it explained to him after the fact (which, dude, how do you sleep through that???? Unless he didn’t and he wasn’t paying attention for some wild, Pepe Silvia reason, but too much craziness is going on this ep for me to start Wild Mass Guessing for no reason). 

Lapin lets the others know that the cat might be out of the bag re: Liam’s magic and Cruller points out that it’s way easier for the church to off him than Ruby so he’s potentially in a LOT of danger. Even the king might be powerless to stop any retribution. Theo suggests that maybe if Liam was made a knight, that would give him some protection. Lapin thinks he might be able to talk to the Pontifex about it. And if neither of those work, Cruller can try and spirit him away back to Candia.    

Plans set, they go find Keradin who is chained in a dungeon guarded by Grissini and his men. Lapin does an Insight check with advantage (helped by Theo) and our boy gets a nat 20! On that nat 20, he knows that Keradin is of such unshakable faith that he is immune to being mind controlled. He’s just an extremely loyal follower of the church who’s never had an independent thought in his life.

 Lapin asks for the room to be cleared so he can have a conversation with Keradin and Grissini says he’s under orders from the Pontifex to not let Keradin get-got before the church has the chance to do it. “Oh,” says Lapin. “So you’re calling me, a man of that that same church, a liar and also a murderer? Interesting.” Grissini is so cowed that even without Lapin rolling Intimidation or Persuasion, Grissini deeply apologizes and clears the room.

Lapin makes like he’s going to break him out of his chains and asks Keradin where he’s supposed to meet with his co-conspirators. On a 25 Deception (!) v. Keradin’s 3 Insight, Keradin says that there was no plan and he was supposed to just let Amethar die on the field and walk away. Lapin asks where he can get another dagger so he can complete the attack and Keradin says he got his three from Alfredi!

Information gleaned, Lapin slaps Keradin across the face and calls back in the guard, telling them to arrest Alfredi. On a 22 Persuasion, Lapin is able to get Grissini to agree to this bold order and they head out. 

Keradin loses his shit and starts pulling at his chains, yelling, “Apostate!” at Lapin who leans in and drops the rawest line anyone could have at that moment.

“Where is your Bulb now?”   

Medal of Honor

When Lapin DID THAT my first thought was, “Man, I wish I still had Honor Roll on my recaps so I could give it to him.” Then I remembered I make the rules here and I can do whatever the hell I want. 

What an absolutely BEASTLY set of moves from Lapin. I’ve always said, Zac is quietly super smart but always hampered in-game by the himbos he chooses to play but man did he make up for every insane, “Are you my Dad?” from S1 with his CRAZY flex this episode.

One of the best things you can do as a player is do something so logical and natural and fitting that the DM can’t help but give it to you, roll be damned and he got that from Brennan this episode.

Not to mention setting up his distraction a round in advance, coming up with a *great* way to get info from Keradin (in the moment I had no idea how he was gonna play that), taking Alfredi off the board so early into the game, and that sick, sick, mic drop of a line that forced Brennan to end the episode.

He went from sitting out the entire tournament to undisputed MVP of the episode. What a champ.

*Also, would be remiss if I didn’t mention that his gag of just creepily appearing on the king’s shoulder is my fave of the season so far.   

Things I’m Concerned About

Well the number one thing I’m concerned about is a thing I didn’t even notice until I rewatched for this recap. Ruby grabs two water daggers off of Keradin but then Keradin tells Lapin that Alfredi gave him three water daggers. Which means that either water daggers are one use (3 - the one he used on Amethar = 2) OR, both more likely (assuming max drama at least) and troubling, there’s a third dagger floating around out there. And that’s such an easy thing to miss in the heat of the moment when you’re playing. So the question is, who has that third dagger? It would be weird if Alfredi had it--why give it right back to the person who gave it to you? If this is a Bubian conspiracy, maybe one of the other officials like Onionpatch--he would be an unexpected candidate. Either way, I hope someone clocked that bit of info or will soon because that’s a dangerous thing to just be lurking.

I’m concerned about how far down this rabbit hole goes (pun unintended but consciously retained). When Brennan said Keradin’s eyes went blank and soft during the struggle, I was thinking maybe mind control but he’s apparently immune to mind control (which I think means he’s at least a level 8 Paladin since that’s when they gain immunity to charm spells and abilities--so I guess he was just surprised at the turn of events in that moment and that’s what that was?). So how corrupt is this church? Does it go all the way to the Pontifex? Do they want a specific person on the throne or do they just not want a Candian on the throne since they’re well known for being lax with enforcing the magic restrictions, something the church would surely hate.

I’m concerned Theo might have inadvertently made an enemy of Plumbeline. Or, like, driven her to do something rash. Like, we know he was just being a good guy but she was obv not in a good headspace in that moment. It wasn’t a bad move from him--if she’d reacted well it would have been a good relationship to have, but the dice just weren’t on his side.  

I’m concerned about what it will take before the children start thinking about the ~implications~ of their actions. Like, Jet airing royal laundry and declaring to not marry  in front of everybody and Liam not even trying to hide his Hunter’s Mark at Keradin? This is the Actions Have Consequences season! I keep saying that and I’m sure it’s gonna continue until someone dies! And speaking of.. 

Like...come on. It’s gotta happen, right? And the longer they murder-block Brennan, the worse it’s gonna be when it happens! And like...I realllllly wouldn’t want to be Liam right now. It occurs to me that this would be a good opportunity to throw Liam under the bus for Ruby’s sake. Not saying they SHOULD do it obviously or that they would--in fact they started doing the opposite immediately. But if my main thought was protecting Ruby, I would accuse Liam--son of the traitor who openly did magic at the royal tournament--of having done the magic on the road, and that clears Ruby and he’s a much easier scapegoat. 

Five Six More Things

Very funny that Ally basically only refers to Anabelle as, “the hot one”. Like that’s the only thing about her that stuck. 

Let’s say Plumbeline had won and put her name up for consideration. Do you think her dad would have named her over Amethar? Like, I’m sure Amethar would be fine with it seeing as he doesn’t really want the job but I dunno.

What would win? An intricately plotted assassination attempt or a level 1 spell and a disengage action? LOL, RIP Brennan. Truly, Brennan was thwarted at every turn this episode. Amethar running away alleviated the need for everyone to make some near impossible Perception checks. Theo Usain Bolting over and disarming Scravoya. Liam clocking the poison stopped Keradin from doing any funny business and narrowed their suspects to one instead of literally everyone on the field. Ruby grabbing the daggers made it clear what was going on and showed that they were the victims of an attack not whatever all that nonsense looked like out of context. If they had played this any differently, Amethar would probably be dead. And, at no point watching that do you get the sense that this was a planned story event they were meant to get through shaken but unscathed. Brennan was gunning for him (“Stop trying to kill my dad!/Stop having you dad be the king!/Fuck you!/Fuck you!”).

I think it is very endearing that Grissini, upon hearing that Jet needed help, immediately started to wildly flag down the Pontifex but, upon actually talking to the Pontifex later, was very formal and hesitant, showing that he really just dropped all his inhibitions and social graces to help Jet in that moment.  

What an INSANE thing to witness as an attendee of this tournament. Like, truly a year’s worth of drama within about 2 minutes. WILD. 

Emily and Siobhan have a quick conversation about whether Alfredi is working with the cheese bandits where Emily cites, “Pasta with cream sauce” as evidence and if this season’s plot twists occur in such a way that they can be retroactively tracked by something like “foods that go together,” I am going to scream. I am also fully prepared for this to be the case.

[krayfishthetypelessblob]

Long ask ahead, sorry: Hey there i wanna ask how do i tell if, as an 8, have a cp/p6 (with w5) fix? Ive been inclined to say cp6 but maybe that just the 8? Also, ive thought of myself as sx/sp for a while but that made me feel rlly disconnected from like community and group in general, which didnt make sense cuz im very big on like “loyalty” and group dynamics. I also identified strongly w a Y/sp, but now it makes sense thats just my 6 need for stability so i can just leave sp as my blind. Just read chestunts the social 8 and that makes sense, but im still not rlly inclined to say im so/sx, but rather sx/so maybe? Or would the description change loads? Esp since the irl person example she gave was much more mellow than me and more cut off from their anger (am slowly integrating tho) and the author went on to say how soc8s can usually mistype as 9 or 2(i have 2 last so there were influences for sure) which didnt apply at all, ive always known i was an 8 (except for when i thought i was a 5 but i was just spiraling what a time). But yea anyways, i feel like after all this time im rlly close to figuring out EXACTLY what my combo is and i just require like some tweaking. So yea, how do i tell bw 8(w7 if that helps) w a cp or p fix and ALSO soc/sx vs sx/soc 8? Ughhhh this is so frustrating im so close

cont:  Ah fuck, follow up cuz i forgot smth. What prompted me questioning whether im a cp or p fix is that i saw the distinction that when smth goes wrong p6 blames themselves and cp6 blames others or like chance. I rlly dont relate to that and i often take taking responsibility for myself and my actions to the extreme actually. That being said, i dont much relate to the well, i dont wanna be rude but its the most descriptive thing that comes to mind - lack of spine, i guess, of p6, but again, maybe tahts just my 8 talking? ______________________________________________________________

I’m going to be honest here, I think Chestnut’s countertype theory focuses too much on behavior rather than motivation as has lead to countless mistypes (ie. soc 8 mistyping as a 9 I think is almost unheard of irl despite what she says, unless the 8w9 in question is delusional, has a heavy wing lean, and/or grossly underestimates their own anger and disagreeableness, which I suppose happens on occasion).  Saying that 8 would mistype as 2 or 9 due to somewhat catering to the group is an exaggeration.  In general, I don’t suggest trusting those descriptions, especially if you potentially relate to soc a lot and 8 a lot when viewed separately.   I think part of the issue you’re having here typing might be that you’re “not seeing the forest for the trees” (which is pretty common for Ne doms tbh, as they can be blinded by potential.), so if you find that what I say here isn’t super helpful to you, it may be worth exploring IV as separate to core as separate to your probable cp or p6 fix.

While I don’t really think differentiating p or cp6 is super relevant on a fix (as it won’t change a bunch of things), it’s worth noting that the boundary is not a fixed black and white plane.  Often, I’ve heard even 6 fixers note a back and forth between which strategies they take (p or cp wise) when dealing in the realm of fear and head matters.  Taking from the only person I’ve seen who potentially has a phobic preference attached to heavy 8 influence (ie. a 386, for reference), I find that a more phobic influence attached to 8 tends to look for “a safety zone” within trusted others and leads to an 8 who is a bit more communicative and obvious about their fears (unintentionally) than your average 8 (since 8 in general is averse to showing weakness).  86x combos, especially those which are not soc blind, tend to place a lot of importance on loyalty, hence an 8 with a more phobic preference seems to specifically lean on structure or having someone to have their back unconsciously/in a way they hope is not noticeable to others or they might even deny a lot more than one with a more cp preference.

The addition of a 6 fix isn’t going to magically emulate sp, if you related to S?/sp before, you might want to look into so/sp, as any 86x combo is likely to appear pseudo sx anyways due to the level of reactivity and intensity that comes with double reactive combos in general (however I’m not one to tell people what they are and what they aren’t, so if you’re confident in sp blindness, feel free to ignore; I’m going to talk about all three instincts for sake of organization)

Sx is the instinct most connected to its own instincts and desires.  8 and 7 both are id types, hence both fixated or instant gratification of desire and specifically have the vices of lust and gluttony respectively.  Understanding that conjunction, we can understand that a sx 8w7 would not only be the most desirous types within the enneagram but the one with the least self-control.  Without a concern for mental and physical limitations (ie. sp blindness) and with catering for others only being a secondary focus, sx/so 8w7 is inclined in average health levels to almost single-mindedly pursue its desires, often regardless of risk nor how they will be perceived (unless of course it threatens other sx desires of course).  Comparatively to so/sx at least, it will be more disagreeable and reckless by nature.

Soc by comparison is the instinct most connected on power dynamics and unconsciously, so I suppose we could argue that Chestnut’s description at least caught onto the fact that soc 8 would often be the least disagreeable of the 8s.  8, by the mechanics of the type, however, will never be disconnected from anger and are by nature disagreeable and even as the “countertype” that is no exception.  Focused on gaining power and avoiding being limited by any means, both so/sp and so/sx are inclined to be more “calculating” than the other 8 subtypes (though still moved by instinct and impulse; We are not talking about the level of calculation of 5 or 6).  The blatant aggression and desire of 8 will be somewhat tempered by comparison by an understanding of how to navigate power dynamics and understanding of how their actions effect the group (though this will not always force them to yield). Desires may also connect directly to the group or community as well, which I suppose may be where she’s getting the 2 bs, but 8 is by nature a self-serving type by comparison. So/sx still lacks sp, so while more self-controlled than sx/so, so/sx is not considered to be self-controlled and maintains that lack of knowledge on personal limits.

[megashadowdragon]

whitleyschn33 . tumblr . com/post/190331295478/the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee-id-like-to-pose-a

ozcarpins tags to reblog the above Tagged: this, team RWBY would rather let EVERYONE die than make a hard decision, its exhausting to think that the narrative is going to pretzel around them to make them write again,  , .

marithlizard said: I don’t know what the right answer is, but I do think a panicked retreat into a siege is a bad idea. They haven’t prepared for this, embargo or no. The other two relics will fall while Atlas floats in isolation, and Salem will find a way up there. If she destroys the rest of humanity, is that really a victory? Maybe if you know that putting all four relics together will summon the gods and end the world. But James does not know that.

the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee said: @marithlizard​ The point isn’t so much that Ironwood’s hasty plan is a good idea necessarily or one that is sustainable, its that the one RWBY put forth is unviable because they don’t understand that Atlas is alone in this right now. No one can help them and Atlas’s resources are exhausted. They can’t survive another major hit, but RWBY isn’t putting forth a better solution.

marithlizard said: @the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee Yeah, I’m not claiming their plan is viable either. Like I said, I truly don’t know how the right way to turn this around. But once they’ve started on the “commit an atrocity and then flee into a corner” plan it can’t be backed of. Stop that plan first, then think of a better alternative.

the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee said: @marithlizard​ That’d be great, wonderful in fact. Except that they don’t have the time for that. Everything is falling to pieces around their ears right now and Salem isn’t going to give them the luxury to breathe while they figure out something better. She will probably get the relics anyway if they just sit where they are, because they can’t hold her off. They don’t have the resources to.

marithlizard said: @the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee You’re not wrong, but “no time for that” is relative. Ironwood came up with his plan in a state of complete panic, shock and post-battle shakes in what, five minutes? (I can’t see the episode yet but that’s what it looks like). The kids’ counterplan was even more reflexive. No wonder they suck. Actually, what they really need to do this minute is lock down Oscar and the lamp and review security footage in the office (½)

marithlizard said: (2/2) to see who left that chess piece, that kinda thing, and keep evacuating while they do. Then take at least an hour or two to brainstorm. Raising Atlas can’t happen instantly anyway, and not having the two sides at each others’ throats will improve the odds of success whatever plan they go with.

marithlizard said: But, panicked flailing on all sides is what happened and now we’ll see where it goes. :)

the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee said: @marithlizard​ I agree that they should slow down and take some time to hash shit out before actually taking action, but they really don’t have time for that. At least, not immediately. Don’t read on if you don’t want spoilers, but Oscar is MIA with the relic and Cinder has effectively signaled that she’s infiltrated the academy. They have to take care of THAT first before they do any breathing and shit. IF they have time afterwards to plan, thats what they should do.

marithlizard said: @the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee Yeah, I think we may actually be close to agreement here. There are oh-shit-right-now things to do, and then there are need-a-plan-PDQ things after that. (And honestly I don’t think Ironwood is in any shape to be doing either. You know what this place doesn’t have? A cranky McCoy type medic to storm in and point out her patient should be unconscious right now and could someone more sane please take over.)

the-kiwi-is-not-a-pewee said: @marithlizard​ I want someone else to take control of the situation because I agree, Ironwood is NOT in the right mindset to be dealing with any of this and the man has been stretched beyond his limits. He needs fucking break.

[littleangel4996]

My Fate Pt 3

Summary: After (Y/n) takes care of Michael,he wakes up in the morning confused as hell and wants answers same as her.

Warning: reader undressing Michael but keeps her eyes on his face, Michael wrapped in a towel, cursing, mentions of virginity.

Michael faints in my lap after he told me who he is. Thank my fucking ancestors that I'm a witch because this man weighs a ton for a skinny.

I use transmutation to teleport to the bathroom and get him clean. This is going to be very difficult for me because how am I supposed to bathe him while he's out ? Again he's heavy.

I'm going to have to wake him a little bit, but he's so peacefully asleep I don't want to wake him up. Let me look up online on how to bathe someone unconscious.

I look it up and nothing except either bathing with him (which I rather avoid) or bathe him in bed (now that's a good idea) or even better, let him sit on the tub while I bathe him so I could avoid getting my clothes wet and not be naked with a stranger. I set the shower for warm temperature. As I wait for the water to be warm I start to take off his jean jacket, yellow dirty shirt and start to unbuckle his khaki pants throwing them in the hamper behind me. The last article is his briefs. Holy crap oh God. I've never seen a actual penis except on a porn website that I accidentally saw when I had to borrow Madison's laptop. I've actually never even done it with a man.

I have to suck it up, I have to suck it up.

I keep saying it like a mantra. I take a deep breath and remove his underpants. I just kept my eyes on him not his “thing”.

-----

This was the hardest task for me than performing the seven wonders.

I had a little strength to help him to the guest room is as he lands perfectly on the bed. I made sure a towel is wrapped around his waist and I finally tuck him in the covers removing the bangs from his face. He looked so much like an angel. The fire alarm goes off in the kitchen as I go downstairs I see smoke coming from the oven. I quickly open up the windows then quickly opened up the oven to be greeted with black smoke in my face. I ran the near drawer to find a rag as I fanned out it out the best I can.

As for the pizza, well there is no point in eating it unless I enjoy burnt pizza then I'm probably crazy.

Instead of a warm meal for dinner I thought a nice (f/f) ice cream was a good way to cool things down after one crazy night. Especially when you just moved in to your new home.  Selene, now soundly asleep in bed while watching a little bit of TV as myself start to go into a deep slumber and deal with the situation tomorrow.

Next this is Michael's POV

Michael's P.O.V

After grandma threw me out and not caring or worrying about where to go. She basically doesn't care if I sleep on a fucking bench. None other less I still love her, maybe if I go to the park for a little bit and then maybe I can return home so we can forgive each other. That happy thought was soon cut off as I was struck by someone's car. I laid  on the ground hurt. I can barely move. The car stops probably going to check on me. The person behind the wheel backs up their vehicle and runs me over again

Again.

Again.

And again.

I wake up gasping for air. I'm back in my old room.

"It was only a dream. Ha it was just a bad dream" I chuckled as I laid back down rubbing my eyes. Or is it my room.  Looked around closely to see that I'm laying in a king size bed, instead of my dresser being white they were mahogany and a flat screen TV ? Where is my video game system and my desk along with my shelf with my other stuff. Well I guess there is a shelf that's stacked with books and bored games.  I decide to climb out of bed and look down at myself with only a towel wrapped around me and surprisingly clean. I remember a girl, the one who hit me in the face.

Could she be the one who cleaned me. Probably that's why I'm naked. I hope she cleaned my clothes, maybe there are clothes in the dresser.

I walked over to the dresser as I open to find it empty. Figures. Okay, as long as I'm wearing the towel around my waist I'll still be covered.

As I come to open the door there she appeared in pink pajamas with mices printed on them and about to reach the knob. It was the girl who cleaned me. Wow, I've never seen anyone that looks so beautiful. Her (h/l) (h/c) so healthy I bet it never has split ends, her skin looks so soft, her (e/c) eyes can hypnotize anyone and...she is holding my clothes.

“Good morning Michael”

“Good morning umm” She hands me my clean clothes.

“(Y/n) (/l/n) but please call me by my first name” she says nervously. “Oh when you are dressed you may come down for breakfast with me and Selene”.

“Selene?” I gave her a questioning look.

“Oh my cat, she's friendly of course. But enough with me talking you must be dressed you won't be naked. okay I'll be gone.” The girl name (y/n) leaves down stairs heading to the kitchen I believe.

(Y/n) P.O.V

I just got done with pancakes and bacon placing them each on the plate. 2 pancakes and 5 strips of bacon. I don't know if he prefers orange juice, milk or coffee. I'll just ask him when he comes down. He may actually fit into my ex-boyfriend's clothes and shoes. I heard the padded footsteps coming from the stairs to see Michael dressed in his old clean clothes.

“Hey, you're just in time for breakfast. Would you like coffee, orange juice or milk “ I've asked him.

“ Umm I've never tried coffee before, how is it ? “ He asked.

“Well to me it's good, would you like to try mine” he nodded his head. I pass him my cup as he takes small sips of mine until he almost drinks the whole thing. I start to giggle and say “ You can keep it, I'll pour myself another cup”.

I take a cup from the cabinet, adding stuff to my coffee and take a seat across from Michael. He looks at me as if he's waiting for me to give him the go ahead to eat.

“ Please, eat. You've been underground for since God knows when.” He doesn't wait for me to tell him twice as he eats like he's never ate before, like literally. I began to eat as well. This is so fucking weird. I've never thought I would be having someone from the grave to eat breakfast with me.

“Hey, Michael. May I ask you some questions?” I asked. He pauses before putting another pancake in his mouth, dropping the fork.

“I as well would like to ask some questions to Ms. (Y/n)” .

“ just (y/n) please” I say to him and he nodded.

For a little bit of awkward silence until I broke it.

“So Michael, if you don't mind me asking what happened to you like how did you die.”

Michael was hesitant at first but he answered.

“ Well first of all, this used to be my home until you moved in. Actually is this year 2015 still” he asked.

“ Wait no, this is 2020. You've been dead for 6 years.” His blue eyes widened, shocked that he been dead for 6 years. Damn Id be in the same position as Michael. Michael explains what happened to him.

“And second off, My grandma and I had a fight and she told me she never wanted me nor see me again then-”

“Oh my god she killed you ?”

“No” he retorted. “But she did left me on road for dead after she told me to go to hell”. Wait what? He tells me his grandmother didn't kill him but left her grandson on the road for dead after telling him to go to hell.

“Did you get a good look at who killed you” he shook his head. “All I know is that a black car hit me. I don't know what kind of car it was, I'm sorry.” He looked like he wanted to cry.

“I probably deserved it, after I killed the animals and the priest I should have stayed dead. I'm a monster” he cried. So the dead animals were his doing...and a priest, what priest? But I'm not the kind of person to judge, a wise woman once  taught me ‘

‘those who judge will never understand and those who understand will never judge.’

I rubbed my hand on top of his as he looked up at me with his teary blue eyes.

“Listen Michael,what you did was in the past. People can change and deserve a second chance” I finished.

“Why do you want to help me” he wipes his tears away.

“I just told you, everyone deserves a second chance in life. Even if you done plenty dirty deeds. You probably have questions for me too, don't  you.” He nodded his head.

I take a deep breath and “ Michael I was the one who brought you back to life. My cat Selene found dead animals from yours and grandmother's backyard and I guess when I brought them back from the dead I also brought you.” He's getting confused, oh dear.

“ Michael what I'm trying to say is that I'm….well... a witch” I admitted. “ And no not like wizard of Oz, Sabrina the teenage witch or any sort. I'm talking from the old age witch. I came from a private school in New Orleans, Louisiana called Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies where young witches are automatically enrolled once their powers have been uncovered.we've been taught the history of our kind on how to practice witchcraft, to discover and control our abilities” I finished. I was waiting for Michael to laugh at me or be scared of me but he crossed his arms cocking his head.

“Prove it”.

“What ?” I tried to replay what he just said but I thought he just told me to prove it to him that I'm a witch.

“It's the only way that I'm going to believe you” he said. I took a big sigh using one of my powers, pyrokinesis. I concentrate on the coffee cup as it boils then flames erupted from the cup making Michael jump out of his chair. Then I transmuted behind him poking his shoulder turning around so fast that he's seen a ghost.

“That-that”

“Michael please relax I'm not going to hurt you” I reassured him.

“Was awesome!” He exclaimed having a smile on his face.

“Wait really, you ain't scared of me” I asked, I'm very shocked because if I show these abilities to normal people then they'll run away screaming monster. Well not really but still

“Not at all, I think you would have killed me again if you were a bad evil witch but you are a good awesome witch” he finishes. Selene rubs up against me as I picked her up, rubbing her face against mine. Michael tries to pet her but Selene immediately hisses at Michael. He steps away from her.

“Selene will get used to you Michael don't take it offensive” I said. Michael tucks both his hands in his pockets and nods.

This is going to be one hell of a strange adventure.

-Now as you can see this was a long ass fucking chapter 😂. But I'm glad I took my time with this chapter and thank you for the people were patient ❤️.

@barbie-solecism

@sodanova

@yourkingcodyfern

@kylolangdon

@theghostoflangdon

@miskwaadesiwag

@whysosadmcfly

@creativedogs

@kaccatus

@lxngdonscoven

@captainskyline

@gracethegeek9902

@castiel-saved-me-from-myself

@let-me-try-mom

@edward-nygma-is-my-addiction

@amortentiaxo

@langdonsdemon

@poisedphantom

[fallenesspoetry]

The [Uninvited] Guest

AO3 FFN

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Raymond Reddington(/)Donald Ressler

Warnings: Light swearing, season 4 and season 5 spoilers. Set before season 6.

Summary: Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, shows up at Ressler’s doorstep on Christmas Eve.

Child’s-palm sized flakes of snow were collapsing on the windshield of a black Chevrolet Tahoe. Its wipers swished back and forth, sweeping the icy drops with a hissing “Swoosh!” over and over.

Skyscrapers, grey and dirty by day, molded in nightfall, flickering in reds, yellows and greens. Brakes screeched and honks blared below, the street grey-and-white from mud and snow. Coffee shops signs invitingly winked with crisp lettering at every corner, ready to welcome a passer-by for a cup of hot latte.

Just when Tahoe left tail light flicked orange, a red right blinked. The SUV braked at the crossing, giving way to pedestrians. Those had definitely underestimated today’s weather—a trench coat wasn’t of great use; one’d better wear a woolen hat and wrapped themselves in a scarf. 

Washingtonians hadn’t expected this year’s winter to have learned some tricks from her Russian sister. Snow plows could hardly keep the road clean and spread salt on the sidewalks. The freak weather made all the sane folks chill at home, watch TV and, maybe, have a beer or two.

All, but Donald Ressler, the Special Agent with the FBI. Another day, another psycho on the streets. Thugs didn’t give a damn about Christmas, so the task force closed a case. It had definitely boosted their boss’s mood, so everyone got a Christmas day off.

Donald took the FBI’s civillian SUV to drive home because his own car would stuck in the Gulliver-like snow mounds. Anxiously drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, Ressler glanced either on his watch or the traffic light.

Christmas Eve was around the corner, almost hitting him in the forehead.

The twenty-fourth of December. Seven o'clock.

If he could, he would rather spend Christmas with his mom and brother. But the skies snorted at him, producing a flow of non-stop wet and sleazy cotton candy. He’d be lucky not to get into a blizzard on his way home.

The phone buzzed in his jacket’s pocket. Ressler slipped a curse. Red light had already turned green, so he hurried to push the gas pedal at the impatient “Beep!” from behind.

Someone must have really needed him, judging by the unsteady vibration tickling his chest every ten seconds.

Whoever this was, they could wait. He’d be of no use to anyone if he crashed right now.

Ressler cast a quick glance at the rear-view mirror. His heavily gelled hair was now messy and tousled like he’d just woke up. A few stray strawberry blond bangs fell onto his forehead. Pandas envied his eyes’ dark bags—sleep deprivation was his best friend these days. Steering his way through, he unconsciously licked his full, chapped lips, dehydrated from the AC’s hot air.

Someone hysterically honked behind again. To his left a reddish Mazda rushed to blinking green at the intersection.

Jerk.

In no time Donald braked at red light. The dick of a Schumacher had already halted there.

“Suck it,” Ressler muttered, loosening his tie. His eyes on the traffic light, he resisted to show that dick the middle finger.

Donald rubbed his sore eyes, their green-tobacco hue gleaming in the tail lights of a car in front.

One could squeeze him like a lemon and he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Shower. Dinner. Bed. 

A workaholic Holy Trinity.

The light changed to green.

About time.

Already dreaming of his comfy quilt and pillow, Ressler accelerated. Chevy’s engine gratefully purred when he smoothly shifted the gear, speeding up.

The vibration in his left inside pocket was almost aggressive. And the snowfall inherited dogged vibes from his cell too: he could barely see anything on the road, snowflakes splashing over the windshield with a nasty slurping sound.

Passing a Chinese take-out to his right, Ressler finally took the cell out of his pocket.

Nick’s Pizza.

Pizza delivery, my ass. He knew who hid behind that caller ID.

“Yes?” Ressler angrily blurted, pressing the cell to his ear.

“Good evening, Agent Ressler.”

He would have recognized this voice out of hundreds, no, thousands of people. Silky smooth, always with a hint of a genuine laugh at everything. But most of the time it was he, Donald, the guinea pig of the mockery.

The infamous Raymond “Red” Reddington. 

Each time Red gave the task force a case, Donald, his teeth gritted, would cut a deal with his own conscience. The Bureau threw a scumbag behind the bars; Reddington—got rid of an annoying competitor.

“Shouldn’t there be a Christmas tree for Christmas?” Reddington politely inquired.

Tahoe jerked, almost sliding in a dangerous proximity to a street pillar, but Ressler steered her right back in a moment.

“What…” he bit his tongue not to slip a curse, “tree?”

“Green, Donald. My God, these walls… No wonder you’re so uptight.”

Who the fuck he thinks he is?!

Ressler didn’t breath a sound. He dug his fingers into the steering wheel so hard it hurt.

“I apologize for the intrusion, but I’m afraid it’s rather urgent. Besides, no one of sane mind would look for me at your place.”

If he could, he’d bribe any amount of mercenaries if it spared him of this arrogant, self-absorbed, ridiculously wealthy prick.

Fortunately or not Reddington was the adjunctive informant to the FBI. It meant he was his responsibility, regardless how badly Ressler wanted to barbeque his guts. Ressler would always do his job even if the only mention of Concierge of Crime made his stomach turn with disgust.

“I’ll be there in two hours,” Donald growled, hanging up, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

If the blizzard went on like that, he’d be home way past Christmas.

*

Ressler parked the car, trying to wrap his mind about the fact Raymond Reddington broke into his apartment.

It’s Christmas, for God’s sake!

Muttering curses, Donald picked up his laptop bag and three pizza boxes from the backseat.

He sauntered to the front door and turned the doorhandle. The hall met him with the usual epileptic blinking—one of the bulbs hadn’t met its end yet.

Cleaning the mailbox of ads and bills, Ressler threw the latter into the bag with pizzas.

The elevator softly beeped behind his back.

Donald got in and pressed “10”. The elevator creaked up to the tenth floor much longer than usual, its snail-like speed driving him crazy.

It suddenly stopped, the door opening at the seventh floor. A man stepped in, wearing a grey coat and a red hat. His snow-white beard and thin rimmed glasses reminded Ressler of Santa Claus. The man’s hands were busy with two green and bushy Christmas trees.

Really?!!

Life had a twisted sense of humor.

Somewhere a cell rang.

Not mine.

“Yes, honey,” the stranger said, trying to make one of the trees stand straight on the floor. A trace of unwavering obedience was heard in his voice. He glanced at the changing floor number. “Just as you asked—” His forehead sank into a confused frown. “But, dear…”

A spiteful hissing of the man’s wife on the other end reached Donald’s ears. Nerves of steel? Endless love? He hadn’t even raised his voice to argue.

“I’ll figure something out… Yeah, okay.” He let a weary sigh. Noticing Ressler, he asked, “Want a Christmas tree?” There was so much hope in his voice that Donald felt sorry for him.

But he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. And yet nothing in his apartment said “Merry Christmas!” except three pizzas—cheese, pineapple and anchovies—and a six pack of beer he had bought before.

There was a box with Christmas lights somewhere in the kitchen. And another box with Christmas toys in the closet.

“Yeah, why not.”

Donald reached for his wallet.

“Nah, it’s Christmas,” the man said. The elevator halted on the tenth floor. “Woah, we’re neighbors. Merry Christmas!”

“You too.”

Ressler had almost took the keys out of his pocket when he reached the door to his apartment. A second later he realized that Reddington had already to be inside. 

He simply turned the handle and entered. It took some time and effort to secure the Christmas tree straight up, but he managed. It stood perfectly still so far, leaning against the wall. He also put his laptop bag and pizza down.

The hallway smelled of home baking.

Neighbors? If it was Reddington, he’d rather eat his badge. 

The Concierge of Crime in the apron? Ridiculous.

“Ah, Donald, here you are. I was getting worried you’d stuck in there,“ Reddington’s sneaky voice caught him off hard. 

The badge slipped from Ressler’s hand, but he managed to catch it. He felt Reddington’s eyes on him, so he muttered something about the weather.

Reddington knowingly nodded, his eyes shifting to the Christmas tree, almost five feet tall.

“Ah, the spirit of Christmas isn’t dead, is it? Well, what are you waiting for? Come on in.”

“It’s my apartment,” Ressler growled, taking off his shoes.

Whenever Reddington was around, Donald felt a worthless, miserable loser. It wasn’t true; he had been on top of his class in college and at the Academy. He had spent countless hours undercover and conducted a series of successful operations.

The one and only time the luck had turned its back on him was the Concierge of Crime’s assassination in Brussels.

It cost him dearly—he had to work his way back for almost a year to restore his reputation.

Few years later Raymond Reddington surrendered to the FBI, demanding to speak exclusively with the man who had spent the prime years of his career chasing him all over the world. 

Soon enough Donald spent more time napping on the jets to Cuba, Mexico and Prague than at his bed. His fiancé, tired of the competition, left him. He couldn’t blame her, though.

Now Reddington looked much better in person than his sketch in the database. Well-groomed, not a wrinkle on the round face, though he was over fifty. He was slightly overweight whim made him quite appealing. Some agents called him “Reddybear” behind his back.

Ressler could argue that Reddington’s reaction depended on his appearance or age. And as much as he wished to ignore it, it had saved his life once.

However, if he had the chance, he would rather shovel the Christmas tree star up into his ass.

Is he glued to floor or what?

Reddington still stood there, his thin lips twisted in a cheeky grin.

What the..? Whatever.

Donald took off his black coat and hung it on the rack. After a day of nonstop run-and-chase even a vagabond wouldn’t want to wear his coat. He had almost let a low grunt seeing Reddington’s ash-colored cashmere coat on the rack next to his leather jacket. 

Reddington was a sucker for luxury and wealth. He would always show-off wearing his three-piece suits and rarely stepped outside without a fedora.

Tonight wasn’t an exception.

“Donald, you’d better wear a scarf next time. You don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”

Almost rolling his eyes, Ressler watched Reddington leave the hallway. He took the Christmas tree and went into the living room.

What the hell…

To say he was surprised was an understatement.

“I asked Dembe to give me a hand. He wanted to help with the Christmas tree, but since it’s your place, I think you should be doing it.” Reddington took a sip of whiskey from the tumbler in his hand.

Ressler missed half of the sentence Reddington was saying, trying to take in what had just happened to the living room.

“…We left the bedroom untouched. Unfortunately, the nightmare you call ”wallpapers” is still there. However,” Reddington grinned, “you don’t invite the guests straight to bedroom, do you?”

Donald had an urge to show the exact destination he’d love to invite Reddington. Part of him wanted to strangle the bastard for what he’d done, but the other part was actually grateful. A tiny bit. Just a bit.

The room had indeed become much better: an old and tattered couch was replaced with a new, wide and comfy along with two armchairs. The walls were painted in a pleasant sandy yellow instead of the old wallpapers peeling off at the corners. There was a couple of plant pots on the windowsill—Donald had no clue where they came from. He wasn’t a plant-friendly guy, so he’d bet a hundred bucks those were dead in a week. 

Now the living room was much cozier than before. His coffee table remained at the same place, and yet it was fixed up, scuffs and scratches gone. A neat pile of The Washington Post and car repair mags had been left exactly the same way Ressler did this morning.

“You like it?” Reddington asked, a hint of genuine care heard in his voice.

Reddington and care? I must be delusional.

“Yeah, thanks. But why?”

“It’s Christmas. Of course,” Reddington gave him a foxy smile, “I’m not expecting anything in return. Gifts make me uncomfortable.” He took another sip. Swirling the tumbler, he said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself. I usually prefer the taste of a much higher price tag, though… I hope you don’t mind.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“Donald, you’re a picture of hospitality.”

“I’m not the one who breaks into the apartments on Christmas.” Ressler pointed at the Christmas tree. “A hand, please?”

To Ressler’s surprise, Reddington actually helped him to put up the Christmas tree.

“Thanks. Where’s Dembe?” As far as he remembered, Dembe was Reddington’s shadow to follow him wherever he’d go. “I owe him for this one.”

For a moment Reddington’s eyes seemed to get wet with tears.

No, just a trick of light.

He and Reddington shared the same eye color—a rich green-tobacco. Each time their eyes met Ressler felt extremely odd and uncomfortable.

As if you were looking into your own.

But the difference was, one would want nothing but to escape the hard, assessing stare, picking every detail, every change you hadn’t even suspected of.

Reddington had a massive amount of dirt on everyone—CEOs, politicians, bankers, defense contractors… You name it. He also knew the whereabouts of the most dangerous outlaws no one had even heard of. Nothing slipped from him. He told Ressler once that almost all people were an open book for him. It was true.

At times Ressler was terrified at what Reddington could’ve read learned about him. He wished to erase a lot of stuff for these years of the game Reddington and the Bureau had been playing.

The fact that most of his memories involved Reddington, the man who forsook his flag and country, drove Ressler nuts.

At first he was desperately looking for the “Why me?” answer. Somehow he wanted to believe it was he who made Reddington surrender.

What could possibly the most boring person like himself do to make Concierge of Crime seek the FBI’s protection?

So he let it go.

“He’s with his granddaughter,” Reddington answered.

“Oh.”

It was beyond awkward. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Reddington had the blues.

Could he, really?

Reddington’s eyes faded, and he seemed rather stiff. For a moment Ressler missed the Reddington who’s used to cite one of those smart-ass quotes or crack a joke. Obviously, the favorite subject of ridicule was he, Donald. But eventually Ressler simply rolled with that.

Unexpectedly for himself he wanted to soothe him somehow.

Soothe?!! Soothe him?!!

Reddington was the FBI’s asset, an informant. And an extremely dangerous criminal. His empire thrived on money laundering and arms dealing. Any competitor met his maker in a shot. Literally. And though Reddington had never killed an innocent man, it didn’t change the fact he had blood on his hands.

So why it feels like shit?

The man before him wasn’t the Concierge of Crime, but a man, drowning in sickening, almost suffocating loneliness. The one Ressler knew too well.

At least there was one thing they had in common—building bulletproofs walls around themselves. Anyone who’d try to pass was immediately brushed off, with no further regrets.

The fact Reddington hadn’t hopped on his private jet to Monte Carlo, but came over to the person who hated his guts, was quite telling.

Reddington and those like him didn’t have friends. Allies, partners, acquaintances… Anyone but friends.

The very first year of Reddington and the Bureau’s symbiosis was memorable. Ressler caught a bullet into his thigh and lost lots of blood. And, as fate would have it, he got locked up with Reddington. And he, to Donald’s utmost surprise, performed a field transfusion which saved his life. Ressler was lucky they shared the same rare blood type—B negative.

Suddenly Ressler realized a thing.

Reddington considered him a friend. At least, in his twisted paradigm. If to roll with the snarky comments, Reddington must have a sort of admiration for him. He even told him that in person. But Donald would rather swallow a bullet than admit he respected Reddington.

They went into the small kitchen. There were two bags from the Sticky Fingers on the counter. The mix of ginger and vanilla in the air reminded Donald about his mom’s baking. He’d sell his soul for her pie with berries and wallnuts.

Donald put pizza boxes on the counter and then looked into the first bag.

Ginger-honey biscuits, ginger biscuits, chocolate muffins, pretzels, cupcakes, donuts. The second bag was with pies. One of them Donald instantly recognized—his Mom baked exactly the same. The other one was a meat pie.

“I didn’t know what you like. There must be baklava somewhere too.” Reddington put a teakettle on the stove, ignoring the electric one just on his right. “If we want to have Christmas dinner on time, we’d better dress the green lady up in the living room first.”

Concierge of Crime making tea in his kitchen! It’s like a snowstorm in Ecuador.

But there he was, in flesh and bone, humming some Christmas carol.

“You said it was urgent. I’m all ears.” Donald opened the drawer, taking out the box with Christmas lights. 

A number of conflicted and particularly twisted emotions was itching within him right now. The change of the subject seemed the perfect way to cool down.

“Ah, indeed. Must have slipped my mind.” Reddington paused. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

“The FBI works for you already. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but it’s a fact,” Ressler said, trying to untangle the lights’ cord with the bulbs. 

Somehow Reddington knew the exact place Ressler kept the cups and dishes. He unpacked the pie and one of the pizzas and put them in the oven. Then—arranged the muffins, cupcakes and pretzels on the plate. The rest of the goods he hid in one of the cupboards where Ressler kept bread.

Reddington found the teapot Donald hadn’t used since college and added the tea in it.

“Forget the FBI. I need you. You’re the best man for the job. Especially after Laurel’s death.” 

At this point Ressler would love nothing more but to strangle Reddington with the Christmas lights’ cord and, maybe, lit it up. 

Laurel Hitchin had been his nightmare for more than a year. Deep down he knew it had been an accident.

I didn’t mean it, for God’s sake!  

But he didn’t call it in.

Instead, he called a cleaner. 

Like the last piece of thrash on Earth. 

Of course, the luck had turned its back on him. Again. So he, once an honored FBI agent, did a number of unforgivable, horrible things. Bribing witnesses, blackmailing, moving the dead bodies, covering up murders, fabricating evidence… He did all that to keep his secret safe. 

“I was ready to go to jail. I didn’t need your help. And I didn’t ask to burn Prescott alive!”

“That’s why I need you, and no one else,” Reddington put a cup in front of him and sat at the table. “You trust no one but your gut. You’re walking on a tightrope, yet at the end of the day you make the right choice. And you can’t be bribed.” Reddington gave him a wide grin. “And, finally, you’re damn good at what you’re doing.”

“As hundreds of other agents.”

“Donald, don’t be shy,” Reddington took a sip of tea and bit at the ginger-honeyed biscuit. “M-m… Perfect. If you like honey, you’re going to like this one.” Red took another sip. “Think about it.” 

Ressler wanted to refuse at once, but Reddington raised his index finger. Apparently, he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.

“You have a week.”

Ressler sighed deeply. The cup warmed his hands, but on the inside he felt colder than an iceberg.

He didn’t realized the room was getting filled with the smell of prunes and apricots mixed with pineapples, until it’s aroma tickled his nose.

“Better do a raincheck on that.” Reddington stood up, and went to the oven. 

And Donald was left to fight with his own conscience.

To work? For him?!

The system he always put his trust with had been rotten to the core. It stank of corruption and cover-ups. More and more cases got tossed away if some moneybag threw in some cash here and there. And one could do nothing.

But what Reddington was offering… It crossed everything he woke up for in the mornings.

To seek justice for those who couldn’t do it on their own. And to punish those who deserve it.

But hadn’t he crossed the line one couldn’t go back?

The world wasn’t no longer black and white, good and evil. 

Because Reddington showed him there was much more to it.

And hadn’t he become everything he loathed?

A crooked cop.

There was no way to change that, no matter many scumbags he’d lock up.

No way to erase it. No way to make amends.

Reddington stared at him. There was something in his eyes Ressler couldn’t identify yet.

Empathy?

Understanding?

“I know what you’re thinking, Donald. And no, there are plenty of men capable of a killing job at my hire. I wouldn’t ask you to do that. At least out of the respect how much you value someone’s life.” Reddington paused, looking Ressler straight in the eye. “Even if it’s as miserable as mine.”

Ressler winced at the memory he had once caught a bullet for Reddington.

“You’re my responsibility. No matter how badly I hate your guts, it’s my job to protect you.”

“I know, Donald. And I’m ready to do the same for you.” 

Reddington gave him a long, piercing look. It seemed he was put under the microscope. Ressler could swear his whole body grew Alaska-like cold on the inside.

Donald withstood the overwhelming, almost stripping stare. Though the tide of doubts within was already coming up, ready to gargle him.

He didn’t know what to say. To he honest, he’d always been allergic to this elaborate and confusing mechanism they called a human soul. That was the reason he had almost flunk the exam on profiling.

Reddington theatrically clapped his hands.

“My goodness, the time! Donald, decorate the Christmas tree. We have one hour left. But please, don’t fall from the ladder like last time. Remind me, what was your disguise?.. Ah, the museum curator. An early Picasso hit you really bad on your head, didn’t it? Fun times, fun times indeed…”

It took Ressler a real effort not to roll his eyes on him.

This year’s Christmas seemed fun. Sort of.

Well, at least there was one thing he was still sure of.

You won’t get bored with Raymond Reddington.

[vanquisher2099]

Part Seven: A Hacker Walks into a Club

Jade left the office with a feeling of impending doom hanging over her head. The sun had already set, but the night really never had a chance to take any sort of hold in the city, not with so many lights all over the place. Normally, she considered the bright city lights something of a comfort, but at the moment she would have welcomed the darkness. She felt far too visible out here, watched by eyes that she knew were probably unfriendly. Still, the important thing was not to panic. Her mind was running through any number of scenarios, all of them unpleasant.

Vanishing was out of the question, of course. The whole point was that someone had to keep an eye on Camila, and step in at the first sign of trouble. Except if her cover was well and truly blown, it was only a matter of time until Camila figured out who she really was, and while there was no guarantee Camila would take the opportunity for revenge (in fact, there was a much better chance she’d be willing to help), Jade just as soon would not find out. But to vanish would be to utterly admit defeat and, as far as she was concerned, resign herself to a life on the run. Still, it would at least give her the opportunity to hunt down Alayna. That was a tempting thought.

Jade shook her head, as if to clear it of the temptation. Alayna was, for all intents and purposes, dead. It wouldn’t do to go haring off after her and placing the both of them in danger, even if it would be immensely satisfying to see her face. File that away under plan B, Jade decided as she ordered a cab. A few minutes later, and she was sitting comfortably in silence as the automated cab took her to her destination: a small, out-of-the-way bar and (occasional) dance club on the west side of the city. While the cab drove, Jade pulled up a program on her computing rig that effectively functioned as an advanced privacy module – which was a fancy way of saying it blocked anyone from seeing her location. Normally, she didn’t bother with it, as it blocked everything, including navigation assistance, but as she’d called a cab (and as she really, really didn’t want anyone to be able to easily locate her at the moment), she made an exception.

With that accomplished, she began steeling herself for what would, inevitably, turn into a fight. What she was doing crossed a line that she and the others had all agreed they would try very hard not to cross. It was downright dangerous to even accidentally encounter one another, and they had drawn up plans to make certain that such accidents did not happen. There was, in essence, danger in the wrong person seeing more than one of them in one place, and while they’d both undergone some serious work to change their appearances, well… an AI was difficult to fool, after all.

Still, if anything was worth taking the risk for, it was this – and it was, after all, part of their contingency plan for any sort of emergency. Jade simply wasn’t sure what the next move should be. There was, simply put, not enough data available to her to be able to make the right call, and while getting the right data was possible, it was also far too much of a risk for her to declare herself so openly back in business. She needed, in essence, someone who was already pulling down the data, and that meant going to see Maesin.

The cab rolled to a stop and chimed to let Jade know her account had been debited the amount. Her hand hesitated over the door handle. “You could just run,” she thought to herself again. “You could run and find Alayna and find a nice place to just settle down and get out of this whole fucking business.” It was a tempting thought. Then she was getting out of the cab and heading into a sea of pulsing bass, bathed in a cool blue neon light that, if she was being honest, really was a bit much, even for a bar aiming for a grimy techno aesthetic.

It was crowded, which made Jade even more uncomfortable. She swallowed back her nerves, putting on the same professionally bored persona that she used at Ceres Industries, and hoped that she came off as stressed and in need of a drink rather than terrified and in need of a drink. Jade waved to catch the attention of the bartender, a younger-looking woman with short green hair.

“What can I get you?” Said with cheery professionalism.

Jade raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you a little young to be working in a bar?”

The bartender snorted. “Look at the eyes, lady. They make us look as young and attractive as they want.” Bright green eyes stared back at Jade, and there was an almost imperceptible flicker to one of them. “Now that your conscience re: corrupting the youth is salved, do you want a drink or not?”

“What’s the strongest drink you have?”

“Too expensive for you, probably.”

“I don’t know, I make quite a lot.”

“Your funeral.” The bartender shrugged and began mixing.

“You’re pretty good at that,” Jade said, conversationally.

“Just like they programmed me to be,” the android replied, depositing the drink in front of Jade with a flourish that was, if they were being honest, completely unnecessary.

Jade nodded her thanks and scanned her credit chip to pay for the drink. As she picked up the drink, she palmed the small chip stuck to the bottom of the glass and slid it into her wristband. A message popped up on her heads up display with a time and location data. After finishing her drink (which was in fact as strong as advertised), Jade felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease slightly. She did not, in spite of her desire to do so, order another drink. Instead, she waved the bartender over and ordered something nonalcoholic, which she sipped slowly, keeping an eye on the time and generally trying very hard to relax.

Eventually, Jade headed back out of the bar and hailed another cab, which took her to the meeting place the chip had indicated. It was a blind alley, of course, the sort of place where people tended to either do shady deals or murders. Jade peered into the alley dubiously, and looked around for a security camera to hack into. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing in range. Taking a deep breath, Jade walked down the alleyway, doing her level best to keep an eye out for anything murderous.

She noticed the movement to her left a split second too late for her to do anything about it. An electrified club came sweeping out of the darkness and quickly accomplished three things: first, it scrambled her computer, making sending any kind of distress signal impossible; second, it overloaded her night vision, effectively blinding her; and third (and perhaps the only one that mattered) it knocked her out cold. Jade’s body jerked and went limp, allowing her assailant to hoist her easily over their shoulder and walk into the night.

When Jade regained consciousness, she was unsurprised to find her computer was unable to send or receive any sort of signal – although the clock did let her know she’d been unconscious for only around five minutes. She also noticed that she’d been tied to a chair, which was bolted to the ground, and she was in what she was pretty sure was a basement. She was, in fact, inside a Faraday cage, which explained the lack of any signals to her computer.

The sound of footsteps on the bare cement floor caused her to refocus, and she was thoroughly unsurprised to see the bartender striding toward her.

“You know Maesin, this is a little over the top, even for you.”

“Is it? Because you know, one of the last times I got summoned to a meeting someone wiped my fucking memory. Forgive me if your sudden reappearance has me acting with an overabundance of caution.”

Jade rolled her eyes and tried to focus past the pounding headache. “Wiping your memory was your idea.”

Maesin’s fist slammed into the cage wall, causing Jade to jump. “It was not my idea, it was some past version of myself’s idea who was, I think, a fucking idiot. She knew I’d hate her for it and fucking did it anyway.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you then,” Jade said, sighing, “You know she did what she thought was right. Besides, you weren’t the only one she was hiding things from – at least some version of you had a say in it.”

Maesin smiled mockingly. “Would it help if I told you it was for your own good?”

“No.”

“Then we’re even, aren’t we?” Maesin said, a little acidly.

Jade snorted. “I guess.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched out between the two women for a while, then. Just as Jade was beginning to think she should have gone with plan B to begin with, Maesin opened the door to the cage and walked up to the chair to let Jade loose. Jade stood up, rubbing her wrists gingerly. Then she punched Maesin in the face, as hard as she could. Her hand exploded into pain, and she swore loudly.

Maesin didn’t really react, choosing instead to watch impassively as Jade cradled her hand. “Sorry,” she finally said, “I guess I deserved that.”

“Remind me to use a weapon next time.” Jade said through gritted teeth.

There was another long pause, before Maesin gave a performative sigh. “Do you want to tell me why you’re here, or would you rather we just glare at each other for a little longer?”

“You’re the one who knocked me out and stuck me in a Faraday cage.” Jade pointed out.

“Yeah, well, I would’ve put you in here even if I wasn’t being paranoid. There’s too many people with a lot of time and less respect for privacy.”

“Fair enough.” Jade took a deep breath, and decided to jump right into it. “D3m3t3r contacted Camila today.”

It was unfair, Jade thought, that Maesin had perfect control over her expressions. She remained completely stone-faced, although Jade knew it had to come as a surprise as she did not immediately respond to the news. Finally, “Did she?”

Jade nodded. “Sent a letter with a warning that there were spies in the organization. It included my ID and complete family history.”

“Your real family history?”

“No, no. But everything we put together? It was all there. And she highlighted it. Specifically.”

This got a frown out of Maesin. “Okay, so you’re blown.”

Jade wanted to agree and start talking about running, but something – maybe the thought that Alayna wouldn’t have given up, maybe not – got her to disagree. “Not quite. Camila didn’t seem like she bought the idea of me as a spy.”

“But you aren’t sure.”

“No, not really. I… she wants me to help track down whoever sent her the list. Except, obviously, I already know it’s D3m3t3r.”

Maesin hummed to herself thoughtfully. “Well, that’s something at least. But D3m3t3r… I mean, you know it can’t be her, right? She went dark years ago, and trust me, I would know if she was active again.”

“Well who else would have any interest in exposing me? And who else would sign off D3? Those seem like pretty firm indicators to me.” Jade ran a hand through her hair, exasperated. “What if she’s back up but somehow laid low enough to keep off your radar?”

“It’s super unlikely.” Maesin said. “Don’t forget, I took over as Madame Midnight for you. There’s nothing that goes on out there that I don’t at least get a rumor of.”

Jade frowned slightly at the memory of giving up her info broker persona. “Okay, so in that case, we’ve got someone trying to trade on D3m3t3r’s name. That doesn’t explain why they’d try to expose me. I mean, how did they even know our contingency plans? Not even D3m3t3r knew about those.”

“True, but if you knew where to look – and it was no secret in D3m3t3r’s organization that we were keeping an eye on Tower, remember – you would just need to look in the right spot. Could be they just assumed personal assistant was a good spot for a spy and flagged you to see if you’d get spooked.”

Jade’s face fell. “Which I did. Shit.”

“You followed the plan.” Maesin said, reassuringly, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. You and I are nothing more than bartender and customer as far as anyone else knows. Well, unless you were tailed on your way to the alley, but I’m reasonably confident you weren’t. Any observation of you stopped the moment you stepped into the bar, according to my own surveillance. It’s frowned on in there.”

Jade felt a measure of relief. “Of course. We picked it specifically for that reason, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did.” Maesin seemed at to think she’d done her best at mollification, and shifted subjects. “Back on topic though – Camila still trusts you?”

“At the very least, she wants me to think she still does. Like I said, she wants my help tracking the source of the message. Like, I’m supposed to bring her a list of potential private investigators who could help.”

“That is…” Maesin trailed off, thinking. “Not the worst thing you could do, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we need to know who the hell is running around claiming to be D3m3t3r as much as Camila does – I mean, probably more than she does, if we’re being honest. If we have to warn Alayna…”

“You know where she is?” Jade somehow managed to keep her voice even. “I sent her a note when I found out she was… you know. But I don’t know if the courier ever found her. I uh, I specifically told him not to tell me if he did, honestly.”

“Smart move. But no, I don’t know where she is.” Maesin said, only being slightly dishonest. “I know where to start looking,” she clarified, “but there’s a number of different identities we’d have to chase down to be sure.”

Jade nodded. “Okay, so then our plan is… I see what I can find with Camila’s resources? And we warn Alayna if we have to?”

“More or less. I’ll see what I can find out on my end. If there’s someone out there trying to use D3m3t3r’s name, it’s a sure bet they’re not going to be particularly friendly to us.”

“Right, well, I guess that’s a plan, then.” Jade gestured to the door of the cage. “I assume you’re going to show me the way out?”

Maesin nodded, and the two headed out of the cage. She led Jade up a flight of stairs to the ground floor of what turned out to be a storage facility, full of lockers for apartment dwellers to keep the things they couldn’t fit in their apartments (but couldn’t bear to part with) secure. Maesin opened one such locker and stepped inside, where Jade could see a set of power cables and a workstation humming quietly.

She couldn’t help a last comment. “You know, I liked the old HQ better.”

Maesin laughed. “Yeah, me too. Exit’s over there. There’s a bus stop two blocks south – it’ll take you back into the center of the city. Do me a favor and don’t reconnect to the network before you’re well away from here.”

Jade bit back a comment about how she was hardly in need of a lecture on proper spycraft, but thought better of it. Instead, she settled for, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” A pause. “You know, it was… good seeing you, somehow. Assault aside.”

“Yeah,” Maesin said, “It’s nice to see a familiar face once in a while, I guess.” Then, as Jade began to walk away, she called after her. “You know… I miss her too. She was my best friend.” There was an almost pleading tone to her voice.

Jade didn’t trust herself enough to turn around. “I know,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Part Eight

Part Six

[mycasandstarrs]

SPN 7x08: “Season 7, Time for a Wedding!”

THEN: Sam calls Dean out on his behavior. Sam and Dean were separated but now they’re back together. Supernatural is a thing. Beck Rosen is their #1 fan; she has a serious thing for Sam.

A waitress in a strip club that’s also in grad school? Fuck yeah, girl! Get your coin!

Dean talking about his situation using the “I got this friend” narrative.

And there’s a blurred El Sol right behind Dean.

(Irrelevant, but do the brothers still do their “sacred pilgrimage” to Vegas?)

Ha, Sam’s text: “348 Twain Ave WEAR FED SUIT!”

“See? Baby bro needs you after all.” Aww, she was sweet.

The pink carnation. “Apparently, pink is for loyalty.”

“I'm in love. And I'm getting married.”

“...”

“Say something, like, uh, like, ‘congratulations,’ for example.”

“What?”

I’m with ya, Dean.

Oh goodness.

Special title card! With the Supernatural twist. Of course.

“Shouldn't she ask for my permission or something?” hahaha.

“You know what? Ignoring everything, have you forgotten the average life-span of your hookups?” AKA the peen of death.

Dean keeping his cool until Becky leaves. ff hahahaha

Dean’s general behavior here is hilarious.

"First official Tweet as Mrs. Becky Rosen-Winchester!" Oh dear. (It does have a nice ring to it tho.)

Dean’s still driving the car from the last episode. (And Cas’ coat is still in the trunk.)

I won’t lie: If I had a husband like Sam, I’d be inclined to show him off too.

“Guy, meet my husband, Sam.”

“Hey. It's an honor to meet you, Sam.”

Ohhhh, knowing this is a demon....

How fucking shhaaddyyy.

Dean juussttt missed them.

Huh, Dean’s got John’s journal with him.

And now he’s got a case that isn’t Sam.

(Oh, I recognize this song from “Pretty in Pink”.) “Cherish” by The Association.

Becky does look nice.

Sam broke through the spell momentarily.

“Feeling better, honey?”

“Now that I’m with you.”

Ooohhh this gives me the heebs and jeebs.

RIP this dude. Killed by baseballs.

pfft. A waffle iron.

Ahh, Dean thought Becky was part of whatever weird thing was happening in town. Fair.

“You know, I went after her, Dean. Maybe that's what's bugging you – that I'm moving on with my life. I mean, you took care of me, and that's great. But I don't need you anymore.” Big Yikes.

Bobby assigns Dean a new hunter partner.

Sam wiping the marker off Becky’s nose is rather cute.

“I got a present for you.”

“His and hers fake IDs? Oh!”

What every relationship needs.

Oh my god, I’m about to see my sweet, darling Garth!!

“Hey, you Dean? I thought you’d be taller.” 

“He said you’d be all surly and premenstrual working with me.” lmao. I love that Bobby had to warn Garth about Dean’s bad mood.

We’re not even a minute into meeting Garth and I’m already in love with him again.

Where did Dean get the sweater vest?? It looks amazing on him.

“Actuarial Insider” pfft.

Garth just cuts straight to the point.

“We were just wondering if you got here by nefarious means.”

“Whoa! Garth!”

“Oh. Uh, I-I didn't mean, of course, uh, corporate backstabbing – I'm sorry. I meant more like, uh, you know, black magic or hoodoo.”

Just when you thought Garth pulled back, he pushed forward even more.

The wife’s a big b-

Dean and Garth already communicate/work well together.

“I'm trying to save you from a really bad accident.”

“Are you threatening me?”   

“No. No, I-I-I'm pointing out a pattern. Why do people keep thinking I'm threatening them?”

“Because it sounded exactly like a threat, dude.”  

lol

Sam’s breaking through the spell again.

“Bring the damn car around. I'm not walking five blocks in my heels.” To be fair, I wouldn’t either.

Garth taking charge. No wonder he was the next Bobby.

“Uh, here's the plan. I drop this lady at my cousin's. He'll stop anything trying to get her. We, uh, find Sam, hopefully fix this, everybody's home in time for ‘America's Got Talent.’ Now, you – you'll be living with a tri-racial paraplegic sniper until this all blows over, okay?”

Bless his heart.

Enough with giving Sam head injuries!!!

From bad to worse.

“Don't worry. I didn't do anything weird.” TAKING OFF A PERSON’S PANTS WHILE THEY’RE UNCONSCIOUS AND THEN HOG TYING THEM TO A BED DOESN’T CONSTITUTE AS “ANYTHING WEIRD”??

“This isn't the honeymoon I had in mind. Well, some of it is, but not in this context.” Becky’s got kinks. That’d actually explain how she knew how to tie Sam down like that.

“social lubricant” pfft.

“You know your pal Guy is the one icing all those people, right?” Not directly.

My patience with this episode is running thin.

Becky’s deep in it now.

“I love reunions. The desperation! These schlubs will sign on the dotted line for money, power, hair – whatever it takes to impress the nostalgically bangable head cheerleader.” That’s smart, I’ll give him that.

Ha, Becky uses the word “gank”.

“Uh, she's got 11 Twitter...ers. Last post – ‘Going on romantic trip with hubster!!!’ Three exclamation points. I guess she got excited.” pfft, Garth.

“I got this thing about fish. Dead eyes, man.” That’s fair.

Sam’s muffled commentary is hilarious.

Not to be a broken record, but none of this would be happening if the Publisher was here instead of Becky.

Setting off the blueberry vodka devil’s trap. Nicely done, Becky.

“Dean Winchester. This is really thrilling. Hey, can I have your autograph?”

“Sure. Yeah, I'll, uh, carve it into your spleen.“

Burn.

Guy’’s “intern”, Jackson, is the one behind the killings.

RIP Jackson. Killed by Becky.

“You’re Crowley!”

“And you're – well, I'm sure you have a wonderful personality, dear.”

Damn. 

Ratted out by the intern.

“There's a reason we don't call our chits in early – consumer confidence. This isn't Wall Street! This is Hell! We have a little something called integrity. This gets out, who'll deal with us? Nobody! Then where are we?” I do admire Crowley’s business ethics.

Crowley and his long term plan: “ You met that dick yet? Smuggest tub of goo since Mussolini. I hate the bastards. Squash 'em all, please. I'll stay clear.”

I almost feel sorry for Guy.

Garth finally comes to, lmao.

An annulment. Even worse than divorce.

Sam has a pretty signature.

“So, I'll see you again?” NO.

“Becky, look. You're not a loser, okay? You're a good person, a-and you've got... a lot of... e-energy. So, you know, just do your thing, whatever that is, and the right guy will find you.”

I’m with Sam here tbh. Becky isn’t a bad person. She’s got issues that might require her to get help and work through them, and when she does, she can be a better person for her own sake. Through that, she can develop better relationships with people. So wherever Becky is in the show’s timeline, I hope she’s doing better.

Becky and Garth. That would’ve been a chaotic relationship.

“Well, buddy, I got to say, man – you, uh... you don't suck.”  What a high compliment from Dean!

AWWW.

“Look, man, uh... When I was all dosed up, I-I said some crap.”

“Oh, you mean, she – she wasn't your soulmate?”

Accept the apology, Dean.

“You know, I got to say, man... For a whack-job, you really pulled it together.”

“That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me.”

hahaha.

“It's stupid to think that you need me around all the time. You're a grown-up.“ Ohhh, look at that progress! We/they need to get it back soon.

“It might be nice.”

“What?”

“I mean, you basically have been looking out for me your whole life. Now you finally get to take care of yourself. About time, huh?”

*cries internally* That’s what I want for Dean too.

[book-tease]

le premier pas, the first step.

Pairing: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin

Summary: Clarke overhears a group of boys discussing how she would be in bed. It makes her feelings for co leader come to a head.

Note: Hello! FIrst bellarke fic and its short but i’m happy with it. idk why i made the title in french tbh so dont ask lol. also the kissing is not great because im still getting my grips on how to write kisses. so... Enjoy!

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

Clarke was leaving the med bay after setting one of the younger kids from the dropship’s dislocated shoulders. He was, hopefully, one of the last injuries she had to tend to today, so she didn't even bother asking how it happened.

It was nearing sun set, and while some were cooking dinner for the rest of them, most were hanging out by a campfire while the heat from the day faded, gossiping and such. Clarke was walking past a group of guys sitting by he campfire with the rest of the 100, although a little further away, with cups of something, most likely moonshine they snuck. They were all laughing at each others jokes, talking about girls they were interested in, and Clarke didn't really want to interrupt to reprimand them for stealing the moonshine, but she didn't want them to think they could get away with it. She neared the group, and stopped in her tracks when she heard her name in their conversation.

She was a leader, and that came with some negative opinions about her, however she never had the time to actually hear those opinions, she just knew they existed. Which was fine, because most of the kids respected her, even when they didn't agree. But she never really heard much about what people thought of her has a person, rather than her leadership. Clarke guessed it was because they were scared of her and didn't want her to overhear them. Which, was smart, because even she could admit if they said something shitty about her she would be a little hurt, she was human after all, and when she's hurt she's miserable trying to hide the fact and tends to snap. Which was what was about to happen.

One of the boys brought her up, Josh she thinks, in a conversation about who they would have sex with. Which, okay, wasn't a great subject to overhear, especially when you're the topic of discussion. This was a sure way to overhear something she didn't like and bottle it up, but she was curious. And prepared to rant to Raven later about how much they are objectified even when in a survival setting.

“Oh, I for sure would hook up with Clarke.” Josh announced to the group. “She's totally hot and has got that bossy leader thing going for her.”

Clarke could admit that was gross, and she was already a little pissed. But what came next from another boy would make her fucking enraged.

The boy was clearly the leader of the group, with floppy red hair, gray eyes and a crooked grin. He was attractive, sure, but in a obnoxious frat boy way and probably had sex less than what he said.

He spoke up, his words slurring a bit, but clear and hurtful nonetheless. “Well, yeah sure shes hot, but shes fucking uptight. If you could even get her to sleep with you she’d probably be such a bitch about it”

A murmur of agreement from the boys was the icing on the cake.

Clarke fumed, and stomped past the group, stolen moonshine long forgotten. She knew where she was going to go and prove to herself how non uptight she was.

It was a combination of things that made her march straight to Bellamy’s tent and maul him. She didn't particularly care what others thought about how uptight she was, definitely not, but she had been resisting the urges to kiss her co leader under the excuse of its not very leader like to do something that reckless.

“Well fuck that” Clarke thought as she neared Bellamy’s tent.

She's a fucking teenager, she's supposed to be reckless, leader or not.

Somewhat aggressively, Clarke pushed back the flap to the tent. Bellamy was stretched out on his makeshift mattress, writing something on a piece of paper. He looked up as she marched in.

“Hey Princess, what's up?” He sat up, making a move to stand up to talk, however he wasn’t able as soon as she practically threw herself on him, kissing him with such passion and fury that he took a minute to return it.

As soon as the shock wore off, he happily kissed her, poking his tongue out to probe her lips to convey he wanted her to open her mouth and let his tongue in. She obliged quickly and eagerly, their tongues intertwined, Bellamy tasting of smoked meat and smelling of the earth. He was intoxicating, and she whined when he pulled away with a wary expression on his face. His brain had caught up to him enough to find it odd for Clarke to have jumped him like she did, never having gone past flirting with her before.

“Alright, what happened?” Bellamy questioned, wearing a look of concern and confusion.

In her determination to do this, Clarke had forgotten how well they had gotten to know each other since they landed on Earth. They knew each other’s moods just by looking at how they're standing and were so in sync. She had pushed aside the fact that he would know something was wrong, even with her tongue in his mouth.

Clarke looked up at him, her walls down and her face showing her distress clearly.

“I… I overheard some guys saying i’m too uptight and id be the same in bed, and that combined with the fact that i really fucking like you and havent done anything about because we’re leader and we can't risk the survival of them for something that-”

Bellamy cut her off with a gentle kiss, hands cupping her face, but before she could respond he pulled away. His hands still cradling her jaw, he looked her in the eyes and gave a reassuring smile. He was pissed that those boy said that about her, but he would deal with that later, once Clarke was calm and knew how gone he was for her.

“Clarke, i really like you too. Don't feel bad about not making a move because i just as easily could've. And while the decision to make out with me was made without a clear head,” He took a deep breath. “i’m glad you did.”

Clarke allowed herself to look in his eyes and a small smile to pull at her lips.

He continued, “But, I want you to be sure before we do anything, so, how about you get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning. Okay?”

Clarked nodded and responded in a quiet voice, “Okay.”

Bellamy began to lean back to allow her to get up and go back to her tent, but she pulled him back by his shirt.

“Wait” Clarke tentatively started. Bellamy just quirked his eyebrow, curious as to what she was going to say.

“Could I, maybe stay with you?”

Bellamy pulled back unconsciously, startled by the question, but happy nonetheless.

“Of course Princess.”

No more words were spoken as Clarke stood up to shimmie out of her pants and crawled back into bed with bellamy, her head on his chest, the threadbare blanket barely covering them.

Both with their eyes closed, they allowed themselves to be as close as they wanted, revelling in the comfort of each others presences.

They could talk in the morning about what they were, or could become. However, for tonight they would fall asleep in each others arms, both more content than they ever remember being.

[howling--fantods]

An Excerpt of the Essay: David Lynch Keeps His Head by David Foster Wallace

I know a lot of you love David Lynch and this is an EXCELLENT defense and deconstruction of his work. The full essay is largely about the film Lost Highway, which was about to be released, and is 67 pages with 61 footnotes. The whole essay is incredibly entertaining and if you like to read, is worth it. You can find it here: x. This excerpt mainly concerns Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me. I put the footnotes at the end, I know it isn’t ideal, but it is hard when there aren’t pages.

9A. The cinematic tradition it’s curious that nobody seems to have observed Lynch comes right out of (w/ an epigraph)

“It has been said that the admirers of The Cabinet of Doctor Caligari are usually painters, or people who think and remember graphically. This is a mistaken conception.”

—Paul Rotha, “The German Film”

Since Lynch was trained as a painter (an Ab-Exp painter at that), it seems curious that no film critics or scholars(42) have ever treated of his movies’ clear relation to the classical Expressionist cinema tradition of Wiene, Kobe, early Lang, etc. And I am talking here about the very simplest and most straightforward sort of definition of Expressionist, viz. “Using objects and characters not as representations but as transmitters for the director’s own internal impressions and moods.”

Certainly plenty of critics have observed, with Kael, that in Lynch’s movies “There’s very little art between you and the filmmaker’s psyche…because there’s less than the usual amount of inhibition.” They’ve noted the preponderance of fetishes and fixations in Lynch’s work, his characters’ lack of conventional introspection (an introspection which in film equals “subjectivity”), his sexualization of everything from an amputated limb to a bathrobe’s sash, from a skull to a “heart plug,”(43) from split lockets to length-cut timber. They’ve noted the elaboration of Freudian motifs that tremble on the edge of parodic cliche—the way Marietta’s invitation to Sailor to “fuck Mommy” takes place in a bathroom and produces a rage that’s then displaced onto Bob Ray Lemon; the way Merrick’s opening dream-fantasy of his mother supine before a rampaging elephant has her face working in what’s interpretable as either terror or orgasm; the way Lynch structures Dune’s labrynthian plot to highlight Paul Eutrades’s “escape” with his “witch-mother” after Paul’s father’s “death” and “betrayal.” They have noted with particular emphasis what’s pretty much Lynch’s most famous scene, Blue Velvet’s Jeffrey Beaumont peering through a closet’s slats as Frank Booth rapes Dorothy while referring to himself as “Daddy” and to her as “Mommy” and promising dire punishments for “looking at me” and breathing through an unexplained gas mask that’s overtly similar to the O2-mask we’d just seen Jeffrey’s own dying Dad breathing through.

They’ve noted all this, critics have, and they’ve noted how, despite its heaviness, this Freudian stuff tends to give Lynch’s movies an enormous psychological power; and yet they don’t seem to make the obvious point that these very heavy Freudian riffs are powerful instead of ridiculous because they are deployed Expressionistically, which among other things means they’re deployed in an old-fashioned, pre-postmodern way, I.e. nakedly, sincerely, without postmodernism’s abstraction or irony. Jeffrey Beaumont’s interslat voyeurism may be a sick parody of the Primal Scene, but neither he (a “college boy”) nor anybody else in the movie ever shows any inclination to say something like “Gee, this is sort of like a sick parody of the good old Primal Scene” or even betrays any awareness that a lot of what’s going on is—both symbolically and psychoanalytically—heavy as hell. Lynch’s movies, for all their unsubtle archetypes and symbols and intertextual references and c., have about them the remarkable unselfish-consciousness that’s kind of the hallmark of Expressionist art—nobody in Lynch’s movies analyzes or metacriticizes or hermenteuticizes or anything(44), including Lynch himself. This set of restrictions makes Lynch’s movies fundamentally unironic, and I submit that Lynch’s lack of irony is the real reason some cineastes—in this age when ironic self-consciousness is the one and only universally recognized badge of sophistication—see him as a naif or a buffoon. In fact, Lynch is neither—though nor is he any kind of genius of visual coding or tertiary symbolism or anything. What he is is a weird hybrid blend of classical Expressionist and contemporary postmodernist, an artist whose own “internal impressions and moods” are (like ours) an olla podrida of neurogenic predisposition and phylogenic myth and psychoanalytic schema and pop-cultural iconography—in other words, Lynch is sort of G. W. Pabst with an Elvis ducktail.

This kind of contemporary Expressionist art, in order to be any good, seems like it needs to avoid two pitfalls. The first is a self-consciousness of form where everything gets very mannered and refers cutely to itself.(45) The second pitfall, more complicated, might be called “terminal idiosyncrasy” or “antiempathetic solipsism” or something: here the artist’s own perceptions and moods and impressions and obsessions come off as just too particular to him alone. Art, after all, is supposed to be a kind of communication, and “personal expression” is cinematically interesting only to the extent that what’s expressed finds and strikes chords within the viewer. The difference between experiencing art that succeeds as communication and art that doesn’t is rather like the difference between being sexually intimate with a person and watching that person masturbate. In terms of literature, richly communicative Expressionism is epitomized by Kafka, bad and onanistic Expressionism by the average Graduate Writing Program avant-garde story.

It’s the second pitfall that’s especially bottomless and dreadful, and Lynch’s best movie, Blue Velvet, avoided it so spectacularly that seeing the movie when it first came out was a kind of revelation for me. It was such a big deal that ten years later I remember the date—30 March 1986, a Wednesday night—and what the whole group of us MFA Program(46) students did after we left the theater, which was to go to a coffeehouse and talk about how the movie was a revelation. Our Graduate MFA Program had been pretty much of a downer so far: most of us wanted to see ourselves as avant-garde writers, and our professors were all traditional commercial Realists of the New Yorker school, and while we loathed these teachers and resented the chilly reception our “experimental” writing received from them, we were also starting to recognize that most of our own avant-garde stuff really was solipsistic and pretentious and self-conscious and masturbatory and bad, and so that year we went around hating ourselves and everyone else and with no clue about how to get experimentally better without caving in to loathsome commercial-Realistic pressure, etc. This was the context in which Blue Velvet made such an impression on us. The movie’s obvious “themes”—the evil flip side to picket-fence respectability, the conjunctions of sadism and sexuality and parental authority and voyeurism and cheesy ‘50s pop and Coming of Age, etc.—were for us less revelatory than the way the movie’s surrealism and dream-logic felt: the felt true, real. And the couple things just slightly but marvelously off in every shot—the Yellow Man literally dead on his feet, Frank’s unexplained gas mask, the eerie industrial thrum on the stairway outside Dorothy’s apartment, the weird dentate-vagina sculpture(47) hanging on an otherwise bare wall over Jeffrey’s bed at home, the dog drinking from the hose in the stricken dad’s hand—it wasn’t just that these touches seemed eccentrically cool or experimental or arty, but that they communicated things that felt true. Blue Velvet captured something crucial about the way the U.S. present acted on our nerve endings, something crucial that couldn’t be analyzed or reduced to a system of codes or aesthetic principles or workshop techniques.

This was what was epiphanic for us about Blue Velvet in grad school, when we saw it: the movie helped us realize that first-rate experimentalism was a way not to “transcend” or “rebel against” the truth but actually to honor it. It brought home to us—via images, the medium we were suckled on and most credulous of—that the very most important artistic communications took place at a level that not only wasn’t intellectual but wasn’t even fully conscious, that the unconscious’s true medium wasn’t verbal but imagistic, and that whether the images were Realistic or Postmodern of Expressionistic of Surreal of what-the-hell-ever was less important than whether they felt true, whether they rang psychic cherries in the communicatee.

I don’t know whether any of this makes sense. But it’s basically why David Lynch the filmmaker is important to me. I felt like he showed me something genuine and important on 3/30/86. And he couldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been thoroughly, nakedly, unpretentiously, unsophisticatedly himself, a self that communicates primarily itself—an Expressionist. Whether he is an Expressionist naively or pathologically or ultra-pomo-sophisticatedly is of little importance to me. What is important is that Blue Velvet rang cherries, and it remains for me an example of contemporary artistic heroism.

10A (w/ an epigraph)

“All of Lynch’s work can be described as emotionally infantile…Lynch likes to ride his camera into orifices (a burlap hood’s eyehole or a severed ear), to plumb the blackness beyond. There, id-deep, he fans out his deck of dirty pictures…”—Kathleen Murphy of Film Comment

One reason it’s sort of heroic tot be a contemporary Expressionist is that it all but invites people who don’t like your art to make an ad hominem move from the art to the artist. A fair number of critics(48) object to David Lynch’s movies on the grounds that they are “sick” and “dirty” or “infantile,” then proceed to claim that the movies are themselves revelatory of various deficiencies in Lynch’s own character, (49) troubles that range from developmental arrest to misogyny to sadism. It’s not just the fact that twisted people do hideous things to one another in Lynch’s films, these critics will argue, but rather the “moral attitude” implied by the way Lynch’s camera records hideous behavior. In a way, his detractors have a point. Moral atrocities in Lynch movies are never staged to elicit outrage or even disapproval. The directorial attitude when hideousness occurs seems to range between clinical neutrality and an almost voyeuristic ogling. It’s not an accident that Frank Booth, Bobby Peru, and Leland/“Bob” steal the show in Lynch’s last three films, that there is almost a tropism about our pull toward these characters, because Lynch’s camera is obsessed with them, loves them; they are his movies’ heart.

Some of the ad hominem criticism is harmless, and the director himself has to a certain extent dined out on his “Master of Weird”/“Czar of Bizarre” image, see for example Lynch making his eyes go in two different directions for the cover of Time. The claim, though, that because Lynch’s movies pass no overt “judgement” on hideousness/evil/sickness and in fact make the stuff riveting to watch, the movies are themselves a-or immoral, even evil—this is bullshit of the rankest vintage, and not just because it’s sloppy logic but because it’s symptomatic of the impoverished moral assumptions we seem not to bring to the movies we watch.

I’m going to claim that evil is what David Lynch’s movies are essentially about, and that Lynch’s explorations of human beings’ various relationships to evil are, if idiosyncratic and Expressionistic, nevertheless sensitive and insightful and true. I’m going to submit that the real “moral problem” a lot of cineastes have with Lynch is that we find his truth morally uncomfortable, and that we do not like, when watching movies, to be made uncomfortable. (Unless, of course, our discomfort is used to set up some kind of commercial catharsis—the retribution, the bloodbath, the romantic victory of the misunderstood heroine, etc.—I.e. unless the discomfort serves a conclusion that flatters the same comfortable moral certainties we came into the theater with.)

The fact is that David Lynch treats the subject of evil better than just about anybody else making movies today—better and also differently. His movies aren’t anti-moral, but they are definitely anti-formulaic. Evil-ridden though his filmic world is, please notice that responsibility for evil never in his films devolves easily onto greedy corporations or corrupt politicians or faceless serial kooks. Lynch is not interested in the devolution of responsibility, and he’s not interested in moral judgments of characters. Rather, he’s interested in the psychic spaces in which people are capable of evil. He is interested in Darkness. And Darkness, in David Lynch’s movies, always wears more than one face. Recall, for example, how Blue Velvet’s Frank Booth is both Frank Booth and “the Well-Dressed Man.” How Eraserhead’s whole postapocalyptic world of demonic conceptions and teratoid offspring and summary decapitations is evil…yet how it’s “poor” Henry Spencer who ends up a baby-killer. How in both TV’s Twin Peaks and cinema’s Fire Walk with Me, “Bob” is also Leland Palmer, how they are, “spiritually,” both two and one. The Elephant Man’s sideshow barker is evil in his exploitation of Merrick, but so too is good old kindly Dr. Treeves—and Lynch carefully has Treeves admit this aloud. And if Wild at Heart’s coherence suffered because its myriad villains seemed fuzzy and interchangeable, it was because they were all basically the same thing, I.e. they were all in the service of the same force or spirit. Characters are not themselves evil in Lynch movies—evil wears them.

This point is worth emphasizing. Lynch’s movies are not about monsters (i.e. people whose intrinsic natures are evil) but about hauntings, about evil environment, possibility, force. This helps explain Lynch’s constant deployment of noirish lighting and eerie sound-carpets and grotesque figurants: in his movies’ world, a kind of ambient spiritual antimatter hangs just overhead. It also explains why Lynch’s villains seem not merely wicked or sick but ecstatic, transported: they are, literally, possessed. Think here of Dennis Hopper’s exultant “I’LL FUCK ANYTHING THAT MOVES” in Blue Velvet, or of the incredible scene in Wild at Heart when Diane Ladd smears her face with lipstick until it’s devil-red and then screams at herself in the mirror, or of “Bob”’s look of total demonic ebullience in Fire Walk with Me when Laura discovers him at her dresser going through her diary and just about dies of fright. The bad guys in Lynch movies are always exultant, orgasmic, most fully present at their evilest moments, and this in turn is because they are not only actuated by evil but literally inspired(50): they have yielded themselves up to a Darkness way bigger than any one person. And if these villains are, at their worst moments, riveting for both the camera and the audience, it’s not because Lynch is “endorsing” or “romanticizing” evil but because he’s diagnosing it—diagnosing it without the comfortable carapace of disapproval and with an open acknowledgment of the fact that one reason why evil is so powerful is that it’s hideously vital and robust and usually impossible to look away from.

Lynch’s idea that evil is a force has unsettling implications. People can be good or bad, but forces simply are. And forces are—at least potentially—everywhere. Evil for Lynch thus moves and shifts, (51) pervades; Darkness is in everything, all the time—not “lurking below” or “lying in wait” or “hovering on the horizon”: evil is here, right now. And so are Light, love, redemption (since these phenomena are also, in Lynch’s work, forces and spirits), etc. In fact, in a Lynchian moral scheme it doesn’t make much sense to talk about either Darkness or about Light in isolation from its opposite. It’s not just that evil is “implied by” good or Darkness by Light or whatever, but that the evil stuff is contained within the good stuff too, encoded in it.

You could call this idea of evil Gnostic, or Taoist, or neo-Hegelian, but it’s also Lynchian, because what Lynch’s movies(52) are all about is creating a narrative space where this idea can be worked out in its fullest detail and to its most uncomfortable consequences.

And Lynch pays a heavy price—both critically and financially—for trying to explore worlds like this. Because we Americans like our art’s moral world to be cleanly limned and clearly demarcated, neat and tidy. In many respects it seems we need our art to be morally comfortable, and the intellectual gymnastics we’ll go through to extract a black-and-white ethics from a piece of art we like are shocking if you stop and look closely at them. For example, the supposed ethical structure Lynch is most applauded for is the “Seamy Underside” structure, the idea that dark forces roil and passions seethe beneath the green lawns and PTA potlucks of Anytown, USA.(53) American critics who like Lynch applaud his “genius for penetrating the civilized surface of everyday life to discover the strange, perverse passions beneath” and his movies are providing “the password to an inner sanctum of horror and desire” and “evocations of the malevolent forces at work beneath nostalgic constructs.”

It’s little wonder that Lynch gets accused of voyeurism: critics have to make Lynch a voyeur in order to approve something like Blue Velvet from within a conventional moral framework that has Good on top/outside and Evil below/within. The fact is that critics grotesquely misread Lynch when they see this idea of perversity “beneath” and horror “hidden” as central to his movies’ moral structure.

Interpreting Blue Velvet, for example, as a film centrally concerned with “a boy discovering corruption in the heart of a town”(54) is about as obtuse as looking at the robin perched on the Beaumonts’ windowsill at the movie’s end and ignoring the writhing beetle the robin’s got in its beak.(55) The fact is that Blue Velvet is basically a coming-of-age movie, and, while the brutal rape Jeffrey watches from Dorothy’s closet might be the movie’s most horrifying scene, the real horror in the movie surrounds discoveries that Jeffrey makes about himself—for example, the discovery that part of him is excited by what he sees Frank Booth do to Dorothy Vallens. (56) Frank’s use, during the rape, of the words “Mommy” and “Daddy,” the similarity between the gas mask Frank breathes through in extremis and the oxygen mask we’ve just seen Jeffrey’s dad wearing in the hospital—this kind of stuff isn’t there just to reinforce the Primal Scene aspect of the rape. The stuff’s also there to clearly suggest that Frank Booth is, in a certain way, Jeffrey’s “father,” that the Darkness inside Frank is also encoded in Jeffrey. Gee-whiz Jeffrey’s discovery not of dark Frank but of his own dark affinities with Frank is the engine of the movie’s anxiety. Note for example that the long and somewhat heavy angst-dream Jeffrey suffers in the film’s second act occurs not after he has watched Frank brutalize Dorothy but after he, Jeffrey, has consented to hit Dorothy during sex.

There are enough heavy clues like this to set up, for any marginally attentive viewer, what is Blue Velvet’s real climax, and its point. The climax comes unusually early,(57) near the end of the film’s second act. It’s the moment when Frank turns around to look at Jeffrey in the back seat of the car and says “You’re like me.” This moment is shot from Jeffrey’s visual perspective, so that when Frank turns around in the seat he speaks both to Jeffrey and to us. And here Jeffrey—who’s whacked Dorothy and liked it—is made exceedingly uncomfortable indeed; and so—if we recall that we too peeked through those close-vents at Frank’s feast of sexual fascism, and regarded, with critics, this scene as the film’s most riveting—are we. When Frank says “You’re like me,” Jeffrey’s response is to lunge wildly forward in the back seat and punch Frank in the nose—a brutally primal response that seems rather more typical of Frank than of Jeffrey, notice. In the film’s audience, I, to whom Frank has also just claimed kinship, have no such luxury of violent release; I pretty much just have to sit there and feel uncomfortable.(58)

And I emphatically do not like to be made uncomfortable when I go to see a movie. I like my heroes virtuous and my victims pathetic and my villains’ villainy clearly established and primly disapproved of by both plot and camera. When I go to movies that have various kinds of hideousness in them, I like to have my own fundamental difference from sadists and fascists and voyeurs and psychos and Bad People unambiguously confirmed and assured by those movies. I like to judge. I like to be allowed to root for Justice To Be Done without a slight squirmy suspicion (so prevalent and depressing in real moral life) that Justice probably wouldn’t be all that keen on certain parts of my character, either.

I don’t know whether you are like me in these regards or not…though from the characterizations and moral structures in the U.S. movies that do well at the box-office I deduce that there must be a lot of Americans who are exactly like me.

I submit that we also, as an audience, really like the idea of secret and scandalous immoralities unearthed and dragged into the light and exposed. We like this stuff because secrets’ exposure in a movie creates in us impressions of epistemological privilege, of “penetrating the civilized surface of everyday life to discover the strange, perverse passions beneath.” This isn’t surprising: knowledge is power, and we (I, anyway) like to feel powerful. But we also like the idea of “secrets,” “of malevolent forces at work beneath…” so much because we like to see confirmed our fervent hope that most bad and seamy stuff really is secret, “locked away” or “under the surface.” We hope fervently that this is so because we need to be able to believe that our own hideousnesses and Darkness are secret. Otherwise we get uncomfortable. And, as part of an audience, if a movie is structured in such a way that the distinction between surface/Light/good and secret/Dark/evil is messed with—in other words, not a structure whereby Dark Secrets are winched ex machina up to the Lit Surface to be purified by my judgement, but rather a structure in which Respectable Surfaces and Seamy Undersides are mingled, integrated, literally mixed up—I am going to be made acutely uncomfortable. And in response to my discomfort I’m going to do one of two things: I’m either going to find some way to punish the movie for making me uncomfortable, or I’m going to find a way to interpret the movie that eliminates as much of the discomfort as possible. From my survey of published work on Lynch’s films, I can assure you that just about every established professional reviewer and critic has chosen one or the other of these responses.

I know this all looks kind of abstract and general. Consider the specific example of Twin Peaks’s career. Its basic structure was the good old murder-whose-investigation-opens-a-can-of-worms formula right out of Noir 101—the search for Laura Palmer’s killer yields postmortem revelations of a double life (Laura Palmer=Homecoming Queen & Laura Palmer=Tormented Coke-Whore by Night) that mirrored the whole town’s moral schizophrenia. The show’s first season, in which the plot movement consisted mostly of more and more subsurface hideousnesses being uncovered and exposed, was a huge smash. By the second season, though, the mystery-and-investigation structure’s own logic began to compel the show to start getting more focused and explicit about who or what was actually responsible for Laura’s murder. And the more explicit Twin Peaks tried to get, the less popular the series became. The mystery’s final “resolution,” in particular, was felt by critics and audiences alike to be deeply unsatisfying. And it was. The “Bob”/Leland/Evil Owl stuff was fuzzy and not very well rendered,(59) but the really deep dissatisfaction—the one that made audiences feel screwed and betrayed and fueled the critical backlash against the idea of Lynch as Genius Auteur—was, I submit, a moral one. I submit that Laura Palmer’s exhaustively revealed “sins” required, by the moral logic of American mass entertainment, that the circumstances of her death turn out to be causally related to those sins. We as an audience have certain core certainties about sowing and reaping, and these certainties need to be affirmed and massaged.(60) When they were not, and as it became increasingly clear that they were not going to be, Twin Peaks’s ratings fell off the shelf, and critics began to bemoan this once “daring” and “imaginative” series’ decline into “self-reference” and “mannered incoherence.”

And then Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, Lynch’s theatrical “prequel” to the TV series, and his biggest box-office bomb since Dune, committed a much worse offense. It sought to transform Laura Palmer from dramatic object to dramatic subject. As a dead person, Laura’s existence on the television show had been entirely verbal, and it was fairly easy to conceive her as a schizoid black/white construct—Good by Day, Naughty by Night, etc. But the movie in which Ms. Sheryl Lee as Laura is on-screen more or less constantly, attempts to present this multivalent system of objectified personas—plaid-skirted coed/bare-breasted roadhouse slut/tormented exorcism-candidate/molested daughter—as an integrated and living whole: these different identities were all, the movie tried to claim, the same person. In Fire Walk with Me, Laura was no longer “an enigma” or “the password to an inner sanctum of horror.” She now embodied, in full view, all the Dark Secrets that on the series had been the stuff of significant glances and delicious whispers.

This transformation of Laura from object/occasion to subject/person was actually the most morally ambitious thing a Lynch movie has ever tried to do—maybe an impossible thing, given the psychological text of the series and the fact that you had to be familiar with the series to make even marginal sense of the movie—and it required complex and contradictory and probably impossible things from Ms. Lee, who in my opinion deserved an Oscar nomination just for showing up and trying.

The novelist Steve Erickson, in a 1992 review of Fire Walk with Me, is one of the few critics who gave any indication of even trying to understand what the movie was trying to do: “We always knew Laura was a wild girl, the homecoming femme fatale who was crazy for cocaine and fucked roadhouse drunks less for the money than the sheer depravity of it, but the movie is finally not so much interested in the titillation of that depravity as [in] her torment, depicted in a performance by Sheryl Lee so vixenish and demonic it’s hard to know whether it’s terrible or a de force. [But not trying too terribly hard, because now watch:] Her fit of the giggles over the body of a man whose head has just been blown off might be an act of innocence or damnation [get ready:] or both.” Or both? Of course both. This is what Lynch is about in this movie: both innocence and damnation; both sinned-against and sinning. Laura Palmer in Fire Walk with Me is both “good” and “bad,” and yet also neither: she’s complex, contradictory, real. And we hate this possibility in movies; we hate the “both” shit. “Both” comes off as sloppy characterization, muddy filmmaking, lack of focus. At any rate that’s what we criticized Fire Walk with Me’s Laura for.(61) But I submit that the real reason we criticized and disliked Lynch’s Laura’s muddy bothness is that it required of us empathetic confrontation with the exact muddy bothness in ourselves and our intimates that makes the real world of moral selves so tense and uncomfortable, a bothness we go to the movies to get a couple hours’ fucking relief from. A movie that requires that these features of ourselves and the world not be dreamed away or judges away or massaged away but acknowledged, and not just acknowledged but drawn upon in our emotional relationship to the heroine herself—this movie is going to make us feel uncomfortable, pissed off; we’re going to feel, in Premiere magazine’s own head editor’s word, “Betrayed.”

I am not suggesting that Lynch entirely succeeded at the project he set for himself in Fire Walk with Me. (He didn’t.) What I am suggesting is that the withering critical reception the movie received (this movie, whose director’s previous film had won a Palme d’Or, was booed at the 1992 Cannes Film Festival) had less to do with its failing in the project than with its attempting it at all. And I am suggesting that if Lost Highway gets similarly savaged—or, worse, ignored—by the American art-assessment machine of which Premiere magazine is a wonderful working part, you might want to keep all this in mind.

Premiere Magazine, 1995

42. (Not even the Lynch-crazy French film pundits who’ve made his movies subject of more than two dozen essays in Cahiers du Cinema— the French apparently regard Lynch as God, though the fact they also regard Jerry Lewis as God might salt the compliment a bit…) 43. (Q.v. Baron Harkonen’s “cardiac rape” of the servant boy in Dune’s first act) 44. Here’s one reason why Lynch’s characters have this weird opacity about them, a narcotized over-earnestness that’s reminiscent of lead-poisoned kids in Midwestern trailer parks. The truth is that Lynch needs his characters stolid to the point of retardation; otherwise they’d be doing all this ironic eyebrow-raising and finger-steepling about the overt symbolism of what’s going on, which is the very last thing he wants his characters doing. 45. Lynch did a one-and-a-half-gainer into this pitfall in Wild at Heart, which is one reason the movie comes off so pomo-cute, another being the ironic intertextual self-consciousness (q.v. Wizard of Oz, Fugitive Kind) that Lynch’s better Expressionist movies have mostly avoided. 46. (=Master of Fine Arts Program, which is usually a two-year thing for graduate students who want to write fiction and poetry professionally) 47. (I’m hoping now in retrospect this wasn’t something Lynch’s ex-wife did…) 48. (E.g.: Kathleen Murphy, Tom Carson, Steve Erickson, Laurent Varchaud) 49. This critical two-step, a blend of New Criticism and pop pyschology, might be termed the Unintentional Fallacy. 50. (I.e. “in-spired,”=“affected, guided, aroused by divine influence,” from the Latin inpsirare, “breathed into”) 51. It’s possible to decode Lynch’s fetish for floating/flying entities—witches on broomsticks, sprites and fairies and Good Witches, angels dangling overhead—along these lines. Likewise his use of robins=Light in BV and owl=Darkness in TP: the whole point of these animals is that they’re mobile. 52. (With the exception of Dune, in which the good and bad guys practically wear color-coded hats—but Dune wasn’t really Lynch’s film anyway) 53. This sort of interpretation informed most of the positive reviews of both Blue Velvet and Twin Peaks. 54. (Which most admiring critics did—the quotation is from a 1/90 piece on Lynch in the New York Times Magazine) 55. (Not to mention ignoring the fact that Frances Bay, as Jeffrey’s Aunt Barbara, standing right next to Jeffrey and Sandy at the window and making an icky-face at the robin and saying “Who could eat a bug?” Then—as far as I can tell, and I’ve seen the movie like eight times—proceeds to PUT A BUG IN HER MOUTH. Or at least if it’s not a bug she puts in her mouth it’s a tidbit of sufficiently buggy-looking to let you be sure Lynch means something by having her do it right after she’s criticized the robin for its diet. (Friends I’ve surveyed are evenly split on whether Aunt Barbara eats a bug in this scene—have a look for yourself.)) 56. As, to be honest, is a part of us, the audience. Excited, I mean. And Lynch clearly sets the rape scene up to be both horrifying and exciting. This is why the colors are so lush and the mise en scene is so detailed and sensual, why the camera lingers on the rape, fetishizes it: not because Lynch is sickly or naively excited by the scene but because he—like us—is humanly, complexly excited by the scene. The camera’s ogling is designed to implicate Frank and Jeffrey and the director and the audience all at the same time. 57. (Prematurely!) 58. I don’t think it’s an accident that of the grad-school friends I first say Blue Velvet with in 1986, the two who were most disturbed by the movie—the two who said they felt like either the movie was really sick or they were really sick or both they and the movie were really sick, the two who acknowledged the movie’s artistic power but declared that as God was their witness you’d never catch them sitting through that particular sickness-fest again—were both male, nor that both singled out Frank’s smiling slowly while pinching Dorothy’s nipple and looking out past Wall 4 and saying “You’re like me” as possibly the creepiest and least pleasant moment in their personal moviegoing history. 59. Worse, actually. Like most storytellers who use mystery as a structural device and not a thematic device, Lynch is way better at deepening and complicating mysteries than he is at wrapping them up. And the series’ second season showed that he was aware of this and that it was making him really nervous. By its thirtieth episode the show had degenerated into tics and shticks and mannerisms and red herrings, and part of the explanation for this was that Lynch was trying to divert our attention from the fact that he really had no idea how to wrap the central murder case up. Part of the reason I actually preferred Twin Peaks’s second season to its first was the fascinating spectacle of watching a narrative structure disintegrate and a narrative artist freeze up and try to shuck and jive when the plot reached a point where his own weaknesses as an artist were going to be exposed (just imagine the fear: this disintegration was happening on national TV). 60. This is inarguable, axiomatic. In fact what’s striking about most U.S. mystery and suspense and crime and horror films isn’t these films’ escalating violence but their enduring and fanatical allegiance to moral verities that come right out of the nursery: the virtuous heroine will not be serial-killed; the honest cop, who will not know his partner is corrupt until it’s too late to keep the partner from getting the drop on him, will nevertheless somehow turn the tables and kill the partner in a wrenching confrontation; the predator stalking the hero/hero’s family will, no matter how rational and ingenious he’s been in his stalking tactics throughout the film, nevertheless turn into a raging lunatic at the end and will mount a suicidal frontal assault; etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. The truth is that a major component of the felt suspense in contemporary U.S. suspense movies concerns how the filmmaker is going to manipulate various plot and character elements in order to engineer the required massage of our moral certainties. This is why the discomfort we feel at “suspense” movies is perceived as a pleasant discomfort. And this is why, when a filmmaker fails to wrap his product up in the appropriate verity-confirming fashion, we feel not disinterest or even offense but anger, a sense of betrayal—we feel that an unspoken but very important covenant has been violated. 61. (Not to mention for being (from various reviews) “overwrought,” “incoherent,” “too much”)

[werewolfdays]

Family Matters

part 2 of this. In which Nadya has awkward parent talks. I think we’ve all been there. (content warning: abuse mention) -

Hours had passed since the incident with Ruben, but there was still adrenaline coursing through my veins, keeping me wide awake and causing my heart to pick up and slow down sporadically. I tried my best to sleep it off, but only managed to stare at my ceiling for what felt like an hour straight. It didn’t help that I was alone. Particularly in my childhood bedroom. There were nights when I was a kid where I would be too terrified to close my eyes with Ruben’s room being just down the hall. Him showing up unannounced tonight made me afraid of every shadow in every corner of my room. It was like I was a scared little kid again and that made me feel ridiculous. 

Being separated from Jayde only made my anxiety worse. I wanted to be near her more than anything right now. She was a beacon of safety through the dense fog of fear that filled my head as soon as I learned that Ruben had made an appearance. Even when he placed his hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, I was able to push through that terror because Jayde was beside me. 

My mother offering my brother’s room to her was almost laughably offensive even though she wasn't aware of it. I honestly was expecting to find Jayde on the couch once I got up. The only reason I haven’t gone to her yet was because of a part of me that was worried about coming off as weak. Jayde was so adamant about me being strong. I didn’t feel strong. Not when dealing with Ruben. Going to her now, when I was struggling to even sleep in my own bed and afraid of the dark, would make me feel like a coward. That was ridiculous too, I knew it, but I wanted to pretend that I had already shaken it off. 

I rolled over onto my side with a hopeless huff, accepting that I would get very little sleep tonight if I was lucky. I still shut my eyes in another feeble attempt to will unconsciousness to me. Several more minutes passed of me forcing my eyes to stay closed with absolutely no signs of a beloved dreamland on the horizon. Just as I was about to throw my arms up in frustrated defeat, I heard my bedroom door open behind me. 

When I looked over my shoulder, I was greeted by the glorious sight of Jayde carefully peeking her head into my room. “Oh, thank god.” I muttered, feeling a large and giddy smile appear across my face. I flipped myself around, scooting back to make room for her and pulled the blanket back in an invitation. 

Jayde had her own grin to match mine, discernible even in the darkness of my room. She quietly entered and shut the door behind her. In a few light-footed paces, she fell right into bed with me. Rather than staying on her side, she placed herself directly on top of me and I was so utterly relieved by her closeness. I wrapped my arms around her neck to pull her down just as her arms wrapped around my waist. Having her face buried in my neck, lips planted on my skin, was comforting beyond words. Then her hands worked their way under my shirt, but not necessarily in a sexual manner, it seemed more like she needed skin-on-skin contact. Her thumbs gently caressed my back without initiating any other intimate touch, confirming what I already assumed. 

“Fuck, not being able to touch you when I want is killing me.” Jayde mumbled into my neck. 

I had to admit the same, “I know, me too. It’s only for a couple more days.” My fingers started to lazily brush through her hair and I loved the way it felt. 

Even though it was hard for both of us, Jayde was understanding of me not being ready to come out to my parents just yet. I knew she’d never push me. Her sneaking into my room to make up for it was actually kind of exciting. Like I was finally getting that classic teenage experience where boyfriends would sneak around with their girlfriends when her parents were home. 

Jayde pulled back enough to look at me, her dark blue irises looking almost black in the low light, “How are you feeling?” 

I knew she was asking about Ruben, “Okay, I think. Better now that you’re here. I couldn’t sleep to save my life.” 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” she said, her hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of my face, “I just wanted to make sure your parents were asleep. Pretty sure it would be suspicious if they caught me sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.” 

“That’s part of the thrill, isn’t it?” I asked, raising my eyebrow teasingly. 

The corner of her mouth curled up in a crooked grin and she released a quiet chuckle, “Next time I’ll throw rocks at your window.” 

I smiled too, “Why not skip the rocks and go straight for the boombox? Just wake the whole neighborhood up.” 

The image of that made her drop her head against my neck again to muffle her laugh. Then she pulled back to say, “Might as well hire a guy for skywriting too while I’m at it.” 

“You wouldn’t even be able to see it.” I pointed out with a giggle. “It’s been cloudy all week.” 

That just threw us into more laughter. I had to cover my mouth with my hand to keep myself quiet. Jayde still hushed me through her own struggle to keep her giggles under control. It took us several minutes to rein in our laughter. Every time it seemed to start dying down, we would just be thrown into another random fit. The fact that we had to try and be quiet, for fear of waking my parents in the next room, just seemed to make nothing all the more funny. 

When we finally did calm down, Jayde’s head rested on my shoulder, her body still mostly draped over mine while my fingers continued to play with her hair. Without even trying, she had given me exactly what I needed. 

“Thank you, Jay.” I told her softly.

“For what?” 

“For making me feel safe here. In this room.” 

“All I’ve ever wanted is to make you feel safe, Nadya.” she murmured, leaning in to place a single gentle peck to my lips and started to run her hand up and down my side soothingly. 

We stayed quiet for a while and I could sense that Jayde was deep in thought. The swirling patterns of her fingertips against my skin felt more like a distracted fidget. I wasn’t the only one affected by Ruben’s appearance. I pictured the look I saw in Jayde’s eyes when she was preparing to kill him and I couldn’t recall a time where she looked more terrifying, outside of being in her wolf form of course. Even knowing that she would never hurt me didn’t seem to stop the primal alarms blaring off in my head when I stood in between her and my brother, screaming at me to get out of her way. Standing in the middle of two extremely dangerous people had to be one of the most nerve wracking things I’ve ever done, but it avoided bloodshed. At least for now. 

“Can I ask kind of a weird question?” Jayde asked in a shy tone of voice. 

“Yeah.” 

“Ruben looks like your father…” She began carefully, “And he even looks like you a little bit… but he doesn’t look like your mom.” 

A fleeting smile flickered across my face at her observation, “No, he doesn’t.” 

“Your mom isn’t his mom, is she?” 

I shook my head, and took a deep breath before I recounted a discussion I had a long time ago, “Years ago, my mom told me that my dad had a girlfriend before he met her. He got her pregnant and wanted to marry her, but she always danced around the concept for whatever reason. Then, a couple years after Ruben was born, she just up and left. No word, no note, nothing. When my parents got together, my mom adopted him as her son and raised him.” 

“Does Ruben know about that?” 

“They told him when he was fifteen. He acted like he didn’t care.” I left out the part where he didn’t bother to pretend around me. I spent that day hiding away from him as much as I possibly could. The news only made him hate me more. 

Even though I didn’t tell her, Jayde must have still sensed it somehow because she pulled me tighter against her. “Let’s not talk about him anymore. I was just wondering.” 

“Okay.” I agreed softly.

“Get some sleep, my love.” She gently urged.

“You too, Jay.”

Unsurprisingly, Jayde was able to beckon me into unconsciousness with little effort. I was so relieved to get some rest after believing I would be sleep deprived for days. Nothing hidden in the darkness could touch me when she was here. Ruben couldn’t do anything without going through Jayde first, and if tonight’s events taught me anything, it’s that she is far more capable than he is. I was worried about him showing up again someday, he’s never been known to back down from a challenge before, but I had faith in our chances. I had faith in Jayde. 

I woke up some time later to see the early morning sun casting my room in a deep gray. I sleepily reached over to the other side of the bed for Jayde, but found it empty. My sudden panic caused me to jerk awake so I could look for her. 

“I’m right here.” Jayde said reassuringly, directing my gaze up to where she was standing by my dresser.

“What are you doing?” I asked, blinking at her through my drowsiness. 

She smiled at me sweetly, holding up a picture I had taken when I was in high school, “Looking at your stuff.” 

I rubbed my eyes and let out an amused huff, “It’s not much to look at.” 

“I beg to differ,” Once my vision refocused, I took in how beautiful she looked standing by my window, illuminated in soft gray, and just smiled at the fact that she was mine, “You always had a talent for photography, I see.” She waved the photo at me before putting it down and grabbing a lanyard with an ID badge on it, “And you were a camp counselor as a teenager? Please tell me there’s pictures of that.” 

“The camp counselor thing was only for one summer before I left for college.” I explained, trying not to blush, “It was fun and the kids were great, but they were also very loud and a nightmare to organize. I decided I prefer being peaceful when outdoors.” 

Jayde made a noise in agreement and continued to study my badge, “Who can blame you.” 

“Why are you awake?” a chill made me curl into the blanket more, “Did you have a bad dream?” 

“When do your parents get up?” She asked with a pondering glance.

I shrugged, “I don’t know, around seven I think? Maybe between six and seven. They’re morning people.” 

“It’s just after six. I don’t want them seeing me leave your room.” 

“Stay a little longer?” I pleaded, giving her the best puppy-eyed look I could manage. 

Jayde stood there smiling at me while I continued to stare at her, like we both knew she couldn’t resist my request. After a few moments, she placed the ID badge back down on the dresser and trudged back to bed. I grinned in triumph when she settled herself on top of me once again. 

“Five more minutes.” She told me.

I held her tighter, knowing that as soon as she left this room we would have to find small moments throughout the day just to touch. “Ten.” 

Jayde hummed, propping herself up on an elbow to study my features as she bit her lip, “Better make the most of it then.” 

I realized what she meant when her eyes glanced down at my lips. Not wanting to waste a single second, I pulled her in for a kiss that soothed both of our deprived souls. Cherishing the warmth of her breath and the silkiness of her tongue brushing against mine. Her hand went under my shirt again with a clear purpose this time. I released a pleased sigh in between kisses when she began stroking up my stomach to gently caress my chest. The way her thumb brushed over my breast made the next sigh turn into a light whimper. Jayde pushed her knee in between my legs to press her thigh against me and I was quickly starting to lose myself in her. 

As I was enjoying every bit of contact, Jayde’s mouth laying wet kisses along my pulsepoint, she suddenly stopped. Her head perked up and tilted to the side like she was listening for something, but I couldn’t hear anything. 

“What is it?”

“I hear them talking.” Jayde answered, looking down at me regretfully and removed her hand from under my shirt, “Your parents are awake.”  

Damn. “Maybe they won’t get up for a little while.” 

“Or maybe we finish this tonight and I go make us breakfast.” she offered. 

“Breakfast?” I raised an intrigued eyebrow. 

“Mhm. Whatever you want.”

“Pancakes.” I answered without missing a beat. Jayde made the best pancakes. Well, everything she made was the best, but I was in the mood for a classic weekend breakfast. 

She smirked and leaned down to kiss me. Once. Twice. Then a third when I pulled her down for just one more. “You got it.” 

“Love you.” I told her after she got out of bed and reached for the door. 

My beautiful girlfriend gave me a smile to make the butterflies in my stomach go mad, “Love you too.” I watched her hesitate to leave, looking at me in a way that made me think she wanted nothing more than to jump back into bed with me and stay there forever. Then she grabbed the door handle and said, “Try to get some more sleep. I’ll come get you when the food is ready.” 

I gave her a nod and she quietly disappeared out of my bedroom. 

It felt like my eyes were only shut for no more than a handful of seconds before someone was gently shaking me awake. There was hardly any time to be irritated because the first sight I saw was Jayde giving me a warm smile and sitting on the bed beside me. That lit up my insides immediately, causing me to sleepily smile back at her while I stretched and groaned. 

“Hey, sleepy girl,” She greeted fondly, running a hand through my messy hair, “Your plate is waiting for you downstairs.”

I hummed, grabbing her hand and bringing it to my lips, “But what if it was waiting for me upstairs? That way I wouldn’t have to get out of bed.” 

“Thought you’d say something like that.” Jayde remarked, lifting up her other hand to reveal a fresh mug of steaming coffee.

“Is that for me?” I asked as I sat up, more alert now that caffeine was within reach. She nodded. 

When my hand went toward it, Jayde pulled it back, just narrowly avoiding my grasp. I scowled at her and reached for it again, leaning over her lap to do so, but she just stretched her arm further away from me. 

“You’re gonna spill it.” She warned. 

The crooked grin she was smugly wearing made me grumble, “Then give it!” which resulted in an annoying chuckle from her. 

I tried to take the mug from her once again, but she hopped off the bed and took a step back into the middle of my room, “Looks like you’re gonna have to get up.” 

I glared at her, “You’re cruel.” 

Jayde dangled the mug in front of her, swishing it slowly so I could see the wave of coffee sloshing against the sides, “You want it or not?”

The temptation was enough to pull me out of the comfort of my bed, but I was feeling a tiny bit vengeful. I stormed over to her, plucked the mug out of her hand, then grabbed a fistful of her collar and pulled her in. Jayde was so caught off guard that her whole body froze while I led a fervent cadence. It was a few beats before she was able to shake off her shock and return it, her hands coming to rest on my hips. 

Then my mother called from the bottom of the stairs, “Do you need help waking her?”

Jayde and I broke away from each other so fast that some of the coffee spilled over my hand. I grimaced at both the scalding liquid and the fact that I completely forgot about where we were for a moment. Jayde seemed totally flustered, a blush coloring her cheeks and the back of her hand going to her mouth like me kissing her left visual evidence. 

“No!” Jayde quickly replied, “No, I got her up!” 

“Okay, good! The food is getting cold!” 

Jayde raised an alarmed eyebrow at me and waved towards my open door, “Shall we?”

I nodded, “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” 

Breakfast went by better than I was expecting it to. There was a healthy amount of pleasant small talk around the table. Questions about how well everyone slept and praise directed at Jayde cooking a delicious meal yet again. She was making a pretty good impression with my parents so far, despite the previous night’s events. In fact, it was almost like Ruben and his storm of negativity that blew through with him never happened. I honestly shouldn’t have been all that surprised, my parents haven’t exactly noticed or acknowledged his behavior before. Though I had wondered if they would react differently considering we had a guest. I suppose their easiest solution was to act like nothing was off. 

I finished my plate of pancakes and got up, walking to the kitchen to place my dishes in the sink and refill my empty cup with coffee. My dad had been leaning in his chair for the second half of breakfast, reading the morning paper with little interest, and when I returned to the dining room, he gave me a quick glance before returning his eyes to the paragraphs on the page. I sat back in my seat warily, knowing a glance like that would have a follow-up. 

“I’m going to run some errands today, Nadya.” He said, meeting my gaze and holding it this time, “I’d appreciate it if you joined me.” His expression made it clear that this wasn’t a suggestion. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jayde’s shoulders tense. It reminded me of the way her hackles rise in her wolf form when she’s facing a threat. She didn’t particularly like my father, so I knew his request was not something she would be pleased about. I could see her jaw clench, see that she was preparing to open her mouth and invite herself on this outing. To get her attention, I set my mug down on the table, loud enough to draw her eyes towards me. There was only a short window of time where I could look at her and try to communicate silently without arousing suspicion from my parents. The brief warning glance I gave her was thankfully all she needed to back down for now. 

I addressed my father next, “Yeah, sure. I’d love to.” 

“Excellent. We’ll leave whenever you’re ready.” My father announced, folding his paper and getting up to go into his office. 

Jayde and I shared another look once he left the room and I could tell she was already rehearsing an argument to convince me to let her come with us. That wasn’t a discussion to have here while my mother was clearing the table and preparing to clean the mess in the kitchen. Jayde noticed what she was doing and stood up to take over. 

“Please, Mrs. Bishop, let me take care of it.” She insisted. 

My mother smiled at her, slumping her shoulders, “As long as you call me Winona.” 

“Deal.” Jayde replied with a small lopsided smile and accepted the stack of dishes the older woman handed to her. 

“I’m going upstairs to shower.” I told the two of them. 

Jayde’s eyes remained firmly locked on me until I disappeared around the corner. I spent most of my shower trying to think of a way to convince her to let me go. It wasn’t that I didn’t want her there. I actually never wanted her to leave my side while we were here. She was one of the only things that made me feel grounded and safe, but I knew that I had to do this alone. My father had made it pretty obvious that he only wanted me to go with him. Whatever the reason was, he wouldn’t want Jayde there. I had to face him without her.

I wasn’t surprised to find her waiting in my room once I got out of the shower. There wasn’t any anger that I could gauge from her, but I got the sense that she was ready to make her case by the way her shoulders were still tensed. I didn’t even have the chance to fully get dressed before she said exactly what I expected her to say. 

“I’m coming with you.” 

“Jay,” I said with a sigh while pulling my jeans up my legs, “You can’t.” 

“Like hell I can’t. We’ll think of an excuse.”

I didn’t face her until I pulled my shirt over my head, needing a little extra time to get my thoughts in order, “Look, this is just one of my dad’s methods. It’s probably not going to be fun, but this will give me the opportunity to convince him that what I’m doing is right.” 

“Nadya, I don’t like letting you out of my sight at all here. And you want to leave the house with your father? Without me?” She came closer, carefully grabbing my hands to hold it in hers. The look in her eyes was pleading and the furrow in her brow full of worry, “What if something happens?” 

“Listen to me,” I begged softly, caressing the back of her hands with my thumbs, “I’m not a wolf. No hunter is going to bother with me. Ruben has a broken arm and a bruised ego, so I’m pretty sure he’s in no shape to make a move right now. I can handle being out in public with my dad for a couple of hours.”

Her frown remained, “I’m not comfortable with this.” 

“Do you trust me?” 

“Of course.” She answered without any hesitation.

“Then trust that I can do this on my own.” 

Jayde’s expression started to slowly soften along with the rest of her body. There was something different about the way she regarded me now, and after a handful of quiet moments between us, she finally accepted it. “Okay.” 

“Thank you.” I squeezed her hand. When I tried to loosen my grip and pull away, she wouldn’t let me go, causing me to pause and look at her expectantly. 

She grimaced to herself as she tried to form words, “I’m sorry if it felt like I was trying to control you or something. I don’t want to do that.” 

“No,” My head shook to swiftly reassure her, “No, that’s not how I saw it at all.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Jayde, I know what your intentions are. You just want to protect me.” My free hand came up to cup her cheek. She looked so enthralled by my every word that I felt my face flush ever so slightly, “I love you for that. And I also love it when you have faith in me too.” 

She exhaled a breath that formed a beautiful smile across her lips. That made my flushed cheeks grow warmer, a smile of my own brightening my expression when her hand wrapped around my wrist while she lovingly leaned into my touch, “I’ve never doubted that there isn’t anything you can’t handle, but I still want to be there for you.” 

“I prefer it when you are.” I said. 

After a lingering moment of comfort for the both of us, I reluctantly pulled away from her and gave her a small goodbye smile. Jayde continued to watch me, wearing that special expression she gets when she looks at me, as I slowly stepped backwards and out of the room. Knowing that she will be here when I return made me feel ready for anything. If things went great, she would be there. If things went horribly, she would be there. I couldn’t ask for anything better.  

The car ride with my dad fell into a long awkward silence almost immediately. I could sense the tension filling the air inside like a noxious cloud, nearly choking me with anxiety. My father wasn’t typically a man of few words, but he always let a conversation simmer in moments like this before engaging. Maybe it was so he could go over what he would say in his head. Maybe it was intentional to leave me second guessing myself. Whatever his reasons, silence like this always made me feel like I was headed towards the chopping block. 

I opted for staring out the window as much as possible, trying to act nonchalant even though I ended up rolling it down a few inches to allow me to breathe normally. Perhaps I should have thought of a way to get Jayde to come with us. A tedious small talk between them would have been much better than this unbearable quiet. 

“What are you thinking about?” My dad asked. 

“Not much.” 

More silent moments passed between us. The hard thumping of my heart was like a ticking clock, each beat feeling longer than the last.  

“I hope your friend wasn’t too offended by Ruben’s behavior last night.” He said without much change in his tone, “That was embarrassing for me.” 

My head swiveled around in shock. My father has never outright acknowledged the way Ruben has acted before in my whole life. You couldn’t tell that by looking at him now though. He just continued to stare at the road before us with a calm expression as if he was in a business meeting. 

Eventually, I found my words, “I don’t think it really bothered her.” 

“It did.” He stated, “You don’t seriously think I fell for that allergic reaction excuse, do you? It was nice of her to try and pretend like he wasn’t the problem, but I know the truth. Your brother was acting extremely rude.” 

“Well… I’ll be sure to let her know you’re sorry.” 

“Thank you.” 

Just like that, we fell right back into the awkward silence. At least it gave me the time to ponder over his words that deeply confused me. Taking responsibility for Ruben in any capacity was the very last thing I ever expected him to do. He has always been so proud of his son. Getting him the best equipment for whatever sports he wanted to play. Making sure he got into the very best summer programs and camps in the country. Being blind to how cruel Ruben can be, not only to me, but to others as well. I may have been on the receiving end most often, but my brother was involved in a fair amount of fights and disputes when he was younger, and our father always blamed everyone besides Ruben for the incidents. 

I just couldn’t figure out why it changed now, of all times. 

It took me a little while to notice that we were heading into the city, through the route my dad usually takes for work. I figured he needed to do something at the dentist office, but we drove right past the building once it came into view. While curiosity was definitely poking at me, I didn’t ask just yet, figuring the question would answer itself soon enough. If I could avoid an awkward exchange with my father, then I would. 

He ended up taking us to Golden Gate Park, with its modest little trails that I enjoyed walking when I was a kid. My dad silently parked the car, turning it off, and stared out of the window for a minute or so. I stared at him with equal silence, trying to decipher his unreadable expression and waiting for him to tell me what to do. 

“Come take a walk with me, Nadya.” He said without looking at me and got out of the car. 

I stepped out of the car next, feeling my pulse start to pick up, and followed my dad. Under normal circumstances, walking through here would have been soothing. Being consumed by trees and nature in the middle of a densely populated city was a rare feeling that made me feel grounded. It was a completely different world in here. Jayde would love it, especially all of the hidden little gems nestled within the three mile long, half a mile wide, strip of park. But my surroundings did little to soothe the feeling of dread hanging over me right now. 

My father and I walked side by side without so much as a word between us. People probably assumed we were just strangers heading in the same direction. A small part of me wished we were. I knew my dad was waiting for the right moment to bring up whatever it was he wanted to confront me about. 

He didn’t speak until we were walking along a path without many other people around, “I want you to tell me the real reason you left school.” 

My heart skipped a beat, but I did my best to act confused, “What do you mean? You already know.” 

“I know what you tried to tell me.” He said, finally looking directly at me for the first time since breakfast, “But I know that isn’t the truth.” 

“Why would I lie to you?” I asked with a defensive frown. 

His expression grew very serious, “I was contacted by some people a little over a year ago, law enforcement of some kind, I think. Nadya, they acted like you had gone missing. They were looking for you and said there was no trace of where you had gone.” 

That information made me stop dead in my tracks. Of course I knew the hunters that figured out I had been involved with Jayde’s escape from the hospital knew who I was, but I didn’t think they’d contact my parents on the other side of the country. Here I thought we had taken care of it in time. I was very wrong. 

My father continued, “I told them there had to be a misunderstanding. That there was no way you would abandon your responsibilities unless something bad happened to you. But here you show up, spinning some story about a doctors without borders program, having your friend cover for you, and you expect me to believe any of it.”

“Dad…” I started through a labored breath. The pace my heart had taken increased so quickly that my hands started to shake. I needed to think of an explanation. Fast. “I-I didn’t want to tell you… I just… I went through a lot last year, okay? I had so much on my shoulders and I was all alone.” This wasn’t the most dignified excuse, but it was still rooted in some truth, “It was too much. I know I should have just come to you, but I needed to figure it out on my own, so I left everything behind for a little while.” 

He studied me closely, looking for any indication of a lie, but I held his unwavering gaze. After a tense few seconds, he let out a sigh and looked away, “I push you hard for a reason, Nadya. You need to be independent. There isn’t a single person you can rely on, not even me. I need you to build something for yourself. To throw it all away because of something ridiculous like that is not how you survive in the world.”

“I didn’t throw it all away.” I quickly replied, “I wasn’t lying when I said I was working and going to school.” 

He let out a scoff and shook his head, “Right.” 

“I swear.” 

“Nadya—” 

“Listen.” I insisted, stepping into his line of sight, “I found something. It might not be conventional, but it is exactly what I wanted when I made the decision to become a doctor. I help people. They even trust me enough to run the clinic that I work at. I’m practically my own boss, just like you are. And in my free time, I study as hard as I can to make sure I have the skills I need to save the lives that come into my care.” 

To my surprise, his stern expression actually started to fade. He was clearly still apprehensive, but I could see he was beginning to accept my words. “You’ve always been an extremely responsible girl. I know I have to take that into account.”

“Then, please… believe me.” 

“I do.” 

A wave of relief flowed gracefully over me like the breeze through the trees surrounding us. It felt like I hit a milestone that I’ve been chiseling away at for years. Before I could get too excited about it though, he spoke again. 

“But don’t settle for something meager like this. I suggest you reevaluate where you are. Or at the very least, think of a way to expand on what you’re doing. Get a real education. Earn more money. Who knows,” He lifted his shoulders in a plain shrug, “This might end up being something to be proud of one day.” 

Those words crushed me. I didn’t think my life at the Lodge was meager. For me, it was already something I took great pride in, especially after everything I’ve been through. Of course, my dad couldn’t know the full extent of just how crazy my life has been for the past year, but after putting my heart and soul into making my case, I expected… something. Instead I got him telling me I missed the mark for his standards yet again. I wasn’t entirely sure why that hurt as much as it did. 

This wasn’t a total loss, I realized, because I had actually gotten through to him. He believed my story and accepted it as something to be worked on. Despite the way I felt about his opinions, I still managed to accomplish what I set out to do. There won’t be so many questions and doubts about me going forward. If I gave him the occasional update on the path of my career, he would be satisfied. Just not proud. 

Not really knowing how to respond to him, I simply said, “Yeah.” 

My dad smiled at me. Genuinely. “I’m glad we had this talk. I was worried about you.” 

I tried to smile back, “I know, I’m glad too.”

“Come on, let’s finish this walk and then get some lunch.” He motioned towards me to follow him, which I did without question. 

The rest of our time in the park went well. It almost felt like a normal father and daughter outing. He brought up specific places in the park that I favored over others, such as the museum and the hidden Japanese tea garden, reminiscing about good days we’ve all had there as a family. It was an odd feeling to be interacting with my dad in this way. I haven’t experienced something like this since I was a kid. I may not fully trust it, but I was still feeling hopeful that perhaps things really have changed between us now. 

After having something to eat, my father took us back to his office, explaining that he actually did have to run some errands in the city, and left me alone in the car. I relaxed in my seat, trying to come to terms with the fact that I really could build something with my father and mother. I could have the kind of relationship with them that I have longed for since I was a teenager. 

Then the doubt crept back in as I remembered one glaring subject that I still needed to broach. Who I am, being with Jayde, could be the thing that could tear down everything I have spent this entire weekend working towards. And the thing that nagged at me was that I didn’t know which way it would go. They could accept me. Or they could completely reject me. I had about as much of an answer about the outcome as flipping a coin did. 

While I was deep in my mind, my phone vibrated, pulling me away from my thoughts. I fished it out of my bag and looked to see a text message from Jayde. 

Just checking in. You ok? -J

I smiled at her concern and shot a reply. 

I’m fine. We had a talk. Took some convincing, but I think he finally believes me. How are you holding up?

Another message came through in less than a minute. 

I’ve been cooking. With your mom. 

Imagining that made my smile turn into a grin and I couldn’t hold back a small laugh. 

I guess we’ve both had an interesting day. Save some goodies for me, will you?

The sound of a sudden car alarm down the street made me glance up in time to see my dad exiting his office. He was taking his time locking it up, tucking some folders under his arm. My phone buzzed almost immediately with Jayde’s quick reply. 

What will you give me for it? 

I scoffed and rolled my eyes at how cocky she was. 

Maybe you’ll find out tonight ;)

I startled slightly when my father opened the car door and tried to hide a blush that formed across my cheeks at the possibilities with Jayde in my room later. He thankfully didn’t seem to notice anything off, simply just buckled in and started the engine. I sent one more text to Jayde, letting her know we would be heading back soon after a few more errands, and put my phone away so that I wouldn’t be distracted by any more flirty messages. 

Evening was approaching by the time we returned. As soon as I opened the front door, the scents of something delicious cooking in the kitchen wafted right in the face. It gave the whole house a cozy feeling that settled whatever nerves and doubts I had lingering in my head. I didn’t have to think about coming out until tomorrow. For tonight, I wanted to just enjoy my victory. 

Jayde appeared from around the corner and it took everything in me not to run into her arms. The gorgeous smile she gave me brought my insides to life, pulling me towards her like a magnet. I might not be able to embrace her like I wanted just yet, but being as close to her as I possibly could made me feel so much better about everything. 

“You’re back.” She noted, her eyes not leaving mine. 

My dad answered before I could, “Yes, and it smells like you’ve been busy.” 

Jayde forced herself to look away from me and over at my father, “Yeah, Winona wanted me to give her some tips on cooking. We made lunch earlier and we’ve been working on a roast for dinner.” 

“How nice. I can’t wait to taste it.” He replied pleasantly and made his way into the kitchen. 

Jayde and I lingered in the living room for a few extra moments. She glanced over her shoulder and took another step towards me until she was close enough to reach up and brush her thumb against my cheek. The small touch was brief and light, but it still elicited a sigh from my lungs and let the tension seep out of my body with it. 

“Are you okay?” She asked under her breath. 

I nodded even though her gentle question made my father’s words resurface in my mind. “He’s just… a hard man to please.” 

“He doesn’t know a damn thing about you or what you’ve accomplished. He doesn’t deserve to.” She said protectively. 

“He’s my dad, Jay.” I reminded her, “It still hurts.” 

“I know, my love.” Jayde risked a quick peck to my temple and I was grateful for her comfort. “But remember that he isn’t the only person who can be proud of you. I’m proud of you. And spending time with your mom today told me that she’s proud of you too.” 

I looked at her in surprise and her smile grew broader. 

“You’re someone to be proud of. If your dad can’t see that, then he’s blind.” After she let that sink in for a second, she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed her right back, wanting nothing more than to kiss her right now. “Dinner will be ready in a bit. Why don’t you relax on the couch and I’ll get you something to drink.” 

“That sounds good to me.” I agreed and motioned upstairs, “I’m just gonna go to the bathroom real quick.” 

Jayde nodded and we both stepped away from each other again. I was starting to really hate doing that. I’ve spent the last few months just trying to get used to the fact that I had her back. It felt like every goodbye could be our last. Sure, it wasn’t that big of a deal anymore to be separated from her at the Lodge, but I felt like I needed her by my side here. It was too painful to not be in the same room as her. To not be near here. To not touch her. 

Splashing cold water in my face while I was in the bathroom helped clear my mind. I took a minute to just breathe slowly and feel the droplets of water run down my skin. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend that I was standing in the rain. That made me smile, as the rain always does, and I took a deep inhale. Releasing it from my lungs as slowly as I could cemented my space in reality. Feeling a lot better and a lot calmer, I dried my face off and left the bathroom.

I hesitated to descend the stairs and instead found my feet carrying me towards Ruben’s room. There were very few times throughout my life that I approached his door willingly, but my reasons this time didn’t have anything to do with my brother. I wanted to see what Jayde has done to the space to make it bearable. 

A huge part of me expected his belongings to be tarnished in some way, or see that she left her mark on his space just to enrage him, but the room was untouched. Jayde’s bag rested in the middle of the floor, right where she left it when we arrived yesterday, and I got the impression that she didn’t want anything of hers to touch anything of his. I understood that sentiment completely. 

I knelt down in front of the bag, unzipping it. There wasn’t really a clear plan for what I was doing at first, but I soon realized I was looking for something I could wear that belonged to her. Something that would make me feel closer to her when I couldn’t be physically. My hands rifled through the contents of her bag until I pulled out a flannel that would satisfy my needs perfectly. 

With her belongings disturbed, I saw a glimpse of the handgun that had been buried deep under everything. I pursed my lips, both grateful and wary of its presence in my parents’ home. At least Jayde hadn’t used it on my brother last night. Though a part of me still wished that she had had the weapon on her once I saw that he had a gun of his own. My brother could have killed her, could have taken her away from me again for good. And then he probably would have killed me too. 

It was a terrifying outcome to think about, so I shook myself out of it and rearranged Jayde’s clothes to hide the gun again, zipping the duffle bag back up. I left and quickly stopped by my room to drop off the flannel before returning down stairs. 

Dinner went by with not even half of the tension and awkwardness as the night before, which was a huge relief. I was actually pretty happy to pretend that the drama with Ruben didn’t happen. The atmosphere around the table almost felt… normal. 

“Nadya, Jayde tells me that you run your own clinic at the shelter you two work at.” My mother said. 

I suppose the Lodge technically was a shelter, but I couldn’t stop a small amused grin at Jayde’s choice of cover story, “Yeah, I do.”

“Do you get a lot of people needing medical help?” 

“More than you’d think actually.” I confirmed with a nod, “The people that come through, their lives aren’t easy and some days surviving is all they can do. It’s why I chose to be there. Places like the shelter I work at don’t have the kind of medical staff on hand that’s essential, and almost all of the people that are there can’t afford proper treatment. We’re lucky to have a few benefactors that give us the funds for supplies and equipment, but before I was there, the clinic didn’t get as much attention as it needed. I’ve been doing all I can to make it better since they accepted me.” 

My mom’s expression was incredibly warm and it tugged at my earliest memories, back to a time where I felt like this house really was a home. “That’s very admirable of you, Nadya. You’ve always been such a compassionate person.” 

She reached out and grabbed my hand, giving it a motherly pat, and it finally dawned on me that her expression was pride. Jayde was right. I have spent so much time believing that I wasn’t worth any recognition, convincing myself that I didn’t need it, that I almost couldn’t accept it when it was so blatant in front of me. 

“Thanks, mom.” I said, embracing the genuine connection I had with her in this moment. 

Jayde caught my eye again and the feeling of warmth in my chest pooled outwards through the rest of my body at the way she looked at me. Her love for me was unmistakable with that special glint in her dark irises and I was momentarily worried about one of my parents recognizing it too. Then the corner of her mouth curled up a little more and I forgot about everything but her for a beat. 

“Yes,” My dad chimed in, yanking me back to earth, “She’s on a decent path, but Nadya does have a lot of work to do with plenty of room for improvement. I think we can all agree on that.” 

Before that weight I felt earlier when talking with my dad could fully settle on my shoulders, Jayde spoke up, “Actually, Richard, I’ve seen just how much Nadya has accomplished firsthand. She’s built that clinic up from nothing. We’re incredibly lucky to have her there.” Her eyes had narrowed at him, the hint of a growl bitten back in her tone. 

He chuckled at her, seemingly amused by her coming to my defense, “I didn’t say it wasn’t impressive, I only meant that there’s more ambition to be led in the medical field.” 

Jayde hummed in mock thought, “I guess you’re right.” Then she looked at me, “If you work at a real hospital after obtaining your medical degree, you’ll be able to afford your own Cadillac one day too, Nadya.” 

Just enough sarcasm was used in that statement to be mistaken for authenticity. Thankfully, it seemed to go right over my dad’s head. 

“Oh, she could get a lot more than a Cadillac.” He said. 

Relieved that Jayde’s snide comment didn’t stir up any unrest, I shrugged and nodded, “It’s definitely a possibility for me.”

My dad looked pleased, “That’s good to hear.” 

“Enough work talk,” My mom said, “I want to hear about what you’ve been doing for fun, Nadya.” 

The remainder of the evening was spent talking about the people I’ve met, some of the hiking trails I’ve explored, and all of the photographs I’ve taken. I even went into some detail about the journeys I’ve been on with Jayde, though it was a challenge to try and dance around the real reasons for our so called adventures. Pretty much all of them had to deal with life and death. I couldn’t imagine my parents would find that anecdote to be exciting, even if I did have fond memories tied in with the terrifying ones. 

Nighttime fell and I eventually found myself back in my bedroom after everyone said their goodnights. I let myself get cozy in Jayde’s flannel and some sleep shorts. It was immediately comforting to have her scent so close to me, but I wanted the real thing. To have her with me already so I could touch her and hold her and kiss her like I so desperately needed to. 

I paced around my room impatiently, trying to think of a way to pass the time. My old bookshelf drew my attention and I browsed my teenage novel collection for something to read. There was one book that caught my eye, something that I used to adore when I was younger, about a supernatural romance. What I could remember from reading it was that it was pretty dreadful and unbearably heterosexual, but I figured I would give it shot for my own entertainment tonight. 

I pulled the book off the shelf and walked over to settle on my bed. The lamp on my nightstand was perfect for late night reading. Not too dim and not too bright, giving the room a nice ambience. Then I put my glasses on and opened the book to read while I waited for Jayde to come.

[gardenstateofmind]

growing up i almost always related more to "boy" things than "girl" things and like since ive been a hardcore feminist since birth i just used that as proof that gender roles are fake and bad and girls are incredibly complex, which is all true

but then as i got older and started reading some like ~academic~ feminist theory and shit, i realized that i like heavily did not relate with a lot of it, and then id start yelling about it bc i was angry that my experiences were being totally ignored

but uh. i think it might just be like. a trans thing?? bc most of the internal parts of how sexism affects women have never resonated with me. like i experience the social dynamic aspects of sexism, but the way i see women describing how it makes them feel and stuff, most other women seem to agree, and im always like "yeah no?"

and ive noticed that i also tend to do some of the "man" typical behaviors. and it's all totally unintentional like i have no idea why?? but idk i guess my brain unconsciously just picked up more on the "boy" things than the "girl" things maybe?? or maybe im just socially deficient like usual??

and whatever i mean it's not a big deal rn bc socially im not a dude and my actions can't oppress women from a position of power. but if after i start medically transitioning, i end up actually passing as a cis dude, then that's def gonna be a problem

like no one's fuckin intimidated by a little girl being aggressive or whatever, but if hrt makes me look older and bigger, then yeah i could def come off as being rude/intimidating/etc. and i would rather die than appear like that.

so im trying to like. idk. not do things i see pointed out as being related to toxic masculinity. it's so fucking weird honestly like im clearly not a fucking man but if i end up beig read as one, i at least dont want to seem like an asshole :/

[joanclementine]

Pluto by @PegasusAstrology

"If Saturn represents our struggle with the external world and with our own difficulties living in it, Pluto represents our struggle with ourselves. Saturn and Pluto must be best friends, because they sure do know how to make life a living hell. More accurately, they make life a living hell when you resist their influence. And as Carl Jung said, “What we resists persists.” This is Pluto’s tagline. Pluto, the sign it rules over (Scorpio), and the house it rules over (The Eighth House) all represent the human shadow. The dark side of life. The things we don’t easily own up to. The sides of ourselves we’re more comfortable projecting onto others. It’s much easier to view ourselves as perfect beings of light, and to point the finger at all the people out there in the world that are evil and bad, than to recognize that we’re all human. Jessica Lange’s character Sister Jude in American Horror Story might have been right when she said “All monsters are human.” There are true horrors in this world and sometimes we get lost in news stories of this murder and that war. We’re all quick to condemn and judge our fellow humans committing atrocities. But do we ever stop to think, what made them that way? What happened to them? What is their place in the great cosmic story? Could causing others pain possibly be their life purpose, or has a tragic childhood forced them to wander off their divine path?  These are questions that I have grappled with recently. They’ve made their way into this piece but I don’t necessarily have the answer. I do know that the greatest force in this world is love, the greatest connection empathy. Libra is the sign of relationships, and afterwards, Scorpio comes strolling along. Scorpio and the Eighth House are the things we share in a relationship. Shared finances are relegated to this pair, along with the distress they may cause. As everyone knows, sex is Scorpio’s thing. Taurus, Scorpio’s sister sign, can lay claim to it, too, but Taurean sex is candles, whip cream, and foreplay. Scorpio is bondage, whipping, and power-play. The darker side of emotional intimacy, the power struggle. Scorpios are known to be fiercely loyal and possessive. The Eighth House is where bodies and souls melt together, where transcendence is found through unity with another soul. Scorpio is known to be a psychic sign, in tune with the undercurrents in the room. Especially the darker ones. The collective shadow. They’re known to love the taboo, the occult, the mysterious.  Astrology, by relegating the darker side of life to this sign, shows that it has its place in our lives and the universe. And don’t think you can escape it by not having your Sun, Moon or Rising in Scorpio. It will rear its head in whatever house it’s in, wherever Pluto is in your chart, and in your Eighth House. It must be faced, or it will be repressed. Freud, who was Scorpio Rising, spent his career investigating the id, our instinctual side, and how repression of it leads to neurosis. The id is composed of our sexual urges, our aggression, and our death drive (thanatos). All very Scorpio. And all very human. I think this has been an especially hard thing for females to integrate into their lives in the past, as they run counter to what society thinks a woman should be. Lilith, an asteroid in astrology, may in some ways be the female expression of the Pluto principle. I wrote a little about it in an answer to a question, here. The struggle with Plutonian energy, though, applies to all genders and all peoples.  So how does Pluto operate in our lives? It’s the farthest planet, so its cycle through the zodiac is the longest. It spends about 21 years in each sign, so it is the most generational. To see how this force manifests in your personal life, look to its house placement. Wherever Pluto is, you will be prone to some extreme transformations. When it comes to the darkness, it’s always trying to be noticed. I read somewhere that Buddhists, rather than exorcising demons, would invite them to a grand feast. After being fed and paid attention to, the demons would transform. You see, we cannot fight our demons (or drown them - “they know how to swim,” as Bring Me The Horizon sings in “Can You Feel My Heart”). We all have inner demons, darkness we hide from others, that tears us apart when we are at our weakest. It’s a sad fact that most people don’t talk about this, putting on a show of happiness. You aren’t alone in this struggle, it is life on Earth.  We overcome our demons by looking at them, taking them for what they are. Bringing the darkness to light. Although Carl Jung parted ways with Sigmund Freud because the latter was too sex-obsessed, Jung never repressed the shadow in his studies. He’s made so many important statements on the human shadow that I must include more than a few: “Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves.” “Enlightenment is not imagining figures of light but making the darkness conscious.” “The most terrifying thing is to accept oneself completely.” “We cannot change anything until we accept it. Condemnation does not liberate, it oppresses.” “If there is anything we wish to change in the child, we should first examine it and see whether it is not something that could better be changed in ourselves.” “There are as many nights as days, and the one is just as long as the other in the year’s course. Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word ‘happy’ would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness.” “There can be no transforming of darkness into light and of apathy into movement without emotion.”  “Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.” “There is no coming to consciousness without pain.” “God is the name which I designate all things which cross my path violently and recklessly, all things which alter my plans and intentions, and change the course of my life, for better or for worse.” This is Pluto. This is the unconscious force inside all of us that changes our lives in drastic ways. Whether you’re orchestrating your own transformations by confronting your shadow, or if the only thing that can get you to change is some catastrophe hitting you from the outside, Pluto will destroy what you thought you knew and replace it with something much greater. It will be painful - Pluto is the planet of death, and we will have to die to ourselves many times over to get closer to our truth. Pluto is also the planet of rebirth, because every end is a beginning. Pluto is a big fuck you to the ego we’ve carefully crafted, and it can be hard to let go of an identity you’ve held for so long. But the unconscious has bigger dreams for our time on Earth. We are not whole until we integrate our shadow side. This is the true essence of power - being in contact with your whole being. No longer being unconsciously directed by your shadow side. I think we’re so quick to look down on the criminals and the neurotics of this world because we’d like to think we’re nothing like them. But the one that makes peace with his demons knows the truth, that one soul contains the collective experiences of all souls. The only thing separating us is the material illusion we’re all under - this is the true source of “evil” - thinking that we’re not all One. Peace on Earth will come when we feel in our hearts this Oneness - and inner peace comes when you become One with your shadow.  Pluto is an earthquake. Pluto is a force of nature. A disaster, a murder, a suicide. It is everything we’re afraid of. But that which we fear cannot have power over us once we accept it. Understand it. Integrate it into our lives. Just as we all must face the inevitability of our own deaths, we must face the fact that we’re better off leaving our old masks at the door, as we enter into a new chapter in our lives. Embrace change, and embrace the darkness.  Luckily, this month there has been talk of Pluto being invited back into the solar system after its exile. This spells of great change in our collective psyche :) It will be interesting to see if, as a society, we begin dealing with our collective shadow" - @pegasus-astrology