#episode 60: water failure

[gentenn]

Just hit episode 64 on Welcome to Nightvale! I only listened to the first 30 or so eps in 2013-2014, and just picked it up after the iconic Tumblr sexyman poll, so it’s been a fun experience.

Favorite episodes so far:

1. 45 - A Story About Them—LOVE the writing, love the story, love the gimmick. I think my favorite overall episode so far

2. 53 - The September Monologues—very fun to get a glimpse of the inner worlds of different characters, just an overall banger

3. Is it cheating to say the whole season 1 finale? The live episodes were so hype, I was losing my mind getting voices for all these recurring characters.

4. 60 - Water Failure—almost entirely because this episode’s weather segment was set-up as in-universe hold music, which is such a clever idea it took me out

I hope we get a voice for Pamela Winchell in a future episode. I was a little sad she didn’t appear in the live S1 finale (and while we’re at it, voices for old woman Josie as well as John Peters, y’know, the farmer)

[frillyfacefins]

This Trip was the Right Decision (WangTang)

Fandom: The Sleuth of Ming Dynasty Rating: Explicit Pairing: Wang Zhi/Tang Fan Tags: wound care, graphic description of blisters, Episode Related, episode 9 - liaodong arc, Hand Jobs, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Mentions of Jealousy, Manipulation, since this is a pre-relationship WangTang fic..., Wang Zhi gets emotionally overwhelmed Word Count: 8,414

Also on AO3

Summary:

On that night in Liaodong, after Tang Fan storms out of his tent because Wang Zhi won't let him solve the case right then and there, Wang Zhi follows him out into the cold and takes him back to the warmth of his own bed. His pretense is simple: Tang Fan has been on horse-back for the first time, and for days on end, so obviously there must be wounds that need tending, and he assumes Tang Fan is too preoccupied to take care of his own body. It might have been a pretense, but Wang Zhi turns out to be absolutely right. (And he is rewarded for taking care of Tang Fan by being allowed to 'take care' of him in another way, too...)

Notes:

This fic is inspired by Chapter 60 of the novel (hence the title), and also by how pitiful Tang Fan looked in episode 9 getting lost between those tents ... If you would like a refresher of where the story is at this point, I actually have a rewatch-thread for the Liaodong-Arc over on twitter <3 Look at the end of the fic for research notes

“I’m still worried about Sui Zhou. He can die at any time now,” Tang Fan says the second he drops down into the seat beside Wang Zhi. He must have run into Jia Kui on his way into Wang Zhi’s tent— Wang Zhi didn’t even have time to set down his gaiwan. At least there is no reason to suspect that Tang Fan might have been eavesdropping, no matter how well-timed his entrance was. It looks like Tang Fan didn’t even have the patience to cover himself with more than his traveling coat, which is far too thin for the night winds of Liaodong. He looks so pitiful, hugging himself against the creeping cold. A few hours ago, when Wang Zhi helped him dismount from that horse, he was so stiff that he could hardly lift his arms, but now he is vibrating with worry and stifled energy.

Wang Zhi’s relief at Tang Fan’s arrival has melted away most of his brittle, heavy frustration at his inability to find those damned horses, like warm rain washing away the last dregs of dirty snow in spring. He had felt so helpless for the last few days, so useless, as if some part of his brain was missing, or as if something was swimming in front of his eyes, a dark spot obscuring the solution to this confounding mystery. The spot is still there, but he doesn’t mind it now that Tang Fan is here. He doesn’t need to see in the dark if there is a fire-stick hanging on his belt.

But now that the solution is within his reach, he suddenly feels so tired it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. His body has finally released the weight of impending failure, so now there is space to let in the exhaustion that he has shoved to the side again and again and again.

He is weak, and he knows it. But he also knows that Tang Fan doesn’t know. Tang Fan looks at him and sees a solution to his own problems. This is what they are, in the end — tools they each need to survive. Tang Fan, a lock pick for any door Wang Zhi can’t kick in; Wang Zhi, a knife to cut through any knot Tang Fan can’t undo.

Wang Zhi looks at the gaiwan. Tea gets cold so fast in Liaodong. He knows that he could just have Ding Rong boil new water for him whenever he wants, but he has already dismissed him for tonight, and by now he has gotten used to the stale tang. He doesn’t need the comfort of warm tea; he just needs it to clear his head.

He puts the cup down on the table between him and Tang Fan.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’ve got someone to see to that. Your priority is the horse theft case.”

Of course, that’s not enough for Tang Fan. He is the kind of person who can’t believe that anything is happening if he isn’t there to see it; at least not when it concerns his growing circle of hangers-on.

“But I’m worried about Sui Zhou now and I can’t set my mind on solving the case.”

He is leaning forward, hugging himself tighter. Too bad, Wang Zhi thinks. The horse market has to open. The case has to be solved. Neither of them has a choice.

“Go back to sleep,” he says.

Tang Fan looks at him for a moment, then he stands up and storms off as fast as he stormed in — only to turn around again at the entrance of the tent. He comes back, arms down, hands clenched into fists, a look of resolve on his face.

“Let’s solve it now!” he says “Tell me about the case, come on!”

Wang Zhi feels a stabbing pain behind his eyes. It’s not as if it makes a difference if the case gets solved now or in six hours. Tang Fan has to know that, right?

Yes, Sui Zhou could die between now and then — but how long has it been since he was thrown into prison in Ji’an? Tang Fan has gone there, come back, found horses, come to Liaodong… If Sui Zhou survived for all this time, he will survive for six more hours.

And if he doesn’t, Wang Zhi will take the blame. As well as the miserable life of every single scumbag official involved.

He might make it fast, he thinks. A mercy, but he owes those sorry bastards that much. After all, if nothing had happened in Ji’an, Tang Fan would not have come to Liaodong.

Tang Fan wouldn’t be standing in his tent in the middle of a cold and windy night, looking at him with such grim determination that even Wang Zhi can’t hold his gaze. He sighs and stands up.

“You were on the road for two days,” he says, turning away and walking towards his desk. “You must be tired. Go back to get some sleep. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

He does wonder, really, where Tang Fan’s limit is. Even if he can stay up for days on end, driven by that obsessive need for answers, for solutions, everybody has their limit. And Tang Fan is a weak scholar, a willow branch in the storm, blue-lipped and red-eyed.

“But Sui Zhou is in grave danger now! How can I sleep?”

He looks up at him — Wang Zhi has stepped onto the raised platform — with such desperation in his eyes as if only Wang Zhi’s words are keeping him from immediately rescuing Sui Zhou, not miles of road and days of travel. Tang Fan is not made for this kind of problem — a problem that cannot be solved in one desperate charge, a problem that needs more than a clear pair of eyes and a clever tongue.

“Things can only be solved one by one. It’s pointless to be anxious,” he says. It’s the truth, and he has to believe that Tang Fan knows it. But of course it feels cruel, when everything Tang Fan can think of is his friend who is in danger in a place so impossibly far away. “Now that you’re in Liaodong, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

He sits down on his desk, intentionally not looking up at Tang Fan’s pleading face. He doesn’t have to review the documents Ding Rong has prepared right now, of course he doesn’t; but he also doesn’t want to continue this discussion, and the excuse of “I have work to do” seems more acceptable than “I want to go to sleep, too.”

It takes Tang Fan a few moments, but finally he says softly: “Okay. I get it.”

Wang Zhi doesn’t even want to guess what he means by “it”. When he storms off this time, he really leaves.

Wang Zhi can’t stop himself from looking after him. He lets out a huff; if from annoyance, frustration, or relief, he doesn’t know.

He is so tired, but even after Tang Fan is gone, he can’t make himself get up and leave his desk. He can’t work, either. He is sitting there, staring at words hardly legible in the light of burned-down candles, and he thinks about the cold wind and Tang Fan’s pale face.

Eventually, he stands up. But he doesn’t walk behind the wall dividing the tent into work and private spaces, where he knows that his bed is waiting, thick blankets and furs on a warm kang, with thick curtains all around it. Instead, he takes a small ceramic pot from a shelf and walks to the entrance of his tent, and surrenders himself to the cold winds of the Liaodong night.

Tang Fan, this weak little scholar with skin like mutton fat jade and limbs as thin as longevity noodles, has spent days riding a horse. He’s seen the wince when he had stood on his own feet again after Wang Zhi had helped him down, had seen the way he had shifted his hips and the thin line of his lips when he walked.

Wang Zhi knows what this kind of exertion does to people who are not used to it. And with how preoccupied Tang Fan is right now, he can’t imagine that he has even spared a thought about doing something about the pain he must be in.

This should be Sui Zhou’s role — making sure that Tang Fan is safe and taken care of.

But since Sui Zhou isn’t here, Wang Zhi will do what he can.

It has been only moments since Tang Fan left his tent, but when Wang Zhi finds him, he has somehow lost his already insufficient coat and is now running around between tents in nothing but his middle clothes, clutching a leather whip to his chest.

Wang Zhi really needs to save Sui Zhou. It’s extremely obvious that Tang Fan can’t be left alone without diving headfirst into disaster, and Wang Zhi simply doesn’t have the time to keep pulling him back.

Well, he can keep him on dry ground until Sui Zhou is back, at least.

He deliberately steps down hard on the gravel-covered ground so Tang Fan won’t jump when he approaches him. Tang Fan still whirls around in fright, clutching the braided whip like a shield.

Wang Zhi frowns at him. “I only looked away for a heartbeat… Where in the world is your coat?”

He can’t see him very well in the torchlight, but it seems like the blue of his lips has spread to the rest of his face. He is shivering like a newborn foal, staring at him with eyes that look gigantic in the near dark.

He is shivering too hard to answer him, so Wang Zhi lets out a displeased “Tsk” and takes off his own fur coat. Tang Fan looks like he wants to protest when Wang Zhi bridges the last distance between them and wraps the coat around his shoulders.

The cold immediately bites through his yesa, but he grits his teeth and bears it. He’d originally wanted to hand Tang Fan the ointment and be done with it, but now that he sees Tang Fan huddling into his fur coat — into the warmth his own body has left behind — it suddenly seems like a bad idea to just leave him out here. Even if he showed Tang Fan the way back to the tent he was sharing with that little girl, how would Wang Zhi be able to sleep when he was worrying about what else Tang Fan got up to in the middle of the night?

So he answers Tang Fan’s inquisitive stare with an eye roll and grabs one of his hands. Tang Fan responds by dropping the whip to the ground. His fingers feel icy and stiff against Wang Zhi’s.

Wang Zhi gives the weapon a last look before he pulls Tang Fan back towards his own tent, then he glances at Tang Fan’s face. He seems embarrassed; Wang Zhi sees that there is a little more color in his cheeks now when they pass by a lantern stand.

The guards in front of the commander’s tent try not to react when they see Wang Zhi come back. Even though he is doing his best to keep his body under control, he knows that he is shivering, and he knows that they have to wonder why his fur coat is now on the little official who had come out of nowhere earlier that day and brought two Oirats with him — as if the Three Guards and the Jurchen aren’t enough to deal with.

He has wondered about that aspect of Tang Fan’s arrival himself, of course, about why in the world those two were traveling with Tang Fan. The girl seems to be of high status, though assigning Han labels to Oirat women is always difficult. There had been a tiny, unpleasant whisper in his mind when he had first seen her, just a susurration that tickles a place he doesn’t dare to look at, but then again, that is Sui Zhou’s problem, not his.

He thinks back to the braided whip, to the embarrassed look on Tang Fan’s face, and wonders whether the pride he takes in his understanding of other people’s inner workings is completely justified.

But it doesn’t matter, so he forces the thought aside and leads Tang Fan into his tent and past the dividing wall to his own living quarters. His hand is still wrapped around Tang Fan’s reed-thin wrist when the other suddenly stops.

He looks up at Tang Fan with a frown, only to meet a similar expression.

“Why did you bring me back here?” Tang Fan asks.

Wang Zhi feels his grip on his wrist become a little firmer and feels the bones shift between his fingers. So fragile that he feels like he should put them into a velvet-lined box for safekeeping.

It takes a conscious effort to relax his hand.

“You said you can’t sleep in your tent.” It’s not really what he said, but Tang Fan still looks dazed by the cold, and Wang Zhi hopes he will let it slide. “My bed is warmer than yours, and I don’t have to worry about you running around stealing random women’s weapons.”

Oh, that was more than he wanted to say, and he immediately sees a shift on Tang Fan’s face, a slight tightening of his eyebrows. He has to be really tired if he lets nonsense like that slip.

Wang Zhi thinks fast. “Also, you can’t tell me that all those days on horseback did not leave their marks on you.” For the first time in ages, the words he finds sound insufficient to his own ears, but they’ll have to do.

To drive his point home, he shows Tang Fan the little ceramic pot he has been holding in his hand this whole time, then looks pointedly down at his thighs. The confused suspicion on Tang Fan’s face immediately switches back to that sweet sheen of embarrassment.

Wang Zhi carefully tunes his smile to keep it from showing the guilty relief he is feeling.

“You might have to walk for a while tomorrow,” he says, “and I’d rather not have to wait for you every five steps because you’re in pain.”

Tang Fan is looking away, at the floor somewhere a few feet left of Wang Zhi. He is shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he’s debating with himself.

He’s thinking too much. Wang Zhi knows what a dangerous thing Tang Fan’s mind is when it’s running wild, so he decides to grab its reins and yank it to a halt.

“Take off your pants and lie down on your back”, he says.

It has the exact effect he has hoped for. He manages not to look smug — or not too smug, he’s too tired to be sure — when Tang Fan’s head whips around and his eyes stare at him in shock.

“What?” Wang Zhi asks as if he can’t understand Tang Fan’s reaction. “This is the easiest way to make sure any wounds you have get treated properly.”

Tang Fan frowns, but he isn’t running out of his tent. A good sign. And so is the red color the tip of his ears have turned.

“You can’t just say something like that, Wang-daren…” The formal address seems to be Tang Fan’s attempt to bring some distance between the two of them, but the way his frown turns into a pout shows how toothless his little protest is.

Wang Zhi allows himself a little chuckle that might be a little less put-on than most of his laughs.

“Are you afraid I will take advantage of you, Runqing?” He makes the words drip with ridicule, picking up what Tang Fan has balked at and presenting it to him in his flat palm, like candied fruit to a skittish horse. “Don’t worry, your virtue is safe with me,” he lies. “Or did you forget that I don’t have what it takes to taint it?”

That does the trick. He has gambled on Tang Fan still feeling awkward about Wang Zhi’s status, like most men do; and he is rewarded with a guilt-stricken look on Tang Fan’s face.

“That‘s not what I meant,” Tang Fan mutters, but he‘s not meeting Wang Zhi‘s eyes anymore. He is hugging himself again, but only with one arm, and his eyes are flickering towards the bed.

Nearly there.

“Come on now,“ Wang Zhi says on a sigh, as if he feels very much put-upon by Tang Fan‘s theatrics. “The sooner I take care of your wounds, the faster they will heal. Do you really want to suffer any longer than necessary just because you are afraid to show me your dick?”

Tang Fan still has a baleful look on his face, but he seems to finally demur. He carefully lifts the fur coat off his shoulders and drapes it over a nearby clothes stand, then he reaches for the tie in the back of his shirt, his shoulders stiff and his hands fumbling — if from exhaustion or cold, Wang Zhi can’t tell.

Wang Zhi steps in and taps Tang Fan‘s arm with the back of his hand.

“Turn around,” he says.

Tang Fan frowns at him, but he drops his hands and does as he is told.

One of the ends of the ties has slipped through the loop, turning it into a knot that can‘t just be opened with a simple pull. Wang Zhi’s fingers aren‘t as nimble as they usually are, and his eyes are straining in the dim light, but he eventually manages to undo the tight little knot and loosen the cinch around Tang Fan‘s waist.

He takes a step back afterwards, and watches as Tang Fan opens his shirt to reach the ties of his pants. They‘re less finicky and also tied in the front, so Tang Fan doesn‘t need Wang Zhi‘s help for those.

Tang Fan still seems clumsy and uncoordinated as he pulls his pants down and only then realizes he is still wearing his boots. He looks embarrassed and frustrated as he flops down on the edge of the bed, his crotch obscured by the tails of his shirt as he pulls off his boots and tosses them to the side, with his pants following right after.

Now naked from the waist down, he squeezes his thighs together in a bout of shyness and looks up at Wang Zhi.

“How exactly…?”

For a moment Wang Zhi sees his own hands cradling Tang Fan‘s blushing cheeks; he wonders whether his lips are finally warmed up again, and somewhere in the far reaches of his mind there is a voice that urges him to find out.

He shoves those thoughts into the same corner where he hid the bitter aftertaste of seeing Tang Fan clutch that whip.

Wang Zhi keeps his mind forcefully blank as he sits down on the edge of the bed and takes off his own boots.

„Put your feet on the bed, lean back and spread your legs.“

He shifts onto his knees and gives his attention to the pot of ointment he is now carefully opening. He hopes it will make Tang Fan feel less awkward while he scoots around on the bed and gets into position.

Wang Zhi looks up again when Tang Fan stops moving. Maybe he should have been prepared for the spike of warmth that runs down his back when he sees Tang Fan like this, leaning back and propped up on his elbows. He is careful to let his gaze slide down slowly, starting at Tang Fan‘s furrowed eyebrows, following the flush that has escaped his cheeks and is now flowing down over his neck to his chest, where the open panels of his shirt expose milky skin and just the shadow of light brown nipples… His position is making the skin of his stomach fold, an illusion of softness betrayed by the jut of his sharp hip bones. His pubic hair is sparse, but silky, his soft cock and balls a reddish brown that gets dark where his sack meets the plush whiteness of his ass.

Wang Zhi’s eyes finally reach his thighs, and he lets out a little hiss. He would have regretted letting go of himself so much, but right now the feeling of being right — of being absolutely justified in the excuse he found to bring Tang Fan back to his tent — is stronger than his desire to keep his face pristine.

It‘s no wonder Tang Fan has agreed to let him deal with his wounds. The long days in the saddle have obviously taken their toll. Tang Fan‘s inner thighs are covered in sores and bruises, mostly blisters in various states of healing, but also two calluses with various smaller blisters lining the raised skin.

Wang Zhi dips two fingers into the ointment and goes to work.

There is only one blister that hasn‘t opened yet, right next to the crease between Tang Fan‘s butt cheek and thigh. The edge of that blister seems a little inflamed, but when he touches it it feels soft and giving under his finger, so he assumes there is no use in opening it to let out the fluids since it likely won’t burst on its own. Tang Fan is shifting above him with every touch, soft whimpers filling Wang Zhi‘s ears. He moves from the closed blister to a burst one farther down, and Tang Fan’s hands clutch Wang Zhi’s bedding.

This one must have opened recently; the center is raw and wet, not even the thinnest membrane covering it yet. The edge of his skin where it meets the raw flesh is vaguely yellow and surrounded by circles of angry red that bleeds into a reddish-blue, a ring-shaped bruise with yellow-gray spots leading back to the creamy white of healthy skin.

There are several blisters on Tang Fan‘s thighs that look like this, some bigger, some smaller, some already covered by tender new skin, some oozing clear liquid now that Tang Fan has aggravated them by spreading his legs.

Just putting salve on these wounds won‘t be enough, Wang Zhi realizes as he sets a thick glob of ointment onto the weeping, raw skin of the first open blister. He tries to remember where Ding Rong put the box with less frequently needed medical materials as he carefully rubs the ointment into the bruised edges. He hardly notices that his other hand has found its way to the outside of Tang Fan‘s thigh, or that his thumb has started to rub soothing circles into Tang Fan’s flesh.

No matter how thin Tang Fan is, the insides of his thighs feel as soft as steamed buns. The color is similar, too, where it isn‘t inflamed or bruised. He wonders how long it will take until the skin will heal completely, and at the same time he wonders how hard he would have to squeeze to leave bruises of his own.

The small noises Tang Fan makes change depending on which part of his wounds Wang Zhi is touching. He stays as gentle as he can while he kept probing, sounding out the various notes he can strike on Tang Fan‘s flesh. Hissing intakes of air follow when his fingers cover the raw center of a burst blister with a thick layer of salve, pitiful, high-pitched whimpers accompany the gentle pressure of Wang Zhi massaging the ointment into the inflamed red circles blooming outward. When his fingers — his ring finger and pinky, mostly — brush over only slightly bruised or completely hale flesh, he sometimes draws out a little gasp, a ticklish sound, often followed by a jump in one of the lean muscles below the thin layer of fat making Tang Fan‘s thighs feel so soft that Wang Zhi can hardly ignore the voice deep in the recesses of his mind that is wondering whether they would feel as delicate against his lips as they do beneath his fingers.

He finally emerges from his reverie when he realizes that all of the open blisters he can reach are covered in ointment now. There are still the welts, which reach farther towards the back of Tang Fan’s thighs, and a few bruises that dip too far back for him to properly reach.

“Can you…” Wang Zhi starts, but notices that his voice is rough. He swallows and ignores both the heat in his face and the temptation to look up at Tang Fan’s face. “Can you pull your legs up? I need to…”

He doesn’t know how to explain. His head feels strange, filled with something that is lighter than exhaustion but still makes everything seem soft and hazy. So instead of telling Tang Fan what he needs him to do, he slides his hands, his right one still slick with the ointment, under Tang Fan’s knees and carefully moves his legs until Tang Fan understands and reaches out to replace Wang Zhi’s hands. He pulls his thighs against his belly, and Wang Zhi feels a sharp, dangerous thing in his stomach when he notices that Tang Fan is shivering again. He knows, of course, that it’s not because he is cold — his skin is warm under his hands, slightly damp with sweat, even. The new position shows Wang Zhi more of Tang Fan — his long, tender-soled feet, his skinny buttocks, the shaded crevice between, a hint of a tight furl…

That sight more than anything makes Wang Zhi feel light-headed. He doesn’t know what to call it — “hole” seems too crass, “anus” too medical, “entrance” as if he was planning to…

It’s hard to put something he can see so clearly into that corner of his mind where he has shoved everything else dangerous about Tang Fan, but he tries anyway.

He scoops out more ointment and spreads it on the blisters he couldn’t reach earlier, then he uses his thumb to spread it over the calluses. The slight trembling of Tang Fan’s thighs becomes far more noticeable, until Wang Zhi has to hold him steady with his other hand on his thigh, a little higher than the wounds, while he makes sure that every part of the calluses is properly covered. The way he is holding him makes Tang Fan’s buttock look rounder, and its soft, mostly unbruised skin looks so enticing that Wang Zhi’s grip gets a little too hard. He lets go when Tang Fan presses out a mewling “Wang Zhi!”

For a moment he feels unmoored, reeling. His eyes flicker up to Tang Fan’s face and the flush he sees there mirrors the heat he feels in his own. He quickly lowers his eyes again and completes his task as quickly as possible, leaving a little too much ointment on the last inch of callused skin before he pulls his hand away and stumbles off the bed.

“Stay like this, I just need…”

He tries to ignore the frantic beating of his heart as he looks around the sleeping area. He vaguely remembers seeing the medicine box in the trunk to the left of his bed when he had taken out new middle clothes this morning. He nearly trips on his way there, and then he fumbles with the unlocked hasp, because he doesn’t want to touch it with his still ointment-covered hand, and he doesn’t want to wipe his hand on his yesa. He knows how to get this kind of stain out of silks, of course — every Palace eunuch does, it’s part of what you need to learn to serve royalty — but even if Ding Rong packed the chalks and resins necessary to get grease stains out of silk, it’s a lengthy process that he just doesn’t have time for in the foreseeable future. So he does his best to keep his hand away from both the wood of the trunk and the silk of his clothing until he finally gets the top of the trunk open. There are several handkerchiefs in one corner, and he quickly pulls one of them out to wipe his hand, then he slips it into his sleeve. He was right about the medicine box. There is no need to take it out of the trunk, he opens it as it is. A parcel of linen lies on top of the other medical materials, and he only has to rummage for a moment to find a pair of sharp scissors to cut that linen into broad strips he can use to bandage Tang Fan’s thighs.

Wang Zhi comes back to the bed with the scissors and an ample amount of linen. From the corners of his eyes, he can see the searching expression on Tang Fan’s face, but he feels a little calmer now, a little less lost, like he can take that look without falling apart.

He still doesn’t make eye contact, to be safe.

He eyes Tang Fan’s thighs and the way the blisters are distributed across them, then he cuts strips that should be broad enough to not cut into his flesh, but still thin enough to be snug and not slip off.

The process of wrapping the bandages around Tang Fan‘s thighs feels soothing. He has to concentrate on the task, hold down one end of the linen strips against his skin with his left hand while his right hand loops the rest through the triangle made by Tang Fan‘s arms, thighs, and belly, then he has to grab the bandages with the ring and pinkie finger of his left hand while his thumb is still holding the end in place so he can pull his right hand back again. The tension has to be right, not loose enough to slip off, but not so tight that it would either hurt or dislodge anyway with Tang Fan‘s movements. It is precise work that doesn‘t require a lot of thinking, like polishing a rare vase or ironing embroidered silk. He is using the laboriously acquired and carefully honed adroitness of an experienced attendant‘s hands to bandage Tang Fan‘s wounded skin with the same care one would take to wrap priceless porcelain.

He is so absorbed by his task that he only notices Tang Fan‘s heavy breathing after he fastens the bandages around his second thigh. He also notices that Tang Fan‘s hands are shaking. His knuckles are white, the fingertips red — maybe from the effort of holding his legs up for such a long time? His arms and thighs are quaking slightly with the strain as well.

Wang Zhi sits back, his eyes moving to Tang Fan‘s feet so he won‘t accidentally look at this intriguing, dangerous place between his skinny buttocks again.

“You can put your pants back on,” he says. There is still a remnant of that floaty feeling in his head, a memory of warmth at his fingertips, but he feels calmer now. He has done what he has set out to do. Tang Fan‘s wounds are taken care of. Yes, there is still some uncertainty about what is going to happen now — he doesn‘t know if Tang Fan will want to go back to his own tent. He‘d told him earlier that his bed was warmer and that he‘d rather have him here and not worry about what kind of trouble he got into outside, but who knows if Tang Fan even remembers that… But then again, making him stay here feels far less fraught than touching his naked skin. Tang Fan has been very easy to manhandle thus far, it would be similarly easy for Wang Zhi to just put him under the covers. Wang Zhi definitely won‘t let him leave alone, because the chances that he would find his tent on his own are practically nil, and maybe the prospect of Wang Zhi having to follow him outside into the cold again after he helped him with his wounds would shame Tang Fan into staying.

It is only seconds after he told Tang Fan to put his pants on again that all of his careful ruminations on how this night is going to end prove completely premature.

Because Tang Fan makes a weird little noise in his throat, and when Wang Zhi looks up at his face he sees that he is blushing even worse than when he had first put himself on display for Wang Zhi.

“I‘m sorry,” Tang Fan whispers, and before Wang Zhi can ask what he is sorry for, he lets go of his legs and lowers his feet back onto the bed.

With the earlier angle, Wang Zhi hadn‘t been able to see much of the state of his cock. Because of the tilt of his hips, it had just been nestled against his belly, and he honestly hadn‘t been very focused on it, either. But now that Tang Fan‘s legs are back on the bed — still spread, because Wang Zhi is still sitting between them — his cock is still lying against his stomach, and while it isn‘t substantially bigger than it is in its flaccid state, his foreskin is definitely tighter now, and his red tip is leaking droplets of clear fluid onto his stomach, which is visibly moving with Tang Fan‘s heavy breaths.

Wang Zhi only notices that he has been staring when Tang Fan reaches down between his legs to hide this testament to how much he has apparently enjoyed Wang Zhi‘s touch.

“I‘m sorry,” he repeats, and this time he‘s the one who can‘t meet Wang Zhi‘s eyes when he looks at his face again. “I didn‘t mean to, it‘s just… I guess it felt really good… I mean, your hands and all that…”

He suddenly pulls his legs to his body and pushes himself up on his elbows. “It will go away in a bit, I‘ll just need something to clean up so I can put on my pants— “

Wang Zhi stops him with a hand on his knee before he can do anything so stupid as getting off the bed. The calm he had felt is gone, but this time whatever strange force replaces it doesn’t feel uncontrollable or disorienting. He feels focused, and hungry.

He feels like he did when he made Tang Fan take off his pants. It‘s a kind of anticipation that scares him, but that isn‘t frightening enough to keep him from taking what he wants when it is right there for the taking.

“Let me help you,” he says.

Tang Fan freezes in the process of sitting up and stares at him. His eyes are as black as his hair, which has come loose from his top knot at some point. Wang Zhi had noticed the loose strand earlier but hadn‘t commented on it, and now he is being rewarded with the sight of Tang Fan‘s long ponytail kissing his reddened cheek and falling down to lie against his white shoulder.

The remainder of his middle clothes has vanished into the furs of Wang Zhi’s bed, and Tang Fan is completely naked and so beautiful that Wang Zhi feels like he understands what all those salacious romance novels mean when they talk about how the hero „feels his loins stirring“. He shouldn‘t have anything to stir, not in his loins anyway, but Tang Fan seems to have a knack for achieving the impossible.

“It‘s going to go away by itself,” Tang Fan says, his voice no more than a reedy whisper. “You really don‘t have to do that, you‘ve already…” His voice trails off as if he doesn‘t know how to finish that sentence. Wang Zhi pushes Tang Fan‘s right knee to the side, then does the same to his other leg, so he is back in the position he was in when Wang Zhi started rubbing ointment into his wounds.

The little clay pot is still on the bed. Wang Zhi doesn‘t touch his bandaged thighs, but still crowds in closer to Tang Fan, until he runs out of space — then he carefully lifts Tang Fan‘s legs and puts them on his own knees. He is so close to him that the soft, flowing fabric of his yesa‘sskirt is touching Tang Fan‘s buttocks and balls. When Wang Zhi looks down at Tang Fan‘s crotch, he notices how hard his own breathing has become. He can see his brocade-covered chest rise and fall, the details of his embroidery stark against the simple linen of the bandages.

Where he had been too afraid of looking at any part of Tang Fan except for his raw thighs, now he can‘t get enough of the way his body is reacting to him. His eyes are rushing from his flushed face to the pebbled brown of his nipples to the jut of his hip bones to his hard, leaking cock to the delicate skin of the folds at the very top of his thighs. He wants to taste him, to kiss and lick and bite, to really leave his own marks — to suck bruises into his skin that linger long enough for Sui Zhou to find them when the Ji‘an issue has finally been dealt with.

But he knows that it would be too much. Tang Fan looks like he is about to fall apart as it is, and Wang Zhi knows he needs to rein in whatever has taken a hold of him, at least a little.

He retrieves the pot of ointment and opens it once again. He manages to catch Tang Fan‘s gaze and holds it while he dips his fingers into the viscous salve, and he doesn‘t miss how Tang Fan‘s lips fall open at the squelching noise when he pulls his fingers out again.

It‘s the first time Wang Zhi has ever touched a cock, but he won‘t let that stop him. He puts down the pot and squeezes his hand into a fist to spread the ointment on his palm, then he holds his breath and wraps his slicked-up hand around that slim, dark, foreign part of this brilliant, troublesome little scholar that he somehow managed to drag into his life and now even into his bed.

He hates that he can‘t look at his own hand and at Tang Fan‘s face at the same time, because when he hears a noise that sounds like a dying animal coming from Tang Fan, he looks up too late to catch that fleeting moment of his first reaction to Wang Zhi‘s touch. He still gets rewarded with a look of absolute bliss on Tang Fan‘s face. He looks as if he has lost all control over his muscles. His eyes are only half-closed, his jaw slack, the tip of his pink tongue peeking out between his open lips. Only his eyebrows have enough tension left to pull up toward the center of his forehead. A delicious line is forming there, completely different from the frown Wang Zhi has become accustomed to seeing whenever Tang Fan is angry or suspicious or lost in the depths of his unfathomable mind.

Wang Zhi made this little line appear, and for a moment he feels like it exists only for him.

Apparently he takes a little too long to admire him, because Tang Fan‘s eyes open a little wider, his lips close on a needy whimper, and Wang Zhi feels movement under his hand.

He can‘t keep the apologetic smile off his face as he returns to the task at hand — that is, Tang Fan‘s dick (literally in his hand). He rubs his thumb over the soft skin around the tip, pulls it down a little to expose the wet head just out of curiosity, then he lets go again and starts to move his slick hand up and down his shaft. His only real reference points for any of this are crude jokes and flowery allusions in spring books, but it seems pretty intuitive to him…

…at least until Tang Fan lets out a not-quite-ecstatic whine and wraps his own hand around Wang Zhi‘s. His fingers are so long that his thumb and forefinger are completely encircling his wrist. Wang Zhi looks up at Tang Fan‘s face, and Tang Fan blushes harder under his frown.

“Just… Let me show you how?”

A cold sliver of humiliation runs through the hot swell of desire in Wang Zhi‘s stomach, but strangely enough, it doesn‘t seem to cool him at all. He is perfectly aware, of course, that Tang Fan knows best how to touch his own cock, and he accepts the instruction with hardly more than a little twitch of his mouth.

Tang Fan‘s hand feels hot and sweaty around his own fingers, and it only takes a few seconds until the sting of being found wanting in anything gets replaced by the realization that this is the first time Tang Fan has touched him of his own accord.

That thought hits him with such violence that he forgets to participate in what their hands are doing, but Tang Fan doesn‘t seem to mind much. He is apparently perfectly happy to use Wang Zhi‘s hand as an aid to get to where he wants to be. Wang Zhi only snaps out of the blank space his realization has left him in when Tang Fan‘s legs move off his thighs. He is confused at first until he realizes Tang Fan is putting his feet on the bed to give himself more leverage, and then his hand is getting squeezed so hard by the bigger one covering it that he feels slightly afraid that he will accidentally crush Tang Fan‘s hot, hard dick.

Tang Fan doesn‘t seem to have any such concerns. He starts to thrust his hips up into the squelching wet cocoon of Wang Zhi‘s trapped hand. Wang Zhi‘s wrist hurts a little — something isn‘t quite right about the angle — but the pain is hardly more than a niggling itch in his mind, because what Tang Fan is doing is clearly working for him. He should have expected that Tang Fan is loud in bed, but he definitely couldn‘t have imagined how his moans and whines and yelps would seep into his skin and fill his veins with molten gold, viscous and hot and so heavy that it feels like he is about to suffocate. Something happens at the core of his body again, at that place that ought to be empty, and when Tang Fan‘s hips stop moving after an especially hard push and his moans turn into a long, high-pitched keen he feels a deep shiver run through his entire body even before he registers that some liquid other than the slippery ointment is coating his hand now.

Tang Fan stays frozen in this position for the duration of several breaths, his hand still clutching Wang Zhi‘s so hard that his knuckles stand out white from the straining red of his fist. Now that Wang Zhi has been released from whatever mania Tang Fan‘s ecstasy has plunged him into, he can appreciate the slightly absurd image Tang Fan is making at this moment. His hips are still lifted and his tiny buttocks are clenching in the effort to hold them, his face is still scrunched up in concentration, though it slowly starts to relax, and his free hand is clutching at a pillow above his head. Wang Zhi has time to look at the dark hair under his arms, his far too-visible ribs, the taut muscles of his belly, before Tang Fan finally releases the last bit of tension from his body and deflates like a paper lantern after its candle is doused.

Tang Fan closes his eyes for a moment, his face still flushed scarlet, but completely relaxed. His hand falls away from Wang Zhi‘s, and Wang Zhi lets go of his cock. He is a little surprised to see that it hasn‘t just gone completely flaccid again right after Tang Fan‘s emission, but is instead becoming gradually softer with every deep, exhausted breath Tang Fan is taking.

He takes a moment to have a closer look at the seed covering his hand. A few drops have escaped onto Tang Fan‘s stomach, but enough of the liquid has mixed with the residual ointment to give his hand a vaguely milky coating. He spreads his fingers to see the liquid draw strings between them and rubs his thumb over it to get a better feeling for the texture. It‘s fascinating to think that this liquid is the subject of so much mystical importance, the magical jing that allegedly pulls yang energy out of a man‘s body. He wonders whether he has just made Tang Fan even weaker than he already is… At some point he should ask Pei Huai about this, he thinks. The man is weird and might at some point become a liability, but he has interesting views on traditional wisdom, and since Wang Zhi has a neat little file on all of his illegal importing of Western materials (thoroughly encoded of course), he doesn’t really worry about that specific medical maniac getting any leverage on him.

He will put a few more choice bits of meat into Tang Fan’s bowl at breakfast tomorrow, anyway. Just on the off-chance.

He does think about licking his hand for a moment, but he pushes that urge away. He has gone far further tonight than he ever intended, but that might just be one step too far.

Tang Fan looks as if he is about to fall asleep, even though the position he is in — especially the angle of his legs — can‘t be very comfortable. Wang Zhi takes another long, fond look at his face, marvels at the long lashes touching his creamy cheeks and the softness of his thin, slightly opened lips, then he lets out a little sigh of his own and changes from his kneeling position to sit back on his folded legs.

Either the sigh or the motion makes Tang Fan come out of his post-climatic haze. Wang Zhi is not looking at his face at that moment, but using his clean hand to pull out the handkerchief he‘d earlier stuffed into his sleeve, which is a little difficult since he had stuffed it into his left sleeve and his clean hand is also his left… Apparently Tang Fan can see the edge of the handkerchief peeking out and deduces what exactly Wang Zhi is trying to do here, so he sits up — his bandaged legs still straddling Wang Zhi‘s knees, a comfortable, warm point of contact — and gently grasps Wang Zhi‘s forearm.

„Let me do that,“ he says, his voice still rough from all the noise he had been making. Wang Zhi looks up at him, but Tang Fan is focused on getting that handkerchief out. His hands are a little shaky, but he eventually manages, and when Wang Zhi tries to take the piece of cloth to clean himself, Tang Fan refuses to let go.

He doesn‘t explain himself — his eyelids keep drooping, so Wang Zhi assumes he is too tired to talk much — but he still insists on cleaning his mess off Wang Zhi‘s hand. The touch of the handkerchief, and of Tang Fan‘s fingers through the cloth, feels very pleasant on Wang Zhi‘s hand, which has started to throb slightly, maybe because Tang Fan had squeezed him a little too hard earlier. He can also feel slight pain in his wrist, likely from the strain of being held at an unnatural angle while moving. It‘s a good thing that very little of his work these days is directly related to what he can do with his hands, so it won‘t be an issue if that pain doesn‘t go away by tomorrow. Maybe it will be a reminder of what happened tonight, some actual proof that this wasn‘t just a dream.

Tang Fan is trying to be thorough, but it‘s very obvious that he is pushing his body‘s limits. He cleans up Wang Zhi‘s hand well enough, even rubbing between his fingers, which makes a strange little shiver tickle up his arm into his chest. When he is finished, he lets out a weak little yawn and turns his bleary eyes to the furs next to them.

He is too tired to even notice that his now soft cock is still not cleaned up. Wang Zhi takes the handkerchief back and gives him a quick rub-down, then he wipes the few drops off his belly as well. Tang Fan squirms a little, but he is hardly able to hold himself upright, so he doesn‘t complain.

Once both of them are reasonably clean, Wang Zhi drops the handkerchief on the ground next to the bed and stands up, carefully disentangling himself from Tang Fan‘s long, long legs. He helps Tang Fan lie down with his head on the pillow he‘d been clutching earlier, then he strips down to his own middle clothes. He takes the time to fold both his outer layers and Tang Fan‘s discarded middle clothes and puts them aside, then he comes back to the warm kang where he left his brilliant little scholar and takes down the bed curtains. He snuffs out the candles, then he slips into the warm cocoon and arranges first the duvet and then a fur blanket over the both of them. Tang Fan is moving a little, maybe trying to find a comfortable position to sleep.

Wang Zhi feels tired to the bones too, but this tiredness feels better than the exhaustion he had felt earlier that night. He doesn‘t feel hollowed out and filled with fog like he did earlier, but warm and soft and strangely safe.

“Good night,” he whispers. The only answer he gets is deep, rhythmic breathing. He smiles as he rolls onto his side, his back to Tang Fan since he can‘t sleep with his back to the curtains. The warmth of the heated bed, the softness of the furs, and the noise of Tang Fan‘s breathing envelop him, and he hardly has time to feel smug about how effectively he has put Tang Fan to sleep — despite Tang Fan‘s protestations when he had entered his tent in that flimsy coat what seems to be hours ago — before he feels the delicious heaviness of sleep finally pull him under its surface.

___________FIN______________

Some research notes:

Kang: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kang_bed-stove

Yesa: https://torguqin.wordpress.com/2011/09/15/yesa-for-dummies/

The ointment is historically inaccurate, bc I assume Wang Zhi would use powder for open wounds, but I wanted him to really get to touch Tang Fan ;)

Comments are always super appreciated <3 I also have a currently ongoing complete rewatch thread on twitter with tons of screenshots, have a look if you love Sleuth! (There are unproportionally many Wang Zhi screenshots, to be fair, but the heart wants what the heart wants...)

[djtangerine]

i’ve been listening to nightvale lately

[mutopians]

Please let the woman that Lacy was talking about be Dana! It would be so cool if they end up as a couple in future episodes.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Edward is even more remarkable. . . . I'll give you an example. You can publish it or not, it makes no difference to me. When I came out of the asylum, the person who collected me was Edward Hardwicke. He took me to an Italian restaurant. I had a pasta and a glass of red wine. He then drove me back to my home where we sat and had a cup of tea. It was Edward Hardwicke. He is one of the loveliest people, and I suppose he *is* the best friend that any man has ever had....in life. Which is after all how Doyle describes Watson.

- Jeremy Brett on his co-star Edward Hardwicke

In the same way everyone has their personal James Bond, so too do people have their own Sherlock Holmes. Mine will always be Jeremy Brett. Not just because he came closest to the original Sidney Paget drawings in the Strand magazine, nor that he was supported by an excellent film production crew who were loving to the source material. With all due respect to all the other wonderful actors that have played Holmes over the many decades, no one can come close to Jeremy Brett.

What makes Brett stands out was he captured Holmes’ inner life better than most because he inhabited the same qualities and struggles. Not only was he tall, atheletic, and aristocratic but his best friends were the actors who played Watson on screen. Moreover the secret to his success was how Brett’s life mirrored the deep and hidden vulnerability behind Holmes’ frigid exterior.

In 1976, Jeremy Brett married Joan Sullivan Wilson, who died of cancer in July 1985. it perpetuated his descent into depression for which he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

Brett was prescribed lithium tablets to fight this condition. He suspected that he would never be cured, and would have to live with his malady. And yet he wanted to return to work, and to play Sherlock Holmes again because he shared an affinity with the famous detective. 

The first episode to be produced after his discharge was a two-hour adaptation of The Sign of Four in 1987. From then on, the changes in Brett's appearance and behaviour slowly became more noticeable as the series developed. One of the side effects of the lithium tablets was fluid retention; Brett was putting on weight and retaining water. The drugs were also slowing him down. According to Edward Hardwicke, Brett smoked up to 60 cigarettes a day, which "didn't help his health." He also had heart troubles. His heart was twice the normal size; he would have difficulties breathing and would need an oxygen mask on the set. "But, darlings, the show must go on", was his only comment.

During the final decade of his life, Brett was treated in hospital several times for his mental illness, and his health and appearance visibly deteriorated by the time he completed the later episodes of the Sherlock Holmes series.

Jeremy Brett died on 12 September 1995 at his home in Clapham, London, from heart failure.

[screamingsilentlyintothevoid]

"We are experiencing a heavier than usual call volume. Current wait time to speak to a service representative is FOUR MINUTES. Sadly, a lot can go wrong in FOUR MINUTES, but that's just how it is. Thank you for your PATIENCE. You know there are SUPER VOLCANOES set to explode any day now, right? Existence is so incomprehensibly FRAGILE and CRUEL."

- Lacy/phone tree,  episode 60 - Water Failure

[vdoesbookrecs]

February productivity challenge

Day 1

Q: What's your favourite podcast?

A: Welcome to Night Vale! I'm really not one for podcasts or audiobooks unless I'm driving, which is...never. I just can't focus on anything else while I'm listening, and I don't have the patience to do nothing while I listen! Welcome to Night Vale is the exception to that rule, because listening to an episode is part of my nighttime ritual. When I get to the last episode, I start over again; I think I'm on my third or fourth listen!

Favourite episodes:

11- Wheat and Wheat By-Products

13, 45, 109, 130 - The "A Story About..." series

35 - Lazy Day

60 - Water Failure

100 - Toast

109 - A Story About Huntokar

Most impressive story arc:

The Devil arc, coming to it's conclusion with Episodes 89 & 90 "Who's a Good Boy" Pt. 1 & 2

Currently listening to:

125 - A Door Ajar Part 2

[wtnvproverbs]

The reason we say “bless you” after someone sneezes is because we know they will die someday.

Water Failure

[theliterateape]

A Bad Landing Destroys the Entire Trip

by Don Hall

You're on a plane flying across the country. The security check-in was a breeze. You were in the mid-section but as you board the attendant moves you up to the third row. The in-flight movie is one you've been dying to see and the flight is almost completely devoid of turbulence. It's a wonderful flight.

As you descend to land, however, the turbulence gets kind of insane. At one point, the oxygen masks pop out and upon hitting the ground, the front tire of the landing gear snaps off and you screech to a long, terrifying halt in the middle of the runway.

The flight is remembered as one of the worst, most traumatic experiences of your life.

I was severely late to the Game of Thrones party. Everyone in the free world (which is actually how Twitter feels until you realize how small a percentage of sentient humans use the app) was into it. Podcasts about it. Constant raving about it. I finally caved in and decided to binge the whole thing once the ending was in sight.

I loved it. Until the landing. The last five or so episodes were so rushed, so poorly thought out, and so sloppily put together (a Starbucks cup on the set of one of the most expensive and immersive televisions shows in modern history?) that the result seems to be a wholesale rejection of everything enjoyed breathlessly for years.

The very instant Twitter discovered the tepid ending, the uprise was evident. A huge flare-up followed by...silence. These days, if I ask someone I know was a whole hog GoT fan about Westeros, I receive a shrug and the quick response of bringing up a bad break-up from a disappointing ex.

My mom and dad loved Longmire. Effectively a crime procedural set in rural Wyoming and centered on a sheriff who reminded me of nothing less than my dad if he were a sheriff in Cheyenne country. Mom and I frequently (as so many do) recommend television and film that we think the other will dig, so I bit and jumped into the first episode.

Dana didn't care for it; I thought it had some merit if for no other reasons than I love Katee Sackhoff and Lou Diamond Phillips and firmly believe neither get enough screen time. I've spent my pandemic watching long form, episodic shows so the "Crime/Investigate/Solve the Crime" in one hour format was a step backwards but I liked Walt Longmire and I especially enjoyed the themes around white people co-existing with Native Americans. I can't recall too many shows that explore Life on the Rez in too much detail so this was new and interesting.

I binged some with breaks for six seasons. The first three were produced by AMC, the show was canceled then picked up by Netflix for three more. All in all, I spent a truly enjoyable 60 hours with Walt, Vic, Henry, the Ferg, Jacob Nighthorse, and Hector. 

It was apparent that the writers knew the series was ending with Season Six, so they started wrapping things up in fairly tidy fashion. It felt a bit rushed but I was willing to go along with a lot of it until the last three episodes and then it took a shit. Like the writers all got high and told the interns to finish it up.

Now, despite digging 57 hours of the show, the last three hours prevent me from recommending it to anyone.

You decide to take your wife for a high-end meal at one of the super-swank restaurants on the Las Vegas Strip. It's beautiful and sexy inside. You are seated at a table with a view of the Bellagio Fountain.

You order and each course is better than the last. The liquor is top-shelf. The food is fresh and expertly prepared, each bite melting inside you mouth like nutritious gold.

The dessert comes and, unknown to you, the chef has left a solid chunk of dog turd in the center of it. You bite down on dogshit and instantly vomit into your wife's lap.

The dinner is remembered as the worst in your life. Your wife declares that she will never eat out again and you subsist on nothing but Ramen and canned soup for the rest of your life.

It is a fundamental truth that no matter how solid the ride is, if you can't stick the fucking landing, the landing is the only thing anyone remembers (except your mom because she loves you and will lie to you to make you not want to eat a bullet). 

Endings are almost more important than the rest of the journey.

We all loved Lost until we didn't. We all reveled in Dexter until it blew chunks. Stephen King managed to create one of the scariest creations in fiction with Pennywise then made him a giant spider who is defeated by people taunting him.

Granted, one man's shit ending may be another man's perfect ending. I've read that the conclusion of War of the Worlds (the aliens are done in by germs) is somewhat like the ending of Signs (water kills them so why hop over to a planet covered in fucking water) but for some reason I love the first and despise the second. Maybe it's Mel Gibson?

Lots of folks hated the ending of The Sopranos but I loved it.

Whatever the case, a bad landing blows the entire ride.

You have ten years of a great marriage. Lots of love, lots of sex, lots of vacations. Compromises and laughter. Fights and reconciliations.

But the last year, she has an affair with a mutual friend that she’s cast in a bunch of shows with you and it ends badly.

No matter how good the good years were, you're see that marriage as a failure.

The ending is essential to the journey.

[ultrazachiel]

"And, for what it’s worth, some vigilantes with hunting rifles shot the extra suns down so we’re back to having just one sun! Although, the one remaining sun is currently setting in the north. So…we’ll see how that goes."

Welcome to Nightvale

Episode 60 - Water Failure

[itsdoctorhouse]

Pilot/Everybody Lies

CC (Chief Complaint): Conduction aphasia and grand mal seizure

Dx (Diagnosis): Neurocysticercosis

(I’ll be writing definitions/explaining each medical term mostly because its fun and good practice for me, thanks. It’ll go in chronological order for the episode even if it doesn’t pertain to the final diagnosis, which I’ll then explain itself.)

Conduction aphasia:

Patient is unable to articulate full words, she starts speaking gibberish

What’s important is that she recognizes that she isn’t able to form her words properly and that she’s still able to write on the white board legibly (”Call The Nurse”)

The previous point is important because there are different types of aphasia - “the loss of ability to understand or express speech”, I won’t go too in detail about all the different kinds except for what I reasonably think matches the patients symptom and another complementary type.

Broca’s aphasia, aka Expressive aphasia: the loss of the ability to produce language, although comprehension generally remains intact. So, in context of the episode, that’s why she wasn’t able to form full words/sentences, but was able to recognize it and write down a legible call for help.

Wernicke’s aphasia, aka Receptive aphasia: wherein individuals have difficulty understanding written and spoken language. Can demonstrate fluid speech but lacking meaning, for example, “Sugar may be house phone.” It’s technically grammatically correct, but doesn’t mean anything in context of a conversation. The individual might also be unaware of the lack of meaning in their speech (more in s2e10 “Failure to Communicate”)

I like to think of the previous two as “opposites” concerning types of aphasia. Which might be obvious by their names Expressive versus Receptive :)

Both types are common after an infarct (loss of blood supply to a specific region resulting in death of tissue), aka a stroke.

Grand mal seizure:

The most common types of seizures are as follows:

“Grand Mal” or generalized tonic-clonic: the one shown on all TV shows and movies (probably because it’s the most visually interesting), includes unconsciousness, convulsions, and muscle rigidity

Absence: a brief loss of unconsciousness 

Myoclonic: Sporadic (isolated), jerking movements

Clonic: Repetitive, jerking movements

Tonic: Muscle stiffness, rigidity

Atonic: Loss of muscle tone

If you’re familiar with latin roots a lot of the medical mumbo jumbo makes a lot more sense, for example these seizure names all look the same at first glance but the prefix a- means without, so knowing that tonic means “continuous muscle contraction”, you already know what kind of seizures tonic and atonic will be just from the name. P.S. myo- is for muscle.

Pulmonary edema:

Simply put, it’s when there is excess fluid in the lungs, so that it’s difficult for the oxygen exchange to occur. Meaning that the patient can’t get rid of the carbon dioxide inside their body and they can’t get new oxygen into their blood.

Can lead to a whole lot of complications because everything in the body needs oxygen and an abundance of carbon dioxide can cause respiratory acidosis (which is a whole other post because I love how the respiratory system works)

aka lung congestion, lung water, and pulmonary congestion

The most common cause is congestive heart failure (CHF), which is when the heart can’t properly pump blood throughout the body, so a backup of blood builds up, increasing the pressure in the small blood vessels of the lungs, causing a “leakage”

Symptoms will depend on the type/etiology of the pulmonary edema, but generally the patient will have a hard time breathing (technically it’s an issue with the oxygen exchange, not the actual mechanics of breathing) which means their body will try to compensate by breathing faster, aka hyperventilating (there are also so many different types of breathing which I won’t go into, but my favorites are Kussmaul breathing and Cheyne Stokes)

The patient “had an allergic reaction to the dye used in the contrast study.”

I’m not saying they’re wrong but...

People allergic to contrast dye usually show adverse reactions cutaneously, meaning skin symptoms: rash, redness, swelling, etc., and usually more than 24 hours after injection.

For the most severe reactions, which is what the patient might have had, anaphylaxis and death is a small possibility. It’s a 0.008% chance to develop pulmonary edema as a complication to contrast media.

It’s not a true allergy, rather a pseudoallergy, because there is no antibody that causes the reaction. It’s the contrast dye itself that directly stimulates histamine release.

... so they’re not wrong really, just super unlucky.

Vasculitis

I don’t even know why they suggested this as a differential and then started treatment for it. They don’t even mention what type of vasculitis it might be. I’m reasonably sure they only included this so that they’d start treatment with steroids (prednisone) so that they patient would get better then worse again.

Neurocysticercosis

First and foremost, the way that he phrases it in the episode, he would have realized it was neurocysticercosis sooner, if not for the fact that he believed she was jewish (because Wilson lied to get him to take the case)

Reasoning behind this: that the parasite for neurocysticercosis, Taenia solium, is mostly found in pork (which religious jewish people are not supposed to eat). Which, first of all, as a non-religious jew myself, that’s some supposition right there. Immediately thinking all jews are religious and/or don’t eat certain foods because other jews don’t. 

And secondly, that he didn’t double check her religion status, so immediately discarded a diagnosis based on that erroneous fact. Like, I get it’s the pilot and they wanted to establish personalities and relationships right off the bat, but that’s the one annoying part of the show, if only he had gotten to know his patient he probably could have diagnosed her earlier (but that’s why we love House, his charming personality)

Life cycle: Eggs or gravid proglottids (pregnant segments of the adult parasite [tapeworms as a whole have different segments to their body called proglottids, their “head” is called a scolex and is mostly different for each species, the head is connected to the neck, which then connects to the first immature proglottid. Depending on the species they all have different amounts of proglottids, ranging from 5 to 1000. The further away from the scolex they get the more mature they become, and when fully mature they’re impregnated, one segment at a time, with each segment breaking off from the previous so that they can find a nice home in the body]) are found in feces and passed into the environment, from there they’re ingested by an intermediate host, usually a pig, but in the case of cysticercosis, a human. The eggs hatch and liberate larvae, aka oncospheres, which penetrate the intestinal wall and circulate to musculature. They mature into cysticerci over 60-70 days, and can migrate to the central nervous system, which is what causes neurocysticercosis.

The same parasite can cause another disease called taeniasis. This differs primarily through the acquisition of the parasite. The pig is the intermediate host in this case and a human the definitive host. It is ingested through uncooked/undercooked pork containing cysticerci. Wherein they will evaginate and attach to the small intestine by their scolices (head and suckers). This disease will normally only cause intestinal issues.

A primary infection of taeniasis with Taenia solium can cause a secondary infection of cysticercosis which can lead to neurocysticercosis. So it is possible for the patient to have neurocysticercosis even though they explained it using taeniasis.

Neurocysticercosis is one of the main causes of epileptic seizures in many less developed countries (not so much for a pre-school teacher in New Jersey)

Treatment can include steroids (which is what they gave her for vasculitis, and the reason why she seemed better for a time) but ultimately an anti-parasitic is needed, suggesting albendazole or praziquantel for about 2 weeks.

[siglerprescriptiondrugcards]

Ziprasidone Hydrochloride

Brand Name: Geodon

Generic Available

Common Dosage Forms:

Capsules: 20 mg, 40 mg, 60 mg, 80 mg

Injection: 20 mg/mL as the mesylate salt in a single dose vial following reconstitution with sterile water

Suspension: Equivalent to 10 mg/mL

FDA Indications/Dosages:

For the treatment of schizophrenia: Initial oral dose is 20 mg given twice a day with food. Dosage adjustments, if indicated, should occur at intervals of not less than 2 days. Maximum dose is 80 mg given twice a day.

For the treatment of acute agitation in schizophrenic patients for whom treatment with ziprasidone is appropriate and who need rapid control of the agitation: The recommended dose is 10-20 mg given intramuscularly as required up to a maximum of 40 mg/day. No more than 10 mg should be given every 2 hours or 20 mg every 4 hours.

For the acute and maintenance treatment (as an adjunct to lithium or valproate) of mania or mixed episodes associated with bipolar disorder, with or without psychotic features: Initiate treatment with 40 mg twice a day with food. Increase to 60-80 mg twice a day on the second day if tolerated. The normal dosage range for this indication is 40-80 mg twice a day.

Monitor: FBG, Lipid panel, Weight, BP, CBC

Pharmacology/Pharmacokinetics: Although the exact mechanism of action of ziprasidone is unknown, it is thought to act by antagonism of dopamine D2 and serotonin 5HT2 receptors. It has also been shown to be an antagonist at histamine H1 and alpha-1-adrenergic receptors. Ziprasidone is well absorbed after oral dosing and reaches peak plasma levels at 6-8 hours. Food increases relative bioavailability by two-fold. Its terminal half-life is 7 hours and steady state plasma levels are reached in 1-3 days. Metabolism occurs primarily via reduction by aldehyde reductase and to a lesser extent by the CYP3A4 pathway.

Drug Interactions: Carbamazepine may decrease plasma levels and ketoconazole may increase plasma levels. Ziprasidone should not be used with other drugs which may prolong the QTc interval including dofetilide, sotalol, quinidine, other class Ia and III antiarrhythmics, mesoridazine, thioridazine, chlorpromazine, droperidol, pimozide, sparfloxacin, gatifloxacin, moxifloxacin, halofantrine, mefloquine, pentamidine, arsenic trioxide,  levomethadyl acetate, dolasetron mesylate, probucol, or tacrolimus.

Contraindications/Precautions: CONTRAINDICATED IN PATIENTS WITH DEMENTIA-RELATED PSYCHOSIS. Use is contraindicated in patients with a known history of QT prolongation, with recent myocardial infarction, with uncompensated heart failure, and in patients currently taking a drug which prolong the QTc interval. Use with caution in patients with hypokalemia, hypomagnesemia, or bradycardia because of the risk of sudden death due to QTc prolongation. Rare cases of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome (NMS) have occurred in patients taking antipsychotic medications including ziprasidone. Symptoms of NMS include hyperpyrexia, muscle rigidity, altered mental status, and autonomic instability (irregular pulse or blood pressure, diaphoresis, and cardiac dysrhythmia). As with other antipsychotics, use with caution in patients with a history of seizures, in those at risk for aspiration pneumonia, and in those who will be experiencing conditions which may contribute to elevated core body temperature. Suicide is a possibility in patients taking antipsychotics, therefore, dispense the smallest quantity manageable. Rare cases of leukopenia/neutropenia and agranulocytosis have been reported in patients taking antipsychotic agents. Use with caution in nursing mothers. Pregnancy Category C.

Adverse Effects: The most common adverse effects include drowsiness, nausea, constipation, dyspepsia, dizziness, akathisia, cold symptoms, extrapyramidal syndrome, diarrhea, rhinitis, asthenia, dry mouth, dystonia, and non-allergic rash.

Patient Consultation:

This drug can cause serious heart arrhythmias, please inform your physician of any past history of heart problems.

Inform your physician of any prescription or nonprescription medications you currently take.

Take this medication with food to help its absorption.

Use caution when performing tasks that require alertness.

Avoid alcohol while taking this medication.

Do not discontinue this medication abruptly.

It may take several weeks to see symptom improvement after starting this medication.

Use appropriate precautions against heat exposure and dehydration.

Store in a cool, dry place away from sunlight and children.

Contact a physician if the above side effects are severe or persistent or if you experience fainting, palpitations, or dizziness.

If a dose is missed, skip it and return to normal dosing schedule.

[astonishinglegends]

Ep 199: The Disappearance of Frederick Valentich Part 1

“It is hovering and it’s not an aircraft.” 

– The last known words of pilot Frederich Valentich at 7:12 p.m., somewhere over the Bass Strait in Australia, October 21, 1978

Description:

On Saturday, October 21, 1978, at 6:19 p.m., 20-year-old Frederick Valentich took off from Moorabbin Airport just south of Melbourne, Australia, for what was supposed to be a routine training and pleasure flight over Bass Strait to King Island. A serious student aviator, Valentich had been flying for two years and had accumulated over 150 hours of solo flying time in his goal to one day become a commercial airline pilot. Although rated for night flying by instrument, the sun was still up, and with clear visibility and good weather, there was no reason Valentich shouldn’t have easily completed this trip, which he’d taken several times before. However, just over halfway through the flight at 7:06 p.m., Valentich contacted Melbourne Flight Service Unit and reported seeing an unidentified craft above him, traveling at high speed and shining four bright lights. Valentich would radio back a few minutes later that it didn’t appear to be any known aircraft, and now it had even more unusual characteristics: it was long, shiny metallic, and a green light was emanating from it. Even more unsettling, this craft he described was deliberately toying with him as it orbited above while his plane’s engine was sputtering. At 7:11 p.m., the last statement anyone would hear from Valentich would be that the object was still hovering and that it was not an aircraft. Valentich and his plane had vanished at that moment, but whether it was an elaborate hoax, a deliberate crash, or merely a misidentification combined with a mechanical failure, no investigation has been able to determine. What is not in doubt is that the case of Frederick Valentich remains one of Australia’s biggest aviation mysteries, if not in all of UFO lore.

Location:

Moorabbin Airport, where Frederick Valentich took off from on October 21, 1978, headed for King Island across Bass Strait.

Reference Links:

The Frederick Valentich case on the original Unsolved Mysteries, Season 5, Episode 2 on Amazon Prime

“Disappearance of Frederick Valentich” on Wikipedia

Cessna 182 “Skylane”

Valentich’s missing aircraft report online, from the National Archives of Australia

Download of Valentich’s missing aircraft report as a PDF

Bass Strait

Moorabbin Airport

“'Truth' was out there after all –An accidental discovery sheds new light on the mysterious disappearance of a pilot in 1978, writes Miles Kemp” from The Advertiser

Australian UFO researcher, Keith Basterfield

Melbourne, Australia

Tasmania

King Island, Tasmania

Visit King’s Island

“Biography of Bette Nesmith Graham, Inventor of Liquid Paper” on ThoughtCo.com

Bette Nesmith Graham on Wikipedia

Australian crayfish

The TCAS or Traffic collision avoidance system

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Credits:

Episode 199: The Disappearance of Frederick Valentich Part 1. Produced by Scott Philbrook & Forrest Burgess; Audio Editing by Sarah Vorhees Wendel. Sound Design by Ryan McCullough; Tess Pfeifle, Producer, and Lead Researcher; Research Support from the astonishing League of Astonishing Researchers, a.k.a. The Astonishing Research Corps, or "A.R.C." for short. Copyright 2021 Astonishing Legends Productions, LLC. All Rights Reserved.

[mutopians]

I love the call to the water company in Water Failure. The water company’s voice mail is funny as it is, but but Cecil’s comments make it even better!

[ahmedmootaz]

Ooooh I saw your last comic and I wanted to ask if you have any headcanon for magica? Btw u are such an amazing writer and you deserve more followers.

Dear Anon,

D’aw, thank you! Your compliments are really nice to hear. I wouldn’t say that I’m much of a writer, but if any of my writings appeal to someone, then it makes it worth it.

But regarding the question: Yes. Perhaps not as crazy as other people’s, but I have my fair share of head-canons about her. They don’t necessarily apply to one version of Magica over the other, rather, to all of her versions. So without further ado:

1) She mostly speaks English (with a british accent, even) to out-british Scrooge. She still speaks italian, but when trying to one-up your mortal enemy at every possible turn, she’d do anything, no matter how petty or unnecessary it may be. Poe’s her only remaining family member who speaks English with her to both train her and himself, even if he obliges because she wouldn’t accept anything otherwise.

2) A powerful sorceress herself, she often suffers from linking her powers to powerful/mystical objects (See: The Shadow War.), losing them afterwards. While it’s never as severe as what happens in Ducktales 2017, it’s always rather humiliating whenever it happens.

3) Born during a prosperous era, Magica was often the most spoiled of The DeSpell new generation. She was expected to be a new dark sorceress, and it was how it happened.

4) Her entire family tree is full of villains and other morally ambiguous people. It runs in the family, and she only picked up the torch where it was left.

5) I go off the notion that magic helps lengthen one to live a bit longer than your every day person, so I often think she’s born around 1910. Living atop Mount Vesuvius with the rest of her family helped her not really feel The Great War or World War two, though some of her family members got conscripted into the armies of whatever territory they were on.

6) Speaking of which, she does love the little home she has atop the Mount. It’s quite the pleasant place to live, though she had to cut off some of its compartments throughout the years as it fell apart. Naples is a nice city, but she never appreciated the city-life. Only its amenities, as such, she steals her electricity cables, her water pipes, Internet cables and anything else that has bills from down there. She has other bills to pay as a witch, but these ones are out of her life.

7) She’s not really ‘hip’ with the new Tech of this day and age, despite the fact that she’s one of the youngest witches around. Her never-ending quests for glory often put her out of the loop for a couple of years.

8) This isn‘t really a head-canon, more like obscure canon, but she adores football. She’s the number one fan of the Italian team, and she stops all her activities during the World Cup. She’s still salty about the last few ones.

9) She’s not the greatest when it comes to home chores. She often prefers magic to manual labor, but sometimes magical dust or stains require this manual labor. She’s also not the greatest cook around and often depends on Poe, her brother, to help her out with that, even if she can do some of it on her own.

10) Despite her cold, hard exterior....she’s also pretty cold on the inside. But she has a heart. She cares for her family (some members, anyways,), her spells, and winning.

11) Speaking of which, she does actually win!....Whenever Scroogie isn’t around. Retrieving ancient artifacts, destroying other enemies, you name it. She’s a competent sorceress, and if it wasn’t for Scrooge’s perseverance and experience, I’m not certain he would’ve stood against her for long.

12) She had a sort of dream-team with Poe when he wasn’t a raven. He was far more physical than her, and she was better at spells than he was. He used the physical side of magic while she was on the more mentally exhausting parts. Though he did dabble in bits and pieces even she doesn’t touch...

13)...That was, of course, until he became a raven. A battle-gone-wrong and a spell that was supposed to hit a blank ricocheted off a mirror and hit him and, much to both their horror,  she couldn’t go back on it. The closest remaining family member she had and she turned him into a raven. It’s a rather sensitive part of their relationship, and she didn’t forgive herself for it.

14) Both as a result of no longer having Poe be the hitting force of the duo and because of her adventures, she’s rather athletic for a supposed fragile sorceress, if her ability to square with Donald when he’s enraged and then draw is anything to go by.

15) She’s an avid fan of Ducktor Who. Ever since she discovered it in the 60s and up until now, she’s been watching every new episode. First as something to get her mind off of any sort of failure that might’ve befallen her, it’s now something she actually enjoys and sets up an entire movie night for.

16) She’s also a big fan of fashion. Not all the time, obviously, but she has a sort of style, even if she’s often too busy plotting to notice if she’s wearing socks with sandals or other such horrors.

17) She cannot drive cars to save her life, literally. Boats? Sure, some training and a sunken yacht in the Pacific later, but she can do it. Planes? She can keep them in the air. Cars? Nope.Not a chance. If it doesn’t explode, every car she drives is a likely target for bumps, scratches, and complete and utter pulverisation. Luckily, she has magic by her side, but it ruined a good plan on more than one occasion.

18) She’s a pretty good reader. You need to be one when all of the world’s spells are scattered throughout thousands of pages.

19) She’s not really the social type. She has some friends here and there, but disregarding her family, she mostly works alone. It’s not that she can’t do it, more than she can’t be bothered to do it. Too much time spent for too little. Who cares if people found her weird? She only needed her new raven assistant to go shopping.

20) Despite everything that may appear, she’s still at heart Magica DeSpell. Queen of Naples, Guardian of the Forbidden Spells, Creator Of Untrue Titles, you say it. She’s a threat that none should have to face, and she can demonstrate why with her fist before her spells.

So those were twenty head-canons I had of Magica. I hope you do enjoy them, Anon, and be sure to leave your thoughts about them! I do appreciate other people’s thoughts, really I do. So until next time, see ya’!

[veliseraptor]

2019 Fanfiction Round-Up

I’ve done one of these every year since 2016, so here we are again. At this point I’d feel weird if I didn’t do it, even if it takes a long ass time to do.

Total Year-Long Wordcount: Here as of 8:20 PM, 421,602 words - which includes some essays and original fiction but is, by and large, mostly fic. 

If you’re curious, that’s 35,133.5 average words per month, and 1,155 words per day. The month I wrote most was 48,006 words (January) and the least was 21,550 (October). I may go into more stats later to compare to my 2017/2018 spreadsheet, because that’s the kind of loser I am.

This year I wrote and posted: This isn’t exact, because it includes chapters of things I wrote as separate fics, but probably something around 60 fics. 

Overall Thoughts

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted? 

Less, by a substantial margin. There are a lot of potential reasons for this (a new job that takes a lot more energy and time, me making a concerted effort to socialize more, taking on more difficult projects that require more time/work/effort, a two month horrendous depressive episode) but I’m trying to tell myself that it doesn’t matter why, and it’s totally fine that my total amount written doesn’t match recent years’. Over 400,000 words is still a lot of writing.

What’s your own favorite story of the year? 

This was a hard year, so I’m going to be self-indulgent and pick a few. I remain really, really proud of the fact that I wrote gather frankincense at all, and pretty proud of how it turned out also. good lord turned his back on me was one that I wrote basically all in one go, and I was really pleased with the Natasha POV and getting to write in her voice - I do that shockingly rarely, and haven’t in a while. I really liked both writing that fic and the arc of it - what it did as a story. 

Finally, continuing with the trend of “small fandom fic” which...I wrote a substantial amount of small-fandom fic this year, which pleases me - how this grace thing works. It was in the works for a long, long time and finally was finished this year - it’s the (for lack of a better word) softest Doctrine of Labyrinths fic I’ve written, and quite possibly ever will write. 

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?

I wrote in two different fandoms that I hadn’t written in before or hadn’t written for years. Okay, in fairness I did some Doctrine of Labyrinths writing last year, but this year was really the bulk of the recent writing I’ve done for it. Writing for Lymond was a substantially bigger risk. Glad I did it, and I learned that I could do it, but...

I wrote a fic for someone else in second person, which was certainly a risk in a different way.

Overall...I learned that while I can write in first person still, I deeply prefer both third and second person overall. One of those isn’t surprising; the fact that I’ve come to actually really like second person sometimes is more so. 

From my past year of writing, what was….

My most popular story of this year: 

As usual, excluding my multichapter stuff because that skews results a lot - by hits it was how the dead walk; by kudos it was Seams and Scars, and by both comment threads and bookmarks it was Mirror, Mirror. All interesting! Seams and Scars is the most surprising to me, but also pleasing considering how goddamn long that fic took me to write (I’m so glad I finally finished it this year).

Most fun story to write: 

Five Hundred Ways to Discorporate a Demon. Aka the most light-hearted “repetitive character death” fic I’ve ever written. It was just...writing Good Omens fic this year in general was a lot of fun. It’s a departure from my usual voice, and my usual wheelhouse, but probably because of that was really enjoyable to explore. Though in a weird way good lord turned his back on me was also a lot of fun, in the sense of...it was one of those fics that was easy for me to write. It came out smooth and in a way that I liked basically right off the bat, which is rare and a great feeling when it happens.

Story with the single sexiest moment: 

This was kind of a challenging one, actually, because what I find sexy sort of fluctuates based on what I’m in the mood for at the time, but I might go with the sex scene in The Waxing Moon, partly because, as I discovered writing both that fic and An Ever Expanding Circle, I apparently find cocky Thor really sexy. I sort of resent this. (So does Loki.)

Most “Holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you” story: 

Yeah, I’m going to go with no good doing what I’m told, aka the one where I had a bunch of existential angst about “is this too much? am I going too far?” which...yeah, is always a sign of something considering how high my bar for myself has gotten.

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters: 

I have a hard time with this question every year. In some way, every story I write shifts my understanding of the characters, or at least deepens it. I guess maybe After the Fire - I dug into Curufin’s head more there than I have in a long time, and since I last did my understanding of him has changed generally. This fic developed more of that changing understanding.

Hardest story to write: 

The Compassion of the Wicked. Even more than gather frankincense, that fic fought me, to the mat, and almost won a number of times. Writing the sex in it was an adventure - I think I noted when I finished it that this is possibly the least explicit fic with explicit sex that I’ve written. Also possibly required the most research, and by “required” I mean “I chose this.” And writing Joleta was...it took me some doing to figure out how to write her, which surprised me a little. 

Anyway, the whole thing was just. A whole barrel of struggle. I’m pretty pleased with the end result, but yeesh.

Biggest Disappointment: 

As usual, in myself, for not working more on my WIPs and not finishing we live until we die. I wanted that to happen this year, I really did, and while I suppose it’s not surprising it didn’t (there was a lot of planning that needed to happen, and continued to need to happen), I’m still disappointed. 

Biggest Surprise: 

Other than “the fact that I wrote Lymond fic at all” and “the fact that people actually read the Lymond fic I wrote”? Probably the continued and aggressive expansion of the Where the Devil Don’t Go verse. I thought it was over after I wrote drown my woes in a lake of fire but then it turned out that there were (checks) five more installments I was going to write, and two more in the works, and one other that is on Tumblr but not cross-posted. 

I did not see that coming at all.

Most Unintentionally Telling Story: 

I never really know how to answer this question. I guess sometimes there is an obvious one, usually meaning “Jesus, Lise, how fucked up can you get” and in that sense it would definitely be no good doing what I’m told, but...I actually think in some ways it might be how the dead walk. It isn’t...exactly the same as my issues, but there are some ways in which it aligns with them in ways that are different from the ones I usually work with when I’m writing Loki.

Favorite Opening Line(s):

1. The first thing that Felix noticed about Malkar was his hands. (The Anvil and the Chain)

2. The moment he was left alone, Maeglin stumbled to his feet, untethered the nearest horse, and set off back toward the smoke and flame still visible on the horizon. (how should I begin)

3. For the first month and a half after Rocket’s friends arrived on Midgard, along with the remains of Asgard’s population, Loki avoided Gamora with the skill and determination of a mouse evading a fox. (came through the jaws of Death)

4. In the summer of the Year of Our Lord 1000, there was a false alarm, brought about by millennial fever both Up and Downstairs, that the Apocalypse was imminent. (Mercy)

5. A long while ago Loki had read, in a book that was now ash, about the formation of storms. (we haven’t slept in years)

Favorite Line(s) from Anywhere:

1. I was lying on my stomach with shackles on my wrists and ankles and the water was rising. Someone, somewhere, was crying. It might have been a ghost. It might have been me. (As I breathe, he burns my lungs like fever)

2. Like my fear of water, fear of Malkar ran in my blood, and was as much a part of me. (The Road to Mourning)

3. “I am not in the mood for indulgence. Is there a purpose to this pageantry, o my Pasha?”

“Save that it is my pleasure?” Gabriel regarded him with a touch of amusement. “You would rather I tied you to a whipping post and had you flogged?”

“You would gain marks for consistency,” Lymond said. (gather frankincense)

4. “Because you are the flaw. You are the fault along which the stone splits. You are what is wrong.” (Mirror, Mirror)

5. “Would you rather I were?” Loki said, and there was something soft and vicious in his voice even with the lingering rasp that made the hair on the back of Clint’s neck all stand on end. “I think not. I am aware that you do not want me here. No doubt you would rather have Thor. That is fine; I would rather you had Thor, too. Don’t think I am not aware of the long and manifold list of my failures. That does not mean I want them enumerated to me by you.” (the enemy of my enemy)

6. “I am too beautiful to die,” Celegorm said with confidence.

But you are going to, Curufin thought. We all are. Condemned as surely as if we were Secondborn. Maybe not now, but... He held his tongue and simply said, “oh, naturally.” Celegorm wheezed a laugh and closed his eyes again. (After the Fire)

7. And yet he misses Thor. No, that is wrong: saying he misses Thor is as inadequate as it would be to say that he misses breathing. He is that central, that vital, that involuntary.

If anyone asked, Loki thinks he would tell them that was why he was running. To prove that he can. (These Vagabond Shoes)

8. The smile, when it came, was sharp. “O Castitas,” Lymond said, “Mater et Virgo, extingue carnales concupiscentias! But enough. For whom this mummer’s show? Do we not know each other better now? For certainly I have known flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood... and she drew mine.” (The Compassion of the Wicked)

9. There was a way Thor had of saying things that made them inarguable. Loki had no idea how he did it - it was as though he spoke the words and it just was, like the world bent itself to suit what he said, only it bent itself so it was as though it had always been true. Loki had always found it maddening. (Speak every man the truth)

10. Everyone got a bit twitchy in the 1300s. People started getting suspicious of the dark glasses. They seemed to think Crowley was hiding something, which he was, but that wasn’t any of their business. (Five Hundred Ways to Discorporate a Demon)

11. This was what the Grandmaster did. He showed you a door, or what looked like a door, and then yanked you back just when it seemed to be in reach. Or proved that it had never been there at all, and what had you been thinking to try to get away, anyway, after everything he’d done for you? (preacher man won’t cut no slack)

12. “You can’t help me,” Loki said, breathless. “There is nothing left to help.”

“That isn’t true,” Thor said weakly. “You are here, aren’t you?”

“Here,” Loki said. “Yes. But I am - I am not myself. I am a cobbled together patchwork of Odin’s making and the Grandmaster’s making and the making of the Void. And yours.” All the feeling had gone from his voice. “You want your brother back. But that person doesn’t exist. If he ever did.” (where I make my home)

Top 5 Scenes from Anywhere You Would Choose to Have Illustrated:

There are a lot of pieces from Mirror, Mirror that I would love to see, but maybe especially the one where Loki is looking at his reflection and notices how sick he appears, when the shadow appears behind him.

Gabriel making Lymond kneel in gather frankincense. Look, I am who I am.

Thor sitting next to ghost!Loki from it slips between my fingers now.

Curufin kneeling (SHUT UP) in front of Finrod with wounded Celegorm in his arms from After the Fire. It could be very Pieta. There’s a lot going on there. I just want it.

Steve and Loki at the top of the waterfall from into the light of a dark black night, just before Loki dives over.

Fic-writing goals for 2020:

Finish we live until we die. This is probably the biggest, most concrete one on my list. 

Write! More! Lymond fic! I have three ideas and I really like all of them - I just need to stop having staring contests and psyching myself out and actually do the writing.

Whittle that WIP list down to at least under 70. Under 65 would be even better.

That’s really all. I’m keeping them modest. Also here is “try to chill out, a little, about your pathological productivity problem” but that’s an ongoing project that maybe doesn’t count for the spirit of this question.